Very sorry to read about the passing of screenwriter William Goldman at the age of 87.  His list of screenplays is voluminous, just touching on them includes Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, All the President's Men, (which both won Oscars for Best Screenplay), The Princess Bride (based on his novel), Misery, A Bridge Too Far, Marathon Man, Absolute Power, The Hot Rock, Maverick, Chaplin, The Great Waldo Pepper -- and remarkably much more.  He also wrote more than a dozen novels, including the book No Way to Treat a Lady (written under a pseudonym, Harry Longbaugh -- oddly enough, the real name of the Sundance Kid -- on which the wonderful movie was based, written before his screenwriting career.  And among his non-fiction work, he most-famously wrote the classic book about screenwriting and Hollywood, Adventures in the Screen Trade, which included the now-famous, regularly-quoted line, "No one knows anything."  Its sequel is pretty good, too, with the great title, Which Lie Did I Tell?  (That's a quote from a movie producer he was in a meeting with, when the guy put a phone caller on holder, buzzed his secretary and asked her the question.)  And a great book on Broadway, The Season.
​

His brother James was an extremely talented writer, as well, with works that include the play and movie, A Lion in Winter, for which he too won a Best Screenplay Oscar, and the the book for the Stephen Sondheim musical, Follies. 

This may now seem like a pointless digression, but trust me, it's not. 

I've mentioned on these pages attending a summer camp in Wisconsin, Camp Nebagamon, for many years, as a very young family-camper, doctor's son, camper and counselor.  Many decades ago, during my counselor phase, some friends picked me up after camp ended one year and we all went on a canoe trip in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area in Minnesota.  That winter, I was talking with one of them on the phone when we both away at college, and he mentioned he'd just finished reading a novel, Your Turn to Curtsy, My Turn to Bow, which takes place at a summer camp, and he said that it reminded him so much of Camp Nebagamon, which he had seen for about a total of 90 minutes, especially the drive in along the lake front.  After I noted that the book was by William Goldman, I asked him to guess what summer camp Goldman had gone to.  Yes, Camp Nebagamon.  In fact, when I went to the library shortly after and found the book the passage where the main character enters the camp is a near-exact description of the lakefront path into the camp.

Little known fun-fact.  There was an unsuccessful musical written in the early 1960s, A Family Affair, that nonetheless had quite a wonderful pedigree.  It was written by three young mn near the beginnings of their respective careers -- William Goldman, James Goldman and composer John Kander, (who went on to write Cabaret and Chicago, among a great many others, but with a different partner, Fred Ebb). What most people wouldn't know, though, is that the three all met at Camp Nebagamon.  (Well, okay, Bill and Jim knew each other before...)

Other than that tangential overlap with Goldman, I actually had a couple of real-life overlaps.

The Goldman family was from Highland Park, Illinois, which is the town that borders Glencoe, where I grew up, and where my dad had his medical office.  I think possibly my grandparents may have slightly known William Goldman's parents, though I know that my parents did, since they both belonged to Northmoor Country Club there.  One summer, after getting my Masters degree in screenwriting my UCLA, I was home, and stopped by the pool where my mother was sitting with Goldman's mother.  My mom introduced us and explained I had just got my post-graduated degree in screenwriting, and Mrs. Goldman said that I "should write Billy" and gave me his address in New York City.

After returning to Los Angeles, I did write him, and got back one of my most cherished letters, which I still have.  It was a one-page typed note, complete with cross-outs that was as thoughtful, interesting and bluntly curmudgeonly as was William Goldman's reputation.  (See photo above...)  It also was virtually a one-page version of Adventures in the Screen Trade many years before that book was written -- and even includes the line, "No one knows anything."  There are two other favorite passages in the letter.  One is when he writes that he can be of absolutely no help to me in any way, shape or form, not even with a contact to his agent who is getting on in years and not taking on new clients, but that "You should use all the contacts you have (like my mother)".   I still laugh when I think of that line.  And the letter concludes with, "It is a mean, nasty, brutish business, but no one made you go into it."  About as Goldmanesque as you can get.  The very end of the letter says that with any luck I'll be in hock on a house and car and he wishes me luck.

The other path-crossing came when I was a very minor executive at Universal Pictures.  I had read the novel of The Princess Bride a few years before, and loved it, recommended by my friend Adam Bezark, but it was still a lesser-known work, the movie not having been made yet, nor would be for years.  I was curious though if a screenplay had ever been written and it turns out that Goldman had indeed done so, and I tracked down a copy.  Not shockingly, it was very good, though being a movie it only could tell the story on two levels (the main adventure and the one with the young boy with his grandfather, which in the book is his father) -- the third level, with Goldman talking directly to the reader about him supposedly adapting the "original book" by S. Morgenstern (which is not real) is hilarious, but totally literally and not something you could do in a movie.  Anyway, I had my secretary find Goldman himself, and I called him to discuss making a movie of the book.  (What can I say, I was years ahead of my time.  Again...)

It was a fascinating, and odd conversation.  He was crusty (see photo above...), and had dealt with far too many studio executives at that point to care deeply about one more, let alone a punk kid.  Out of semi-desperation I broke the ice a bit by noting that I'd written to him years before through his mother, and our Camp Nebagamon connection.  That helped, though only a small bit.  What what did break through was when I mentioned I was friends with another Nebagamonite, Adam Bezark (also like the Goldmans from Highland Park), whose father Bud had gone to camp with the Goldman brothers, and I knew they had stayed friends.  That helped with a connection being made.  But then the memorable exchange occurred.

One of the reasons why I wanted to talk with him before pitching the project to my direct boss, who was the head of the studio, was that "third level" which wasn't in the screenplay, the author talking to the reader.  I wanted to know anything about it being left out, or if he'd ever done something with that in any other draft?  But being young, and a little in awe, I didn't phrase it well, and any goodwill I'd built up was instantly gone.  Instantly.  He got immediately snarky and said something like, "No, when I wrote the script, I decided not to do the best job I could and didn't include what would I knew would make it even better."  As I began to panic, though, The Miracle occurred, and the gods stepped in and saved me.  The phone line actually went dead in mid-sentence.  I had my secretary reconnect us, but during that interim of relief I quickly tried desperately to figure out what I could say to save myself.  And I came up with something.  When we got connected again, I profusely apologized for my lack of clarity and said that what I really was trying to ask was whether or not he'd written other versions of the script for another medium -- like the theater or as a TV mini-series -- where he could use the narrator that was so wonderful in the book?  (Okay, that wasn't precisely what I really had been asking, only tangentially, but I figured it was close enough and a far better explanation than how I had bumbled through.)  The explanation happily placated him, he even seemed to appreciate it, and said no, he'd only written it as a screenplay.  The call concluded well, but unfortunately my bosses did not follow-up and make a movie of The Princess Bride.  And about five years later, someone else did.

Fun side note:  About five years ago, I read an article that Goldman was involved with adapting The Princess Bride for...the theater!!!!  Perhaps as a musical.  Nothing came of it -- yet at least, so who knows? -- but once again:  years ahead of my time.

Very sorry to read about William Goldman's passing.  Very happy for all the great work he left behind.

Back in May, I wrote here about going to Topanga Banjo & Fiddle Contest.  I've written about it several times, and have been going to it for over 25 years.  Not every year, but often, dating back to when they held it at UCLA on the athletic field.

It's grown significantly, and moved around, but they finally found a wonderful home several years back at the Paramount Ranch, which is where a lot of TV shows and movies have been filmed (most notably, perhaps, Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman).  In addition to the gorgeous local in the middle of the forest, there's a Western village built there for use in filming, which is far more substantially built than most movie sets.

Or was, I should say.  I was looking at a map of the Woolsey wildfire last night, and Paramount Ranch looks smack in the middle of it.  I have friends who live reasonably close by, but on the outskirts enough that at last report their home was fine, though they had to get evacuated, and a neighbor only a street away lost their home.

​But I can't imagine Paramount Ranch surviving.  Beyond it being all wood, it looks to be at Ground Zero.

I have no idea if they're rebuild.  On the one hand, there isn't all that much to build, it's just a collection of a random structures of a Western town that aren't much more then shell.  And it's a great site for location filming.  On the other hand, since so much of the woods around it will be destroyed, the environs won't be as lush.  It will come back -- when I worked at Will Rogers State Historic Park, and the Topanga Fire burned much of the grounds (though the ranch house and barn and other facilities were save), the greenery was back within a year.  Not as thick and vibrant, but there was a foundation -- though not immediately.  And I don't know if there's enough filming to justify it.

I also don't know what the plans will be for the Banjo & Fiddle Contest.  They could certainly still hold it there.  But there won't be all the structures where they held various contests, nor so much of the surrounding greenery. (Though some may be back.)  That said, there were a lot of years when the festival was at places there were no more than big athletic fields, so they might stay -- particularly since the grounds are so vast, which would still allow them to put up their own makeshift stages.

Sad as it is, in the end, the structure there are just shells.  It's a wonderful locale, but they aren't homes.  It's the 250,000 people who've had to evacuate, the very real towns that have been wiped out, and the 48 people who thus far have died that are the tragedy.

May the winds die down soon and bring the fires to an end.

As you may have read -- or seen on the news -- today was the day the folks were once again mobilized to gather across the country to show support for protecting Robert Mueller and his investigation, and protest Trump's action of firing Jeff Sessions.  (That latter phrase is still one I have a difficult time typing without being amazed at the turns life takes.)  At five o'clock local time in whatever city one lived in, organizations sprouted up to get people together.

I decided to go, because what the heck it seemed like a proper deal.  Driving there I was trying to remember the ones of these I'd gone to, and I think we're up to five.  I'm not a sign carrier, but I do want to lend my support. 

I'd seen some footage in New York of their protest, and it looked like a pretty good turnout in Times Square.  The one here in West L.A., at the Federal building in Westwood wasn't as impressive.  I heard someone say 200-300 people, but I think that upper end was his heart speaking.  It looked closer to 150-200 to me, 

In fairness, there were still some people arriving when I left.  I stayed for about half an hour, though because there were no speakers, and no marching, and it was just standing around holding signs and trying to get cars to honk, and I didn't have a sign (which as I said is my thing...), and the signs that were there were pretty thin and uninteresting -- I'm guessing the most-creative folks stayed home, and were saving their gems for the next major event -- I didn't feel like staying around any longer.  I did get one chuckle:  when I arrived, I passed a van in the parking lot, and the couple looked like they were preparing their signs.  As I was leaving, a half hour later, they were still there, preparing their signs.  Though the signs looked well-prepared.  In fact, they sort of looking pretty prepared when I had arrived.

In additional fairness, this may not have been the only protest in Los Angeles.  I may have gotten my text message alert because I had long-ago signed up for the West L.A. area.  It's possible -- and I suspect likely, as I think about it -- that there not only were other similar protest groups around the city, but a big one in downtown L.A.

Although this song isn't directly appropriate for the occasion, it overlaps enough so I figure I'd toss in a bit of entertainment.  This is Tom Lehrer from his great album, That Was the Year That Was, with his song about protests, "Folk Song Army."

​I told this story five years ago (almost to the day, but definitely to the occasion), but it bears repeating.  My favorite Halloween memory came about 20 years ago.  And it involved a Staples office supply store.  No, really.

In the late afternoon, I parked in the lot of my local West L.A. Staples and headed towards the building.  And coming outside at that moment was Ray Bradbury.

Now, mind you, that alone would have been good enough.  I've always loved Ray Bradbury's writing, and the first book of his I'd read was his classic Something Wicked This Way Comes, which centers around Halloween.  But then, so did many of his works.  He wrote a collection of stories, The October Country.  One of his creepy stories is The October Game.  He wrote a short novel, The Halloween Tree.  And much more. 

Side note: years after I read the book, Disney Studios made a movie out of Something Wicked This Way Comes.  A friend at the studio got me a copy of the screenplay and poster, both personally signed to me by Ray Bradbury.  Which I still have.  So, the author, book, and the connection to Halloween has long been strong with me.

And then there was Ray Bradbury.   On Halloween.

​I tend not to go up to celebrities.  And Ray Bradbury was clearly not in the best of health, helped by a caregiver.  But...this was Ray Bradbury.  And it was Halloween, for goodness sake.  You don't ignore that and expect to have any self-respect.  It would almost like avoiding Santa on Christmas.  Sure, he's busy because he's the patron saint of the holiday, but he more than almost anyone in the world is celebrating the day to its fullest.  And wants the day celebrated to the fullest.

So, I walked over, simply said how much I enjoyed his writing and expected to leave it at that.  But he was charming, and engaged me in conversation, helped in part by him finding out that I grew up near where he did, in Waukegan, Illinois.  (Glencoe, where I'm from, is about 25 miles directly south.)  I don't recall a great many specifics about the conversation, though I do remember his saying how Halloween was his favorite holiday.  (Gee, no kidding!) 

Which is why it came as a thrill -- and is my favorite Halloween memory -- when, as we parted, Ray Bradbury wished me, "Happy Halloween."

Well, I'm back in Los Angeles, and what I find impressive is that I got the exact same greeting from the city's mayor and the state's governor upon my arrival that Trump got when he landed in Pittsburgh.

That, of course, would be none.

On the other hand, my pal Bill Goldstein did pick me up at the airport and drove me home.  And while Trump had rides, too, that took him to whatever pandering faux-sympathy location he was going, I'm going to guess that they were on some payroll and got paid.  Bill drove me home purely out of goodwill and kindness.

Keep in mind, too, that Pittsburgh is the city that Trump pointed to when he pulled out of the Paris Accord, and said, "I was elected to represent the citizens of Pittsburgh, not Paris."  It should be noted that at that time, Pittsburgh Mayor Bill Peduto responsed -- “Fact: Hillary Clinton received 80% of the vote in Pittsburgh.  Pittsburgh stands with the world and will follow Paris agreement.  As the mayor of Pittsburgh, I can assure you that we will follow the guidelines of the Paris agreement for our people, our economy and future.”

There are many morals that one can pull from this, but the one I'm going with is -- People named "Bill" seem to be on the right side of goodness.

I was hoping to go to today's Northwestern football game, but the only seats were near the endzone, so I figured it was not to be.  But then for a series of unexpected occurrences -- which began with me contacting my good, close, personal friend Morty Schapiro, president of the beloved Northwestern, about a totally different matter (well, okay, perhaps "occasional email buddy" is closer...) -- and with a helpful assist from Bob McQuinn (to round out the tale), it ended up with me getting a ticket on the 37-yard-line.  Huzzah.

​What's additionally odd about this is that my dad had had season tickets to Northwestern for 51 years -- and I went through the exact same gate to get to the seats.  (They were one section over, but still... The same gate!)  While that initially struck me as wonderfully bizarre, I realized that it probably made sense.  He had his tickets from being on the medical school faculty, so these are probably the same NU section.  Odd that it maybe hasn't changed much in all this time, but it seems reasonable.

​By the way, not to worry, this isn't all about sports.  I'll get to the other part in just a moment.  But it would be inappropriate to overlook the game -- since Northwestern was an underdog, and playing #20 Wisconsin.  And they won!  31-17.  The game wasn't even that close, as NU had a lead 31-10 with about 7-1/2 minutes to go. 

The thing is, Northwestern is actually a bizarre team this year.  They lost to Akron (who lost to mighty Central Michigan today).  And had to come from behind in the last minute to beat both 1-7 Rutgers and 0-6 Nebraska.  Yet they're 5-3 and just beat #20 Wisconsin.  And lost to #5 Michigan by only three points, when Michigan came from behind in the fourth quarter to score with only four minutes left.  I can't figure it out.  They are either the best 5-3 team in the country, or the worst 5-3 team in the country.  But I'm glad they've won five games.  One more win and they're eligible for a bowl game.

Making the day all the more fun is that, as part of the kindly offer of a ticket to the game, I also got invited to the "president's pregame brunch" that's held at a building in the stadium parking lot.  A bit more elaborate than a tailgate party.  Scrambled eggs, frittatas, lox and bagels, grits, muffins, croissants, biscuits, yogurt parfaits, fruit and lots to drink, including some stronger libations.  A wonderful way to start the day.  They even had a small contingent from the NU marching band come in and play three school fight songs and the alma mater (the latter written to the music of Brahms Variations on a Theme by Haydn...)

By the way, for those of you who watch Pardon the Interruption, you can know that Michael Wilbon is a bit Northwestern support and has an NU football helmet behind him on the set.  In fact, he's also a member of the university's board of trustees.  If you've ever wondered, though, if it's mainly for television and a sports show -- it's not.  Though that should be eminently clear, it was nailed down for any doubters when he was there at the pregame brunch and even served as host for the few presentations.  (After talking with my pal Morty, I briefly greeted Wilbon who had come by to visit with the president.  At least that's my assumption, since I don't think I was his first choice.)

​For those who like to take notes, that's Morty Schapiro off to Wilbon's right in the dark purple sweater.  Next to him is the school's excellent athletic director, Jim Phillips.

When Schapiro gave his speech, it was clear why he's been so successful at the school.  He was not only charming, he was extremely funny  in his comments and off-handed quips.  Afterwards, though, I told him that much as I liked visiting with it, it was his wife I wanted to meet, and he introduced us.

I wasn't being facetious.  His wife, Mimi Rothman Schapiro, is a fellow-Writers Guild of America member.  She's written half a dozen TV movies, most (if not all, but I'm not sure) for the Lifetime channel.  Among them, she wrote A Promise Kept: The Oksana Baiul Story, about the Russian Gold Medal figure skater, and the challenges she faced.  (You can see her other credits here, including an episode of Diagnosis: Murder.)

What really impressed me though is something that requires a bit of background.

I first came into contact with Morty Schapiro, when I wrote a lengthy piece six years ago about two stories that concerned my dad and his 51 years having season football tickets to Northwestern games.  It got to his attention, and offered a wide range of kindnesses to my dad -- like sweatshirts, scarves, caps and other paraphernalia from the school's recent Gator Bowl win, as well as an invitation to see a game in the president's box.  That got us in email contact, as I said, and we've lightly stayed in touch over the ensuing six years.

Anyway, when Morty brought me over to his wife and introduced us, her first words were -- "I loved the stories  you wrote about your dad!"  I was floored.  You have to remember:  we'd never met, never spoken, never exchanged emails, the articles were written online and not anything I'd sent to her, we'd had zero direct contact -- I think at most maybe she had been aware of my novel, The Wild Roses, and had perhaps bought a copy six years earlier -- but that's it.  We were absolutely total strangers.  And six years later, he first words to me were an immediate recognition and reference to the article I'd written about my dad.  We also talked about Los Angeles where she's from, and us both working at the Universal Studios tour (me as a tour guide, her at the Prop Plaza area).  As I told Morty afterwards, "You married well."

The whole event was enjoyable.  Tom Brokaw was there, since his granddaughter goes to Northwestern, and it was Family Weekend.  (I had a brief chat with him, because I wanted to mention we had a friend in common -- news producer Clare Duffy, who I've written about here often, usually  during the Olympics when she covers them, producing Brokaw's pieces.  He said, "I don't just know Clare Duffy, we're joined at the hip.")  Also there was Mike Adamle, a football great who was the Big Ten MVP and earned All America honors.  I mention this because we had had one class together -- not quite a highlight for him, I suspect, since he was a senior and I was a freshman and...well, he was the Big Ten MVP and had no idea who I was.  But it was a small class, about 20 people, so I remember him because...well, he was an All American.  He went on to play in the NFL for six years, broadcast for NBC, and later co-hosted the show American Gladiators.

And after all that, Northwestern won the game.

Huzzah.

There's a point to this all, bear with me.

​The other day, I went to see a play, Curve of Departure, at the Northlight Theatre in suburban Skokie, just north of Chicago.  I've been to the Northlight before -- it's a very nice facility of a little over 300 seats that's surprisingly part of the local Doubletree Hotel.  The four-person play written by Rachel Bonds has gotten very good reviews, and I enjoyed it though found it a bit unfocused.  But what got me there was that one of the co-stars, playing the patriarch of the family was Mike Nussbaum.

Mike Nussbaum is a hugely popular actor in Chicago, all the more impressive since he came to acting late, changing careers from being partners with his brother-in-law running, of all things, a pest control company).  But it worked out awfully well for him, since he's been at it now for well-over 50 years.  In fact, Acators Equity lists him as the oldest-working actor on stage.  That's because he's 94.  And he was spritely and vibrant on stage the other night, giving a fun, lively performance full of texture and enthusiasm.  

You probably would recognize Mike Nussbaum, because he's done tons of movies and TV shows, with a distinctive Chicago accent.  (Though he plays a character from New York City in Curve of Departure and uses a good New York dialect.)  His most recognizable roles are most likely Men in Black, where he played the kindly shop owner who "splits apart" to reveal that the tiny alien leader is living inside this human shell.  And also he had a major role in Things Change, the terrific movie written and directed by David Mamet, opposite Joe Mantegna and Don Ameche.  In fact, he has a long history with Mamet, who got his start in his home of Chicago, and has appeared in numerous Mamet plays in the city, as well as the original Broadway cast of Glengarry Glen Ross.​  And also many of Mamet's movies.  His versatility is extensive, and maybe 10-15 years ago he had the starring role in King Lear at the well-regarded Chicago Shakespeare Festival Theatre.

Which brings us to the point here.

It's that Mike Nussbaum got his start acting in summer camp at Camp Ojibwe in Wisconsin, appearing in plays written by one of the counselors -- my dad, Edward Elisberg!  My dad didn't stay in the theater, becoming a doctor which was his first love since literally age 10 when he wrote a poem about wanting to become a doctor, but he's always felt great affection for Mike Nussbaum's very long success.

And I know that my dad's story is absolutely true and not one of those parent tales that gets embellished over the years.  That's because about five years ago Mike Nussbaum was starring in another play at the Northlight Theatre, Better Late, which was written by my friend Larry Gelbart.  Because I was going to be in town, Larry got seats for me and my dad, as well as my cousin Susie, and we all went to see it.  The play was wonderful, and afterwards we hung around in the lobby waiting for the actors to leave the dressing rooms.  (That's where they depart at the Northlight.)  When Nussbaum showed up, I went over and introduced myself as a friend of Larry Gelbart, and we had a nice chat about that -- and then I mentioned that I believed he also know my dad, Edward Elisberg and pointed...and immediately his face lit up, he threw his arms out and shouted, "Eddie!!!!"  My dad came over, and they had a warm, terrific conversation.

(To be clear, this wasn't the first time they'd seen each other in 75 years.  They didn't cross paths often, very rarely, in fact, but I do know that they briefly visited at the Shakespeare Theatre when Nussbaum did King Lear. And when he had that Household Pest Control business I mentioned, I assume my dad overlapped with him then because Nussbaum's brother-in-law partner was the father of one of my brother's friends.)

After the play the other night, I again waited around in the lobby for Mike Nussbaum to arrive from his dressing room.  Again I introduced myself to him and noted that I was the son of Eddie Elisberg.  His face once more broke in to a big smile, and he spoke affectionately of my dad.  And I was surprised by impressed that he was even aware that my dad had passed away recently.  So, clearly he kept up with the "old gang" -- though I suspect there isn't much of the old gang left.

I believe Mike Nussbaum has said that this will be the last stage play he appears in.  (In fact, the show closed the very next night.)  Though I suspect he'll keep acting in films and TV, since there's less of a physical and mental strain -- though he was often prancing around the stage the other night almost like a kid.

I have no idea what Mike Nussbaum will, in fact, be up to next, but it was -- and always has been -- a joy to see him.

​

The other day I went to the Chicago History Museum.  I'd been there once before, many years earlier when they had a tremendous anniversary tribute to Burr Tillstrom and Kukla, Fran and Ollie, which had broadcast its legendary show out of Chicago.  The place seems to have changed quite a bit since then, and for the better, much more expansive than before.

One thing I particularly loved was, of all things, their floor.  After you entered the main museum and headed towards the back, the floor was designed as a massive map of the Chicago area with highlights of the city's history and landmarks marked all over wherever you walked.

Not everything at the museum was consistent in the detail of how it was presented, though among the secondary displays there was a fairly interesting exhibit on Abraham Lincoln.  But the standout section was the museum's centerpiece, the Crossroads of America section on...well, the history of Chicago.

It's a massive, well-woven area with the history overlapping in a wide range of areas -- early Chicago TV, merchandising from the founding days of Sears and Montgomery Wards, sports, theater, blues music, architecture (that dealt with innovators like Frank Lloyd Wright, Burnham & Root who developed the first skyscrapers, Danmark Adler & Louis Sullivan, and more), manufacturing on a large scale like George Pullman inventing the Pullman train sleeping cars and Cyrus McCormick creating the first wheat thrasher, as well as smaller, individual items but with much personal impact like the Kraft company developing its macaroni & cheese, Sunbeam coffee makers, early Zenith radios and more.  Also, race relations, social programs such as Jane Addams' Hull House, Margaret Sanger's efforts that lead to the local Abbott Labs development of The Pill, and the scientific efforts of Enrico Fermi and his team researching the first atomic bomb at the University of Chicago.  And this being Chicago, needless-to-say politics, with a focus on the 1968 Democratic convention and the ensuing riots and police brutality. 
​

Most of the Crossroads of America vast space was wonderfully done.  I was disappointed that the sports section covering the Cubs, White Sox, Bears, Bulls, Blackhawks, Amos Alonzo Stagg, the women's baseball league (that started in Chicago by Cubs owner William Wrigley during WW II and was the theme of the movie, A League of Their Own) and more was exceedingly thin and cursory, though at least they touched on all these.  But only touched and with few artifacts on display.

I also wished there was much more on Tillstrom and Kukla, Fran and Ollie.  I'm definitely biased there, but considering that he donated his full archives to the museum they had so much to work with.  But happily there was attention paid to it, and to the early days of Garroway at Large (Dave Garroway's show which lead to the creation of the Today show which he hosted), and Stud's Place with Studs Terkel, among others.  Too little, for my taste, and almost nothing on radio, especially since Chicago was probably the center of the early days of radio.  But I did enjoy what they did present.

​It will come as no shock that I loved that they had the first Chicago street car -- Car No. 1 -- the only existing one from the era, which you could walk through, along with having a good display on that era and its development.

Perhaps the most detailed and therefore interesting sections was on disasters throughout the city's history.  The Haymarket Riots, the sinking of the Eastland just barely off the coast in Lake Michigan, (two years before the Titanic, where 848 people died), a 1919 race riot and the previously-mentioned 1968 Democratic Convention riot.

There was a deeply-detailed timeline of the city's history alongside a model and map of the Great Chicago Fire of 1871.  Though what leaped out to me at that exhibit was a street sign that should have meaning, as well, to longtime readers of these pages --
​

Jo Baskin Minow is the mother of the oft-mentioned here Nell Minow, and wife of Newton Minow, FCC chairman under JFK.  She's on the board of directors of the museum, and it was a nice honor to see.

More on that in a moment.  But first we'll get to a wonderful special exhibit they had on blues music in Chicago (separate from the much smaller one they had in the permanent Crossroads display).  Not only was it full of rich detail, covering people like B.B. King, Muddy Waters, Buddy Guy and Junior Wells, but there was also a great of hands-on material.  For instance, they had areas with an electric guitar display where you could jam along with piped-in music, a recording studio mixing board to play around with, a room where you could design an album cover and even a room that along with artifacts on the walls had two musicians sitting around playing guitar and blues harmonica.

I note this, as well, to bring us full circle to the point I made before.  This particular blues exhibit was held in a wing which you got to off of a central balcony --

Yes, there she is again.  The Minow Parade continues.

(You can't read it on the plaque off to the side, unless you have incredible eyesight, but our pal Nell even gets mentioned there.  Okay, not by name but the description of "three daughters" counts...)

By the way, as much as I very much enjoyed the Chicago History Museum, I almost didn't make it very far into the place.  It was a case of bad timing (and honestly, bad management). Which brings us to the reason why in a vent. 

When I arrived, there were three or four school groups visiting, mostly with little kids, and it was like being at Wrigley Field during a Cubs game.  And I'm not exaggerating much.  After all, keep in mind that sound reverberates off the marble walls and stone floors, especially in a closed environment.  It was sort of hellish.  Just as an example, I had to return a phone call, and it was so incredibly loud that I wasn't able to do it, I simply couldn't hear.  I needed to wander around to find a corner nook where it was at least somewhat quiet enough so that I could hear marginally reasonably. (Again, remember that this wasn't at Wrigley Field, but inside a museum.)  I understand and even love the enthusiasm of kids discovering things at a museum, but this seemed to transcend that and was separate on a different level. It was your basic yelling and often just running around, not from excitement at the exhibits. And not occasional bursts with pockets of quiet, but non-stop screaming for about an hour.  That's great for a playground and at a school assembly and even a field trip to an outdoor venue -- but not in a museum.  While I was surprised that there was no effort by teachers to control their students, I was almost more surprised that there was no effort by museum staff to do so.  After all, they know there are a lot of other patrons there visiting, trying to read the displays and focus on the material.  And I know the museum staff was bothered by the noise themselves, since they commented wearily on it later.  So, it wasn't a case of just me thinking something was out of order.  I have no idea if this was a daily occurrence, or just a rare event -- but I do know it was bad enough that I almost left.  But I figured the groups would leave soon enough, and most of them did within the hour.  When there was one school left, they were a bit older, and things from that point on for the next 2-1/2 hours were fine.

​Actually, better than fine -- an extremely nice place.  

Well, I made it in.  The train actually arrived impressively close on time -- in fact, five minutes early, getting into Union Station in Chicago after almost 40 hours on the rails. 

​(This is hardly the best photo of the Southwest Chief, but it did its job well, as I deboarded and headed out into the station.)

The elves taking care of the homestead said they had an even better time than I did because it was like I was incommunicado for two days, and they had everything to themselves.  (In fact, I did have full phone access, and although it turned out that the sleeping cars did have Wi-Fi, the network was dicey and very slow.  There was 4G broadband, as well, and better, though not ideal.  But it let me stay in touch somewhat reasonably.) 

Most of the yesterday was spent going through the desert, mainly New Mexico and then later in the day and through the night across Colorado.  It's not the most colorful part of the journey, but the rocks and foothills are wonderful to watch as you pass by.

I didn't spend as much time in the observation car as I did on my previous trip, but that's largely because I had a coach seat the time before, and this time the windows in my roomette sufficed quite nicely.  They also changed the configuration of the observation car.  My recollection from before is that it had comfortable high-back chairs that swung around.  Now, they had tables in one half, and smaller chairs in the other half.

I didn't find it as interesting as the previous design, although what makes the observation so nice is the wide expanse of all the windows when you look around, and the sense of the sky above.  

I was also looking forward to it at night, which most people don't think of with the observation car.  But the last time I recall entering the totally dark car that was largely empty, and you barely can see the desert around you -- but because you're nowhere near any towns, the sky is overwhelmed with stars that almost seemed to brighten the area.  Unfortunately, this time they had some dim lights on throughout the car which mucked up the effect.  Perhaps if I went later (this was around 8:30) the car would have been darkened and it would have been as wonderful. 

I may toss in a few other Tales of the Train later, but at the moment I'm still getting settled and we'll leave it there for now.

And what the heck, I might as well round things out and include that finishing train trip.  I've always loved these suburban commuter trains because they're double-deck.  They've been that way since I was a kid, and most of the time I love to sit above and get a better view of the ride.  They felt very magical back then when they introduced them, and they still do all those years later.

And with that, we'll leave the trains for the time being.