Oak Park, Frank Lloyd Wright and me

I’ve always known Oak Park, Illinois. Daddy’s family lived there when he was a boy. My aunts lived there when I was a child. My parents lived there when they were first married. I spent my first Christmas in Oak Park, basking in the adoration of grandmothers, aunts, uncles and cousins.

Later, I learned to my surprise that other people knew it, too -- as “the place where Frank Lloyd Wright lived”. My Aunt Pauline was probably the first to tell me about Oak Park’s famous citizen. She took great pride in both Oak Park and Chicago and was always eager for me to know that “famous people” had lived there (though I feel certain that Aunt Pauline was a bit perplexed by the Prairie School
I have a vague memory of being driven by Frank Lloyd Wright houses when I was older and saying “Ew!” in approved teenage style. Either my parents agreed with me or didn’t disagree enough to try to change my mind. We never visited the houses and, if anyone ever tried to convince me of his importance to American architecture, I don’t remember the conversation.
A few years ago, when my Charlottesville tenants went to Chicago specifically to see the Frank Lloyd Wright buildings there and in Oak Park, I felt that perhaps it was time I took another look, myself. This summer I got the opportunity.
Oak Park had always seemed a more suitable home for our fairly conservative family than for a cutting edge architect. In the early 1830s, an Englishman named Kettlestrings bought the land that became the village. In 1855 he moved to Chicago, subdivided the earlier estate and sold it to “good people who were against saloons and for good schools and churches.” After the Great Chicago Fire, its population grew as people who had lost their homes moved there. It is possible my great grandfather was among them. It is sure that the young architect and his first wife Kitty Tobin moved there in 1889 after their marriage. I imagine that, as a young architect, he needed a place he could afford more than one where he would fit in. Decide for yourself. Here are some of his neighbors’ homes


.

 And this is his wedding present to his wife

 which was gradually modified as their six children were born. The studio was added in 1898, two years before my grandparents married.
Though there was some overlap in the years both families lived in Oak Park, I’m sure they did not meet, though it’s fun to imagine that Aunt Pauline might have gone to school with the younger Wright children. One neighbor at least was willing to take a chance on the up-and-coming architect. Wright’s first independent commission was to build a house for Nathan G. Moore, a Chicago attorney who lived one block south of him. Moore did not give his neighbor free reign, however. He didn’t want anything too controversial. "I don't fancy sneaking down back streets to my morning train just to avoid being laughed at." he insisted. But when you’re just getting started and have a growing family, sometimes you have to compromise. Wright built it, and rebuilt it several years later after a fire destroyed part of it, but never liked it.

 

 I appreciated what I saw this summer, though I’d never choose such a house to live in. But there was one other Oak Park house I longed to see. I knew that my grandfather had lived in Oak Park until he died in 1941. Was his house still there? Unfortunately, I couldn’t remember the address when I was there this summer. It was among family papers in Charlottesville. When I was preparing this post, I googled it. The village website confirmed a house at this address from the right period. Alas, there was no photo. A short time later, thanks to e-mail, digital cameras and the kindness of friends, I at last saw my own personal favorite house in Oak Park.

 

Roots -- and Branches

Growing up as an only child, I was always fascinated by large families. My own was quite small and most of its members were rather shadowy figures to me. Some had died before I was born or when I was a child. I saw the others only a few days each year at the most. It wasn’t until I grew up that I realized that the relatives I did know were almost all from my father’s family.

Of my mother’s family, I had only a few facts, jumbled like a jigsaw puzzle waiting to be assembled. I knew that, though Mummy had been born in a town called Royalton, Illinois, she identified proudly as a Texan. Her family had moved there when she was a baby. I knew her parents had divorced when she was a teenager and she had an older brother. I had fond memories of Grandma whom we visited every summer until she died when I was about 12. I never saw Granddaddy, though I did meet his second wife, Nell, when I was about 7. We visited them in Houston, Texas because Granddaddy was ill -- too sick for a little girl to be allowed to visit him. I met my Uncle Marion for the first and last time the summer after Grandma died.

The only other relatives of my mother’s I knew were her Uncle Quincy and Aunt Cora. Until we went to visit them in Missouri when I was about 10, I’m not sure I realized that grown-ups could have uncles. I have vivid and pleasant memories of them – Uncle Quincy was a fascinating storyteller and Aunt Cora taught me to play cribbage. But we never saw them again.

When Mummy died 26 years ago, I found a couple from Illinois with her maiden name in her address book. I had no idea who they were but I thought I should inform them of her death. I assumed they must be cousins but, though I got an occasional signed Christmas card from them after that, I was never sure. Then, in 2008 I got a long e-mail. The writer identified herself as my mother’s cousin’s wife and mentioned children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren – over a dozen relatives whose existence I’d been completely unaware of. A year later I “met” one of her grandchildren on Facebook.

When I decided to visit my Lost Cousin  in California this summer, I thought it would be only fitting to give equal time to my mother’s family. And so it was, in late June, that I found myself on a train heading towards my roots.

There followed three days packed with discovery of previously unknown places, people and family history. I felt like I was in one of the family saga books I’d always loved. Only this was my family saga. I had cousins that lived on a road that was named for them – and my mother.

My mother’s cousin’s wife took me along a, to her, familiar road

to a private cemetery where every grave was that of one of my ancestors.

She showed me the site of my great grandfather’s home along an old Indian trail 

and the Old Home Place itself, moved, years ago to a different location 

where one of my second cousins still lives.

I saw the town where my mother was born,

the church that my granddaddy built there,

and, in the Royalton cemetery, his younger brother Oren’s grave (father, grandfather, great-grandfather and great-great grandfather of all the cousins I was visiting).

Finally, she took me to my own grandfather’s grave in a nearby, even smaller town.

The next day, my mind in a whirl at the end of a cousin-filled pizza party, I relaxed in a Southern Illinois summer evening,

and contemplated the complexities of families. In every one, there are wanderers and home lovers. I’m a third generation wanderer. My great-uncle Oren’s part of the family dug their roots in deep. I’m so glad they let me wander back this summer to discover them.

Summer in the City

I’d have been even more disappointed to leave Southern California if I hadn’t known my adventure wasn’t over. I had more cousins to meet. But before that, it was time for a weekend in Chicago, a place I had always had a special relationship with -- more than a visitor but never quite a resident.

Several of my father’s relatives had lived in or near Chicago. My parents had worked there when they were first married. But, for me, Chicago always meant summer. I had spent part of many summer vacations there visiting relatives. I especially remember 1966 when I spent time with my grown cousin who had an apartment overlooking The Lake. (Chicagoans seldom say Lake Michigan or the Chicago River, just The Lake and The River) A city with beaches! Cool!

I had to be re-convinced of that in 1968. I’d just finished my first year of college in Ohio. My father’s company had transferred him from Jamaica to Chicago. I had to face the fact that the Island in the Sun was now part of my past. I’d be spending all my vacations in Chicago for the foreseeable future. By the end of August, after weeks of roaming the City, I’d rediscovered the fun. It’s possible that, just about then, my parents wondered whether they’d made the right decision. For that was the August of the “Democratic Nightmare Convention” The day before it started, Mummy and I went down to see the candidates.

In those more innocent times, we were a little surprised to see so many of Chicago’s Finest as well.

For the rest of the week we stayed in our new home in a nearby suburb and saw more of them on TV. But that was long ago and many happier summer memories have overlaid that one. This summer, after a fifteen year absence, I was looking forward to making new ones.

 Chicago has always done summer well. Let me show you. But click here first. Let’s begin with a parade. The city has eight of them throughout the year. June is the colorful Gay Pride Parade.
 

We can’t miss seeing the Water Tower and the nearby Pumping Station, two of only a few buildings to have survived the Great Fire of 1871.

My aunt used to have a chest. She said her grandfather had carried it to the river that night. That chest and the Water Tower made a huge impression on me as a child.

 Wrigley Field always brings back memories of Cubs games with my Dad.

And we have to take a boat ride on The River.

There have always been parks for all to enjoy.

It’s fun to see the revitalized Navy Pier from the top of the ferris wheel.

My friends were pleased to show me Millennium Park, the newest addition to summertime fun.

Soon it was time for dinner in one of the bustling restaurants.

They all seemed so noisy! I realized I’d been in Paris too long where restaurants are quiet and one speaks in hushed tones. Chicago still remembers its speakeasy days. How can you have fun in a whisper? After dinner there’s time for one last look at Buckingham Fountain.

We can relax on a bench in Grant Park

and admire the city.

It’s true that we haven’t gone shopping. We haven’t visited the Lincoln Park Zoo, the Planetarium, the Field Museum or the Art Institute. We haven’t been to a jazz club, the theater or an outdoor concert. But we’ve had a pretty good day. And there’s always another day. Or another summer.

California Dreamin'

California. For 38 million people it’s home – a place to love or hate, to be proud of or frustrated by. But thanks to Al Jolson ,Hollywood, television and dozens of pop songs, it’s an almost mythical place for hundreds of millions more. California’s the place where you go to make your fortune, to become famous, to start a new life; the place where the sun always shines, the palm trees sway in the warm breeze, all the girls are beautiful, all the men are handsome and parties are never-ending. A child of the 60’s, I’d been one of those hundreds of millions, spending hours listening to the Beach Boys and Joni Mitchell and dreaming of peace, love, beaches, surfing and sunshine. (This seems ironic since I spent my teenage years in Jamaica. But Hollywood’s influence is strong so, like many, I longed for the wonderland I’d never seen and took for granted the paradise I knew.)
 The dream held firm throughout all the news stories of smog, earthquakes and freeway gridlock as well as my later amused understanding, after I moved to France, that living in a place is different from imagining it or even visiting it. Many of my friends pictured my life in Paris as 365 days a year of romance, gourmet food and museums, totally dismissing from their minds any idea of such mundane things as work, chores and other aspects of daily life.
 Finding a new cousin under such unusual circumstances was exciting. I’d have gone to visit her no matter where she lived. But there was an added thrill in knowing I would be visiting her and her family in CALIFORNIA.

Sometimes reality disappoints. But, in this case, it actually exceeded my expectations. I was met at the airport by two smiling people in bright LA Angels shirts and taken to a comfortable, spacious home that reminded me of a combination of all the homes I’d seen on TV shows plus our home in Jamaica. The next day, I met three generations of smiling, healthily tanned cousins – just the way California cousins should look – for a combination Father’s Day celebration and early birthday party for me. My cousin Morgan was working that day so couldn’t come to the party. But since she has a cake-making business, she sent along a sample of her work for us all to enjoy. My memories of that day are somewhat fuzzy, due to jet-lag, but I have photographic proof that I enjoyed myself.

During the next few days, I met the various members of the family on their home ground. I was able to thank Morgan in person for the delicious cake as well as admire the view from her parents’ home.

I enjoyed her aunt's view, too.

Her uncle was working but that gave me an opportunity few people can boast of. (And, since, fortunately,there were no fires at the time of our visit, it was relaxed and pleasant .)

For a whole week, skies were blue and temperatures were balmy. I enjoyed the company, feasted my eyes and found everything both familiar and hard to believe. California itself seemed determined to show me that all those movies and TV shows and songs had not lied. Don’t believe me? See for yourself.