into the past again.

Reaching into the past again, I recalled the name of a man I knew when I was in my early 20s, working in Chicago at the Convention Bureau, that I considered a real step up because it was civic minded and I interacted with the mayor’s office, the governor’s office, and the Chamber of Commerce. Wow. How much more interesting than typing appointment lists for baby photographers.

The building I worked in was at 134 N. La Salle. The stock market was at the distant southern end. It was full of lawyers, and was connected through an inner passage to the Bismarck Hotel, on Randolph Street. We used to take coffee breaks at the Bismarck, and often I would order a lingonberry pancake, their specialty.

Anyway, the girls in the office, my age, suburban princesses, were working only till they married the right guy and got their special home in the wealthy suburbs. They didn’t like me all that much and, although, they did invite me to join them for coffee, they never talked to or with me, considering me a built-in audience for their special conversations, mainly about their dating lives, and if one was to be married, the crushing dilemma of choosing a silver pattern. So, I decided that it was better for me to go for coffee on my own. There was a tavern/restaurant off the main lobby and they had a morning coffee/donut/sweet roll service, so I started going there for my coffee. They had tables and booths, and it was subdued lighting. As I became a fixture in the morning routine, the lawyers who also got their coffee there started inviting themselves to sit with me in my booth. Soon it would be me and five lawyers at the big booth in the corner. One of them, Mark, was a civil rights activist, in his late 30s, with a prominent reputation in the field. I developed a huge crush on him, that he enjoyed but being a loyal husband and father, did not pursue. Still, we had great conversations, and I played piano for him once, and he confessed he had begun piano lessons and had a child’s pride in his progress.

I read that he had supported Wallace and asked him if he was a Communist. He laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks, considering my question to be the unwitting utterance of a naïf in the intellectual woods, so to speak. Then he said, “No, child, I am not a Communist, but do not worry, I will spare you when I am commissar.” He was far and above the sorry choices available to me in the Chicago dating scene, living as I did, in a semi-slum with the only social events available connected to the Greek church (a fate worse than you know what).

I thought of him a few days ago and looked him up on Wiki. I found his son, David. Wiki says: David S … is an American journalist and Rhodes Scholar, who writes works on Russia and the Soviet Union. He has authored books and articles about the decline and fall of the Soviet Union and the rise of post-Soviet Russia. He was expelled from Russia by the government in 2013.

I found his e mail and wrote to him. His sister, Beryl, replied. Here is part of her Wiki bio

… daughter of the famous civil rights lawyer Mark J. S… , who fought for black families suffering under the ruthless and oftentimes racist conditions that pervaded Chicago's real estate market.[2] In 1965, her father died of heart failure when she was just six years old.

She is a Guggenheim Fellow and has authored books focusing mostly on the history of the city of Chicago. In particular, they have examined the history of race relations in Chicago, including their connection with the local real estate market, which at times was among the most segregated in the nation. Her work served as the basis for Ta-Nehisi Coates's award-winning 2014 article "The Case for Reparations".
She graduated from Yale University in 1992. She is currently a professor of history at Rutgers University.

I can only imagine how proud Mark would have been to see his children grow into such learned and successful adults. And since he died when Beryl was 6, and David was 18, a great deal of the credit goes to his wife -- with these two and three other children to care for alone.

Beryl was moved by my note and wanted to know my memories and I was happy to write what I remembered.