I am not alone at all, I thought.
I was never alone at all.
And that, of course, is the message of Christmas.
We are never alone.
Not when the night is darkest, the wind is coldest,
the world seemingly most indifferent.
For this is still the time God chooses.
— Novelist Taylor Caldwell

Tina Valentino is the Editor/Publisher

lue Christmas. I’ve never understood blue lights at Christmas. To me, they’re depressing. But it never fails, every year there are people who will haul the tangled boxes of blue strands out of their attics, drag the ladder from the garages and go through the trouble of lighting up a house somewhere or a tree or a front yard with those big, blue downer bulbs. I can’t seem to equate those blue lights with cheer or holiday spirit—only with an Elvis song, which I also dislike.

Then again, blue lights serve to remind me that everyone is not inflated with cheer like a Santa riding a Harley on the front lawn. There’s the pressure that begin with Black Friday shopping, marked this year by the peace and good will of a woman who pepper sprayed fellow shoppers in order to clear her path to the Xboxes. The expense of cards, postage, portraits, long-winded letters about vacations and the kids and jobs received by friends who can’t afford a vacation (or kids) and may not even have a job this year. Parties and what to wear, presents that will exceed all expectations and credit card limits…oh, what fun.

In two thousand years, we still have not managed to learn that Christmas is not a three-week cram session, full of bogus cheer, smiles, eggnog and a few dollars tossed into the Salvation Army kettle, just because it makes us feel better. Soon, it will be 200 years since the birth of Charles Dickens, whose cold Scrooge character may be more prevalent today than when Bob Cratchit had frozen finger tips. Dickens wrote, “Darkness is cheap, and Scrooge liked it.”

Like many readers, I know people who will experience a different kind of darkness this Christmas: a grief-stricken heart, an empty place at the table, an ornament that evokes memories and tears. Too many other friends are hoping for miracles this year—a plasma TV and jewelry are not even remotely on their minds and our prayers are the simplest, best gifts we can give.

More than ever, there is need around us. Whether it be: sickness, loneliness, unemployment, abuse, neglect, hunger or sadness, if we cannot rally support for these neighbors, what is Christmas? A few cans of soup for a food pantry, a scarf and some mittens in a donation box, an unwrapped toy, a care package for a senior, a few extra dollars to a cause in our own community—not halfway around the world—a few extra moments to listen and not talk is not a lot to ask. For your convenience, there are suggestions in this issue. “After all,” wrote Dickens, “I have always thought of Christmas as a good time; a kind, forgiving, generous, pleasant time when men and women seem to open their hearts freely, and so I say, God bless Christmas!” So true. But what about the rest of the year? I say, God bless Dale Evans, who remarked, “Every time we love, every time we give, it’s Christmas.” Saddle up, partners. We can make a difference in someone’s life.

There are places I’ll remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life, I’ve loved them all…
— John Lennon and Paul McCartney, In My Life lyrics, 1965

Tina Valentino is the Editor/Publisher

The inside straight. It’s a gamble and I fall for it, especially if I’m playing online for free. But that’s nothing compared to the hand Norman K. Winston played in a game with a few other gentlemen in the early 1950s. Oh, they may have looked at it a bit differently, like a business opportunity or a sizeable investment, but it was a gamble if there ever was one. Winston and a few of his peers rolled the dice on 38 acres of “nothing” when they broke ground at 9th and North Avenue in Melrose Park in 1958. Just because more and more cars were hitting the road and people were branching out from the corner store certainly didn’t mean the shopping center concept was a sure bet. But, like poker, it was a little talent and a lot of luck that made Winston Plaza a bonanza for developers, shoppers and job-seekers alike.

Winston Plaza and I were born a year apart (I’m the younger one) and there’s a lot of history between us. Back in the day, the Plaza was pivotal—playing a part in so many suburban lives. Last month at the grand re-opening celebration, as I stood in the corner where the computer resource center is now, my mind wandered—I was a stone’s throw from Lorraine’s Record Store, our own Hallmark, Newberry’s, Baker’s Shoe Store and Dr. Mirsky’s office, my first eye doctor. Walgreens was in the Plaza (in two different locations); so were Jewel and the Millionaire’s Club. My grandfather patiently watched me bowl one gutter ball after another “under” the Plaza at Super Bowl and, like it was yesterday, I can remember having a Lime Freeze with my aunt while having a quick lunch at Neisner’s and we got to keep the green, frosty glasses. We rode our bikes to the Plaza to meet White Sox players and get their autographs; we all had Chicken Bowl for special occasions; and Santa had his own little branch office, a free-standing workshop, right here in Melrose Park. There was Penney’s, Holloway House, even a Gap outlet for a short time, but few stores compared to Madigans, the Nordstrom/Von Maur of its day. It was my job at Madigans, not the federal government, that helped me pay off my three payment books of college student loans. Madigans had it all—cards, candy, a baby department, shoes, coats, cosmetics, even Other Brother and Madigans Junior. Thanks to Norman Winston’s crap shoot, the Plaza is a place I’ll remember all my life. When NewMark Merrill bought the Plaza in 2009, they bet on a real long shot. Clearly, though, it was a lot of expertise and a little luck that has revived the lackluster shopping center—and its rapport with the community. For the first time in decades, Winston Plaza is reaching out to the people it serves with car shows and contests, kids crafts, the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus and more. Melrose Park hit the jackpot twice, you could say. Before you head out to a monster mall somewhere, think locally and with a grateful heart for the jobs and the investment made right here.

To go fishing is the chance to wash one’s soul with pure air,
with the rush of the brook or with the shimmer of sun on blue water. It
brings meekness and inspiration from the decency of nature, charity toward
tackle-makers, patience toward fish, a mockery of profits and egos, a quieting
of hate, a rejoicing that you do not have to decide a darned thing until next week.
And it is discipline in the equality of men—for all men are equal before fish.
~ Herbert Hoover

Tina Valentino is the Editor/Publisher

Gone fishing. My grandfather used to tell me to put that sign up every time he thought I had been working harder than anyone else on the planet — which was just about every week. And, while he didn’t leave me stocks and bonds to worry about in today’s market, he left me with a treasure trove of exceptional memories. And I still have my fishing pole. I have it where I can see it every day, not because we caught a marlin together or because we spent hours together communing with Nature out on a lake somewhere because we didn’t.

Just seeing it reminds me of his unconditional love; and, it reminds me of Sr. Jeanne Crapo’s 17th Century English Literature class at Rosary College, where I first met Izaak Walton, author of The Compleat Angler, first published in 1653.  In it, Walton wrote, “God never did make a more calm, quiet, innocent recreation than angling.”

I hadn’t thought about fishing in quite some time until I was asked to take some photos very early (too early, to be honest) on an overcast Saturday morning; rain and storms were predicted for the rest of the day and I was hoping the photo op would be cancelled but it wasn’t. Beneath gloomy skies, an upbeat, hell-bent Maywood Village Trustee and avid fisherman Melvin Lightford was unloading his car, piling water, juice boxes, grills, tents, snacks and equipment on the curb in front of the Maywood Village Hall in anticipation of at least 50 children he had promised to take fishing.

With help and support from fellow Trustee Ron Rivers, the two men took it upon themselves — without grants, subsidies or corporate sponsors —to pool their own funds and the few meager donations they reeled in—and hoped young Maywood-area children, never before exposed to the world of fishing, would bite.

Bite? The last three fishing trips averaged more than 50 girls and boys and this trip was no different. Fifty-five children, a few with parents and grandparents, plus volunteers from Maywood’s Youth Mentoring program were out there with me at the crack of dawn. “Did you know college fishing scholarships are available?” Trustee Lightford asked. “Not everyone can be a Michael Jordan or a Mean Joe Green, but all I need is a waiver and I can teach kids how to fish and give them somewhere to go. Some of these kids don’t stand a chance. I’ve been getting kids out of trouble all of my life and I’m not stoppin’ now,” Lightford said seriously. As Mayor Yarbrough boarded the two buses headed for Monee and wished everyone a safe, fun trip, I choked up when a few kids gave him the thumbs up. There were no news channels or newspapers that morning. Just me, witnessing what politics should be about, what these neighbors are about and something else that Hoover once said: Lots of people committed crimes during the year who would not have done so if they had been fishing. Here’s hoping you snag some scholarships, little fishermen.

Have you forgotten how it felt that day?
To see your homeland under fire
and her people blown away.
Have you forgotten when those towers fell?
We had neighbors still inside going through a living hell.
— Darryl Worley, Have You Forgotten lyrics, 2003

Tina Valentino is the Editor/Publisher

Ten years. I’m too old for many things but I’m not old enough to have been watching the TV when President Kennedy was assassinated, the night that Bobby Kennedy was shot or the day that Elvis died. Anyone who witnessed these events clearly remembers exactly where they were when it happened, when their ordinary lives were rocked by “unheard of” news, consuming them with extraordinary sadness. I remember exactly where I was on the morning of September 11, 2001, the epitome of “unheard of” tragedies, stunned and watching as the death toll climbed throughout the morning, adding the heroes in Pennsylvania and the Pentagon public servants to the list of innocent casualties. At the risk of being politically incorrect, I side with Worley and those who were angered when the footage of 9/11 was deemed too disturbing to watch so media moguls spliced it out of the coverage. I think it should be aired regularly as a daily reminder that freedom isn’t free, particularly for those of us who are not old enough to have experienced the horrors, sacrifices and grief of war first hand, particularly as we enjoy liberty in our Lazy Boys watching the ball game or checking our Facebook pages.

For example, 9,933,702 people “Like” the Facebook page for a game called Bejeweled Blitz; only 154 “Like” the page for Maywood Bataan Day, launched by Col. Richard A. McMahon, Jr.,  dedicated to the men of the 192nd Tank Battalion in World War II, victims and survivors of the Philippine Death March, POW camps and Hell Ships, many of them born and raised in Chicago and the suburbs, like Maywood. Commemorated on the second Sunday each September, Bataan Day will fall on September 11 this year. Of those who have already forgotten 9/11, how many will attend and celebrate the courageous lives and the brutal deaths of starved and tortured men we never knew? For more about Bataan Day and this year’s program, visit the Facebook page or www.mbdo.org and, perhaps, even express your gratitude or expose your children to true bravery and patriotism. As Shakespeare wrote, “Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.”

Eckhart Tolle said, “Whenever anything negative happens to you, there is a deep lesson concealed within it, although you may not see it at the time.” Death is not a popular subject but I learned so much from death and Hillside Mayor Joe Tamburino back in 2004 that it earned me a Peter Lisagor Award for Exemplary Journalism for sharing my story “Etched In Stone.”

Mayor Tamburino will lead the 9th annual Cemetery Tour on Saturday, October 1st, visiting Queen of Heaven and Mount Carmel Cemeteries, their unique tributes to our military, historical grave sites and the never-open-to-the-public Bishop’s Mausoleum. Space is limited; call 708-202-4343 for details.

We remember so many trivial, unimportant things. The mental clutter is unbelievable. Maybe we can find the time to add these events to the things we remember for the rest of our lives.

Weather forecast for tonight: dark.
Continued dark overnight,
with widely scattered light by morning.
— George Carlin, 1937-2008

Tina Valentino is the Editor/Publisher

If you think its butter but it’s not, it’s Chiffon. In that part of my brain that stockpiles all useless trivia, I still remember this commercial from the 1970s that featured Mother Nature getting fooled… and not liking it, so she angrily summoned up some lightning and thunder to make her point. I realize that Oscar Wilde was right on the money when he said, “Conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative.” How true. But Wilde was spared the concepts and drama of global warming, Doppler Radar and the 24/7 Weather Channel. He probably just looked out the window and acted accordingly.

Today, however, the wrath being unleashed by Mother Nature seems unparalleled. Tsunamis, typhoons, monsoons, hurricanes, tornadoes, dust storms, drought, flash flooding, microbursts, squalls, earthquakes and volcanoes seem as relentless as the seventh plague that God inflicted on the Egyptians. And we are no better at predicting weather now than the Babylonians and Chinese were before Christ. The only thing I can count on most days is my trusty Galileo thermometer and a quick look up at the sky. As they referred to the forensic tools used in the Casey Anthony trial, I have come to believe that weather—meteorology—is no more than junk science. Thunder might as well be angels bowling and the moon made out of cheese because I have had keener predictions from a fortune cookie than I’ve had from any weatherperson pointing out bogus isobars and brightly-colored cold fronts on the green screen while slyly hiding the remote control in the palm of their hand. At the end of every forecast, it’s the same graphic: part of a sun, a cloud and a few drops—all bases sufficiently covered.

We certainly can’t spend our days worrying about the weather, although the regular severity of it concerns me lately. We rarely have a storm that is perfect for a nap or just enough to water the garden anymore without worrying about our sump pumps and carpeting and Christmas decorations floating in the basement or a power outage to complicate matters even further so we could trash the spoiled food that was expensive to buy in the first place. Sunny days are now oppressive, with humidity and a heat index that prompt health warnings; snowfalls require gas-powered equipment and plows instead of brooms and plastic shovels. And all of the above involve insurance and credit cards and time off from work and considerable stress and sleepless nights because predicting is just pure foolishness. Junk science.

There are moments when I truly believe Mother Nature is trying to tell us something or pointing a mean finger at us for abusing the planet. And then, there are other moments when the weather actually brings us together in ways that would have never occurred to us otherwise. Such as the local Guerin Prep scholars who recently worked with Habitat for Humanity, the random acts of kindness among neighbors sharing generators and folks checking on the elderly neighbors during this summer’s intense heat. E.B. White wrote: “Weather is a great bluffer. I guess the same is true of our human society—things can look dark, then a break shows in the clouds, and all is changed.”

Tina Valentino is the Editor and Publisher of Neighbors, a FREE publication that spotlights the western suburbs and partners advertisers with award-winning stories.  Neighbors Magazine – “Everyone has one” is distributed each month via high-traffic retail and/or commercial outlets throughout Bellwood, Berkeley, Elmwood Park, Forest Park, Franklin Park, Hillside, Maywood, Melrose Park, Northlake, North Riverside, Oak Park, River Forest, River Grove, Schiller Park, Stone Park and Westchester.  www.neighborsmagazine.com