How well could you find your way around the Chicago of the past?
The photo above is from 1952. The location is somewhere on the North Side--in this case, north of North Avenue and east of Western Avenue. If you think you can identify the site, submit your guess in the "Comments" box. I'll post a contemporary photo tomorrow.
Today is the birthday of William E. Dever, Chicago's mayor from 1923 through 1927. It's not only his birthday, it's his Sesquicentennial. He was born 150 years ago today--March 13, 1862.
I wrote my doctoral dissertation on Mayor Dever. It was later published as a book, The Mayor Who Cleaned Up Chicago. More than twenty years later, the book is still in print. (Mainly because the first edition never sold out; that can happen with academic works.)
Why bother with an obscure, one-term mayor? I've already gone into that, and you can read the post here.
I don't think the city is planning a special Dever Sesquicentennial celebration. As for me, I'm going to have a beer in honor of my man Dever. That's probably the most appropriate way to honor this particular honest politician.
The statues stand at one of the corners of the Emerald Necklace, where Marshall Boulevard swings east into 24th. Three men of the 17th Century are sculpted in bronze--an Algonquin man, a Catholic priest and a French soldier.
Father Jacques Marquette is the man in the middle, and the monument is officially dedicated to him. Chicago also remembers the Jesuit with two streets, a major park, a public school, a Southwest Side neighborhood, a downtown office building and at onetime, a police district.
Marquette was born in France in 1637. He was ordained at 28 and came to French North America as a missionary. Most of his early work was in the lands that are now Ontario and Michigan.
In 1673 Marquette was part of an expedition sent to explore the Mississippi River. On the return trip he became friendly with the Illini tribe. Marquette was heading back toward Lake Michigan, so the Illini told him about a shortcut.
This was the Chicago portage. The expedition took the Illini's route and found out it worked fine.
Oak Park has three historic districts and dozens of historic buildings. There is no official recognition of the bungalow on the northwest corner of Wenonah and Fillmore. This is where Sam Giancana lived--and where he was murdered.
He was born Salvatore Giangana in the Taylor Street Italian settlement in 1908. After apprenticing in a teen gang he graduated to the Capone mob. In 1933 he married, and moved into a three-flat at 2822 W. Lexington Street.
Giancana climbed the organizational ladder using talents that can best be left to the imagination. He served time for operating an illegal still. During World War II he was rejected for military service. The reason given was a "constitutional psychopathic state and inadequate personality, manifested in strong anti-social tendencies."
By now Giancana had three daughters. In April 1945 he purchased a bungalow at 1147 S.
In 1911 women voted in some states--but not in Illinois. On this date 101 years ago, a group of female activists from Chicago chartered a train and traveled to Springfield to lobby for voting rights.
At 9 a.m. the special "Suffrage Train" pulled out of the Illinois Central 12th Street Station. On board were over 300 women. The main group was from the Chicago Political Equality League, headed by Grace Wilbur Trout.
Women had lobbyed the legislature before. This time the contingent included female students from the University of Chicago. "We're going to smile and look pleasant at them, and tell them how young they look," one 20-year-old said. "That's the only way to make a man do what you want him to, anyway."
The Suffrage Train chugged south, stopping at dozens of stations along the way. People had gathered at each stop. Trout spoke to them from the train's rear platform, while her associates moved through the crowd, passing out literature.
They reached Springfield at 5 p.m. Two hours later, the women made a grand entrance at the Capitol.
It began in September 1933, when a local Polish group asked Mayor Edward J. Kelly to name a street in honor of Casimir Pulaski.
The idea was appealing. General Pulaski had been a hero of the American Revolution. Besides that, the Poles were a major ethnic voting bloc. Kelly agreed to the plan--Crawford Avenue was to be renamed Pulaski Road.
As the mayor soon found out, many Chicagoans were against the change.
The street in question had been named for pioneer settler Peter Crawford. His family liked the existing name. So did the Chicago Historical Society. So did the store owners along Crawford, who'd have to revise their advertising--a few businesses, like Madison-Crawford Restaurant, might even have to change their names.
In December 1933 the City Council approved the change to Pulaski. The next month a group of Crawford businessmen got an injunction to halt the action.
Chicago has many micro-breweries to quench the discerning thirst. Our subject here is the city's last "macro-brewery."
Peter Hand was a Prussian-born Civil War veteran who came to Chicago to work in the brewing industry. In 1891 he opened a small brewery of his own at North and Sheffield. His leading brand was called Meister Bräu--"master brew."
Hand died in 1899, but his brewery survived. Between 1920 and 1933 it was officially closed because of Prohibition. After repeal the plant was expanded several times. Meanwhile, dozens of other Chicago breweries came and went.
In 1965 a group of investors purchased the brewery and changed the name to Meister Bräu Inc., with the intention of going national. In Chicago, they launched an aggressive advertising campaign.
Meister Bräu sponsored Sox, Hawks and Bulls broadcasts. Franklyn MacCormack's "All Night Meister Bräu Showcase" became a popular radio program. Bottle openers, coasters, beer steins, and posters were given away. The number of Meister Bräu billboards around town was exceded only by those reading "Daley for Mayor."
Skyscraper!
We're so used to hearing the word, we don't really think about it. Today we have airplanes. We've flown to the moon. Scraping the sky doesn't seem like such a big deal.
But go back to this date in 1884. On March 1st the city issued a permit to erect an office building at the northeast corner of La Salle and Adams. The Home Insurance Building would start a revolution.
Before 1884 buildings were supported by their walls. The higher you went, the wider the bottom. That's because the base had to carry the weight of everything above it. Think of the pyramids.
Of course, you could take some of the weight off the walls by putting support columns inside the building. Trouble was, you reduced interior space, and wound up with a bunch of small rooms.
And because your outside walls were weight-bearing, glass windows had to be small. That limited the sunlight coming into your building. You want larger windows? Then you build buttresses holding up your walls, like the Gothic cathedrals.
William LeBaron Jenney, architect of the Home Insurance Building, changed this. Metals had become stronger and easier to use.
