WBEZ | Chicago history

Four corners, four gas stations

Fri, 17 May 2013 05:00:00 -0500

I grew up near a landmark intersection, though I didn’t realize it at the time.

The year is 1961. Montrose Avenue, meet Austin Avenue. 4400 north, 6000 west.

Four corners. Four gas stations. What better monument to the American car culture of the mid-20^th Century?

The Standard station on the northwest corner came first. Then, going clockwise around the intersection, there was Texaco, Mobil, and Pure. I’m not sure in what order these other stations were built.

(There was actually a fifth gas station a few hundred feet east of the intersection. A tiny Sinclair station stood on the southeast corner of Montrose and Mason. Grandpa Price said it had been there since the 1920s. By 1965 it was gone.)

Next to the Mobil station there was a vacant lot where we played baseball. Like most Chicagoans, we called it "the prairie." Other than that, I had no connection to the four gas stations on the four corners, and no stories to tell about them. They were simply part of the neighborhood.

During the 1970s, with gas prices rising, four stations became redundant. The Texaco was the first to go, converted into an auto clinic. The Standard became a bank branch. The Pure was an Arco for a while, and then a fast-food drive-thru. Today there’s only one gas station at Montrose and Austin.

Chicago had a few places where three gas stations crowded the four-corner intersections. Montrose-Austin was the only place in the city where I ever saw four stations on all four corners, though I suspect this might have happened in the suburbs.

Were there any other four-corner intersections within the city limits that had four gas stations at one time? I'd be interested in learning where they were.

The Fairway Flapper

Wed, 15 May 2013 05:00:00 -0500

The latest screen version of The Great Gatsby opened this week. That calls to mind the story of Chicago’s own Edith Cummings.

Born in 1899, Cummings grew up in Lake Forest among the social elite. She attended an exclusive boarding school and made her formal debut. Her father and brother were golfers. It seemed natural for Edith to take up the game.

She became very good very fast. There were no female golf pros yet, so Cummings played in the few amateur tournaments open to women. In 1919 she qualified to compete in the U.S. Women’s Amateur for the first time.

Cummings became a favorite of the galleries. She was young, beautiful, and bursting with energy.

“She swaggered like a bullfighter, ready to pounce on any mistake her opponent made,” one reporter wrote. A magazine called her the Fairway Flapper, and the name stuck.

Cummings built up an impressive file of press clippings. Yet she couldn’t seem to win a championship. After another near miss, one of her fans said “Too much dancing, too much bootleg liquor.”

In 1923 she finally broke through. The Women’s Amateur was being played at the Westchester Country Club outside New York City, and Cummings advanced to the 36-hole final match against the country’s top female golfer, Alexa Stirling. This time the Fairway Flapper was ready. Cummings closed out the three-time champion on the 34th green, 3 & 2.

Her victory made Cummings a national celebrity. She was featured in newspapers and all the “ladies’ magazines.” The climax was a cover story in Time magazine on August 25, 1924. Cummings was the first female athlete—indeed, the first golfer—featured on the magazine’s cover.

The Time story came as Cummings was about to defend her Amateur title. But the magic was gone. Cummings was eliminated in an early round of match play. After 1924 she seemed to lose interest in competitive golf. She never won another tournament.

In 1934 Cummings married businessman Curtis Munson. When she died in 1984, most of the sporting world had forgotten her. And yet, Edith Cummings did attain her own bit of indirect immortality.

While in boarding school she’d met a young Princeton student named F. Scott Fitzgerald. Years later, in The Great Gatsby, Fitzgerald created the character “Jordan Baker”–a champion golfer–based on Cummings. Trouble was, in Gatsby, the lady golfer is a cheater.

Why would Fitzgerald portray his old friend that way? There are probably a dozen scholarly journal articles offering an explanation. In any case, nobody ever accused the real Edith Cummings of any rules-bending or underhanded play. Win or lose, the Fairway Flapper from Chicago was always a credit to the game.

Bridge to the future

Tue, 14 May 2013 05:00:00 -0500

Mayor William Hale Thompson celebrated his 51st birthday on May 14, 1920. He marked the occasion by dedicating the new Michigan Avenue Bridge. Now, that was something worth celebrating–and Chicago did.

Michigan Avenue had always been a South Side street. It ended at the south bank of the Chicago River. If you wanted to cross over to the North Side, you had to go a block west to Rush Street.

North of the river, there was no Magnificent Mile. In the early 1900s this part of the city was an area of factories and scruffy rooming houses. Instead of wide, beautiful, bustling North Michigan Avenue, there was narrow little Pine Street.

But the three rules of real estate are: (1) location, (2) location, (3) location. Here was a large tract of under-developed land close to the central business district. Burnham’s 1909 Plan of Chicago proposed building a bridge connecting Pine Street with Michigan Avenue.

The city was eager to spur development north of the river. In 1917 Edward Bennett was hired as architect and began work on the “link bridge.” He based his design on the famous Pont Alexandre III in Paris.

Bennett’s Michigan Avenue Bridge was actually two parallel bridges that operated independently. The main span was 220 feet long and double-decked. All commercial traffic was exiled to the lower level. Later, the city planned to build connecting double-decked highways along both banks of the river.

At 4 p.m. on dedication day, Mayor Thompson and city officials climbed into cars at Congress Plaza, and led a motorcade up Michigan Avenue. They stopped at the new bridge. The mayor got out of his car, said a few words, then cut the red-white-and-blue ribbon that hung across the roadway.

That was the signal. Airplanes suddenly appeared overhead and “bombed” the bridge with confetti. A calliope pumped out rousing tunes. People cheered. The mayor waved at the crowd. Then he got back into the car and the motorcade continued.

Four thousand cars followed Thompson over the new bridge. They represented business concerns, motor clubs, political organizations and everyday citizens. After a leisurely tour of the city’s boulevard system, the parade dispersed. That evening a fireworks display concluded the day’s events.

With the opening of the bridge, Pine Street was widened and became the northern part of Michigan Avenue. The Wrigley Building followed, and the Tribune Tower, and everything else.

Uptown, past and present

Mon, 13 May 2013 05:00:00 -0500

Uptown. The name seems more generic than natural. And the district the city calls Community Area #3 did start out as a series of separate communities.

During the 1850s, two rival railroads–the Milwaukee Road and the Chicago & North Western–built parallel lines north from Chicago. Where the railroads opened stations, settlement sprang up. Buena Park was about five miles north of Madison Street. Moving further north, there was Sheridan Park, then Edgewater. All three were annexed by Chicago in 1889.

In 1900 the first North Side ‘L’ line pushed through the area to a terminal at Wilson Avenue. Rapid growth followed. The three distinct communities lost their separate identities and blended together. By the 1920s the whole area was referred to as Uptown.

Why “Uptown?” If you think about it, that was pretty savvy marketing. The name tried to put the community on the same level as Downtown, aka the Loop. The main local business street also adopted a more cosmopolitan identity: Evanston Avenue became Broadway.

In New York, Midtown was outpacing the city’s older business areas. The same thing could happen in Chicago. Uptown boosters predicted that one day the Broadway Limited would locate its Chicago terminal at Wilson Avenue.

It seemed possible in the 1920s. Department stores, banks, hotels, and every manner of business were moving in. You could find or do almost anything in Uptown. Even Al Capone was investing in local real estate.

People from all over Chicago came to Uptown for entertainment. The action centered around the intersection of Broadway and Lawrence. Major movie palaces included the Riviera and the 4,000-seat Uptown, the city’s largest. For dancing, there was the Aragon ballroom. The Green Mill was the place to go for hot jazz, and over on Clark Street, the Rainbo Gardens complex offered assorted cabaret shows.

After a busy Saturday night, there were churches available. All Saints Episcopal and St. Mary of the Lake Catholic were architectural treasures. The biggest congregation gathered at the People’s Church, where flamboyant Unitarian pastor Preston Bradley held forth. Summer Sundays might also include a visit to Lake Michigan for fishing off the Horseshoe or swimming at Montrose Beach.

And when you died, you could still find what you needed in Uptown. Graceland Cemetery, the city’s most fashionable burying ground, was located in the community.

The Crash of 1929 and the Depression hit Uptown particularly hard. Businesses died and money left. Large apartments were carved into rooming houses. Poorer people moved in. The newcomers included African-Americans, American Indians and Appalachian whites.

By 1970 portions of Wilson Avenue had become a skid row. The crime rate soared and ‘L’ commuters were warned not to change trains at Uptown stations. About this time residents north of Foster seceded from Uptown, gaining official recognition as Community Area #77, Edgewater.

Some sections of Uptown remained intact. These were mostly on the outer edges, near the Chicago & North Western tracks or along Marine Drive. Two blocks of Hutchinson Street were designated an architectural landmark district. The construction of Truman College helped stabilize the central area.

During the 1980s nearby Wrigleyville and Boys’ Town began attracting yuppies, and it seemed likely Uptown would follow this path. That brought protests from various community groups. They claimed that Urban Renewal simply meant Poor Removal. Three decades later, gentrification continues to be a hot-button local issue.

Today Uptown is home to 56,000 people. One of Chicago’s more diverse communities, the population is identified as 52 percent white, 20 percent black, 14 percent Hispanic, 11 percent Asian.

Uptown endures. The Green Mill and the Aragon remain in business. Along Argyle Street, Asian restaurants are thriving. The boarded-up Uptown Theatre still stands, awaiting a financial angel with deep pockets. New apartments and commercial development have replaced the old ‘L’ yards on Broadway.

Uptown endures.

There in Chicago (#23)

Fri, 10 May 2013 05:00:00 -0500

How well did you find your way around the Chicago of the past?

The Washington Hotel was long a landmark at the northeast corner of 92nd Street and Commercial Avenue. The commercial development is another clue, since there weren't many major shopping districts on the far South Side in 1934. The older photo also shows a junction of two streetcar lines, and a grade-separated railroad crossing in the distance. Those features were also rare south of 79th Street.

Where in Chicago? (#23)

Thu, 09 May 2013 05:00:00 -0500

How well could you find your way around the Chicago of the past?

This 1934 photo is from the far South Side, within the current city limits, somewhere south of 79th Street. Many of the buildings are gone today, though there are clues that may help you identify the site.

If you think you've figured out the location, send in your guess as a comment. I'll post a contemporary photo tomorrow.

Last days for the Western-Belmont overpass

Mon, 06 May 2013 05:00:00 -0500

The City of Chicago is planning to tear down the Western Avenue overpass at Belmont-Clybourn. The junction of the three streets will once again be a normal, at-grade intersection.

Back in 1902 the Riverview amusement park opened at the northwest corner of Western and Belmont. The park drew thousands of patrons each day, most of whom arrived on streetcars—one of the lines was even named Riverview-Larrabee. Private vehicles of any type were rare.

By the 1960s more and more people were driving cars. Traffic around Riverview was congested. The modern solution to the problem was the Western Avenue overpass.

Fifty years ago, the city was in love with fly-over intersections. Similar viaducts were being built at Archer-Ashland and at Ashland-Pershing. Dozens more were in the talking stage. They were mini-expressways, an efficient way to move traffic.

The Western Avenue overpass opened in 1962. It did its job well for five years. Then Riverview closed. The new businesses that went up on its site generated significantly less traffic. And when a police station was built at the Western-Belmont corner, the viaduct actually impeded its operations.

In 1962 few people had complained about aesthetics. Once the overpass was no longer needed, critics discovered it was ugly. It blighted the neighborhood. Besides, the traffic lanes on the viaduct itself were too narrow.

Demolition costs were high. So for decades, there’s been a death-watch at Western-Belmont—a death watch on a viaduct. How long before the thing would fall apart, and the city would be forced to tear it down? Now it looks like this is finally going to happen.

Partly because of the Western-Belmont controversy, overpasses have gone out of fashion in Chicago. The city recently announced a project to reconfigure the Elston-Fullerton-Damen intersection. Before a plan to reroute Elston was chosen, there was a proposal to run Fullerton through as an underpass. I don’t believe that a viaduct was even considered.

I have no idea how tearing down the Western Avenue overpass will affect traffic in the area. We’ll all have to wait and see.

The tallest rock

Fri, 03 May 2013 05:00:00 -0500

Forty years ago today—May 3, 1973. Has it really been that long?

On Wacker Drive in downtown Chicago, the Sears Tower was topped off. Our city now had the tallest building in the world.

Sears had maintained its main office in North Lawndale for decades. During the late 1960s the company decided to build new headquarters. After looking in the suburbs, they chose a centrally-located site, just west of the Loop

The original plan was to build two separate buildings. That was changed to a single structure, 1,454 feet high. As board chairman Gordon Metcalf explained, “Being the largest retailer in the world, we thought we should have the largest headquarters in the world.”

Construction began in 1970. The foundations were dug, and the steel frame began to rise slowly over Wacker Drive. At the 1,369-foot mark the Sears Tower passed the former record holder, the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York.

Raw, windy weather nearly postponed the May 3rd topping-off festivities. The ceremonial final girder contained the signatures of the 12,000 people who had worked on the project. The construction chief was worried that the 2,500-pound beam might smash into some windows on the way up.

But by show-time a few hundred people had already gathered at the site. Mayor Daley had come to give his blessings. So had Cardinal Cody. The girder was hoisted and set in place.

That was the signal. A chorus of electrical workers called The Tower Bums burst into song, serenading the crowd with such lyrics as:

“She towers so high,

Just scraping the sky.

She’s The Tallest Rock.”

Speeches followed from various dignitaries. Then the mayor brought the proceedings to a close. “I want to thank [Sears] for staying in Chicago when so many are leaving,” he said. “Sears, Roebuck—a name that means everything to the people of America—has no equal in the business world of Chicago.”

Everyone went home happy. The Sears Tower lifted the spirits of Chicago. Having the World’s Tallest Building helped the city get through some tough years.

Still, records are made to be broken. The Sears Tower kept its title until 1996. Today all the sky-piercing structures are going up in Asia.

Meanwhile, in 1992, Sears again moved its headquarters, this time to Hoffman Estates. The tall building on Wacker is now known as the Willis Tower.

Lost Chicago landmark: the old Old St. Mary's

Thu, 02 May 2013 05:00:00 -0500

The Archdiocese has delayed demolition of St. James Church. That calls to mind a historic church that wasn't saved: the old Old St. Mary’s.

St. Mary of the Assumption was the city’s first Catholic church, built in 1833 on Lake Street west of State Street. Three years later the building was moved to Michigan Avenue and Madison Street. In 1843, when Chicago was established as a diocese, a new St. Mary’s Cathedral was constructed at the southwest corner of Madison Street and Wabash Avenue.

The Great Fire of 1871 destroyed St. Mary’s Cathedral. Afterward the Catholic bishop decided to rebuild his cathedral in Holy Name parish. He also purchased the five-year-old Plymouth Congregational Church at 9th and Wabash, rededicating it as St. Mary’s Catholic Church. The parish was placed under the direction of the Paulist Fathers order of priests.

The decades passed, and the South Loop went into a long decline. Anyone with money moved out. By the 1930s the area was mostly commercial—and what wasn’t commercial was slum. Aging gracefully while the neighborhood deteriorated, the church remained one rock of stability. People began calling it Old St. Mary’s.

As early as 1904 the Paulists organized a male choir. However, the Paulist Choristers really came into their own after Father Eugene O’Malley took over in 1928. At its peak the choir had 65 singers and was internationally famous. When Bing Crosby played a “singing priest” in the movie Going My Way, his character was named—not coincidentally—Father O’Malley.

The church was distinctive in other ways.

"Old St. Mary’s runs along without the Holy Name society, the Altar & Rosary society, and the young people’s sodalities that help the pastor in most parishes," a 1955 article reported. "It has no parishioners except a few permanent residents of the big Michigan Avenue hotels. Yet Old St. Mary’s is filled every Sunday."

The church was filled even at 3 a.m, for its night-owl Mass. In those days Catholics were expected to attend weekly Mass on Sunday itself, and not on "anticipated" Saturday evening. I made it to a number of those services in my college days, and always ran into someone I knew.

The old Old St. Mary’s was torn down in 1971. The official explanation was that the building had become too expensive to repair. The gossip was that Standard Oil wanted the land for its new headquarters, and Cardinal Cody sold the property for a nice price.

Standard Oil eventually built on another site. From 1971 until 2002 the parish operated out of a church at Wabash and Van Buren. The newest Old St. Mary’s is located at 1500 South Michigan Ave.

Death of a pioneer

Tue, 30 Apr 2013 05:00:00 -0500

As a black woman, pioneer aviator Elizabeth Coleman overcame two career obstacles before dying in a flying accidentt on April 30, 1926.

Coleman—always known as Bessie—was born into a large family of Texas cotton farmers in 1892. She joined the great migration north in 1915, settling in Chicago. Her first job was as a manicurist.

Coleman was intrigued by stories of combat flying during World War I. Yet when the war ended, no American flight school would accept her. She had to go abroad to achieve her dream.

She learned French, saved her money, and got financial help from Defender publisher Robert S. Abbott and other businessmen. She went to France and earned her pilot’s license. Finally, in 1921, Bessie Coleman returned to the U.S. as the country’s first female African-American flier.

Commercial aviation was in its infancy. Coleman could become either a mail pilot or a stunt flier. Both were dangerous jobs, but stunt flying paid better.

Coleman was young, attractive, and extroverted. Performing appealed to her. She joined the circuit of air thrill shows. Now her gender and race worked to her advantage, giving her added publicity value. Back in Chicago, her friends at the Defender printed detailed accounts of her many triumphs.

On April 30, 1926, Coleman was in Jacksonville, Florida. An air show was scheduled for the next day. With her mechanic at the controls of her open plane, Coleman took off to scout out the area. Coleman wasn’t strapped in. She wanted more freedom to see over the edge of the plane.

About ten minutes into the flight, the plane suddenly went into a spin. Coleman was thrown from the cockpit and fell to her death. The plane crashed, killing the mechanic. As it turned out, the cause of the accident was dreadfully simple–a loose wrench had fallen into the gears and jammed them.

The air show was cancelled. Coleman’s body was returned to Chicago, where more than 10,000 people filed past her coffin in Pilgrim Baptist Church. She was buried at Lincoln Cemetery in Alsip. For many years afterward, African-American pilots performed an annual fly-over of her grave.

In 1995 the U.S. postal service honored Chicago’s aviation pioneer with a Black Heritage commemorative stamp. And today one of the streets at O’Hare Airport is named Bessie Coleman Drive.