How my stepdad dyed the Chicago River green on St. Paddy's Day

My stepfather John worked as an administrator for the Port of Chicago back in the 1960s, which had its offices at Navy Pier. One of his duties was to check on all the bridges and bridgetenders along the Chicago River. He also personally presented Hizzoner Mayor Richard J. Daley with the Port of Chicago budget every year.

A special side job he was assigned and undertook was to find the dye that could tint the Chicago River green for St. Patrick's Day. He journeyed from vendor to vendor to find a powerful dye that could do the job. Eventually, he was presented with an orange powder that magically turned green when it hit water. There is no formal record of my stepdad's role in this St. Patrick's Day tradition. Seems politicians & plumbers of that 1960s era have taken most of the credit.

However, the following poem I wrote will always be a testament to my stepfather, John, and the spiritual generations after him that enjoy his small, but powerful contribution to Chicago history.

The Leprechaun from Blue Island Avenue

Who Dyed the River Green

"Methinks my own soul must be a bright invisible green."

                                                                           ~ Thoreau

He’d touch one magic crystal

to a bucket of water,

and there brimmed Ireland,

greener than a sheep’s hill in spring.

Instead of chasing rainbows

he pulled the brightest green ribbon

    from the one arching across

State Street from the lake,

and wove wet edges of downtown Chicago

to a new tradition,

a new passion for the river;

bolted to the architecture with bridges,

this wide, wet meander, until today,

as plain as the weathered deck of a barge.

A new tradition, too,

receiving another father

after losing a St. Patrick’s Day dad

years before,

a new father,

who crawled into the world

on the back of a crab,

who mixed drinks

in his father’s Prohibition tavern

on Blue Island Avenue,

whipping red grenadine with ice

    into Pink Ladies--

lining up shots & beers with his eyes closed,

swirling crème de menthe and leaf sprigs

into long Mint Juleps.

Years later, nurses pinned

a fresh shamrock

to my March son’s receiving blanket

the day I took him home.

But way back,

in our knotty pine rec room,

the tequila sunrises

    tumbled in on themselves

     like lava lamps,

made by a man

who thrilled to entertain with jiggers of fluids

and colors and shaved ice

for all our wedding, communion and even funeral guests.

Who else could it have been

to send out the speedboats

like crazed blenders

    into the Chicago River,

dumping bags of orange crystals

that exploded into its other,

churning up a new wardrobe

for the clang, clang,

workingman’s river

until now, clad in railroad overalls,

the river that found itself

wearing one long leprechaun sleeve

in time for the parade.

He crawled into the world

on the back of a crab,

and left in the balance,

and every Mid-March,

I glance down from

my glass-lined lookout,

I see the gum-white Wrigley Building

and the Tinker-toyed Marina City,

I see the frilly floats line up along Wacker Drive,

I see the boatswains and bridgetenders

     and bags of dye,

     and the swirl of water

Photo credit: Barry Butler

     under outboard motors

as if he were standing there still,

along cement docks,

reciting the formula.

And even after traffic

begins to roar its way out

from the city,

the river glows still,

a more brilliant green at twilight,

curving at my feet

into a perfect smile,

a reverse rainbow,

the pots of gold in three places

leprechauns never look,

mid-March, a time to let the past go,

the lost map of my blood father,

a time to look to the future

growth of my son,

and a time made new every year

by a man

more a father than my real father,

more magician than barsman

     from a Blue Island. 

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The above poem is included in my poetry collection about Chicago Swimmer's Prayer. 

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How my stepdad dyed the Chicago River green on St. Paddy's Day

Let wabi-sabi take a brushstroke to your frugal poet life

Second in a series

What does wabi-sabi have to do with being a frugal poet? Wabi-sabi, though quintessentially Japanese, can be applied to any culture’s poetry and is, in fact, an integral part of the poetic nature at large, whether we realize it or not. Published writing is usually rewritten, edited and polished writing, set in symmetrical fonts and printed in uniform order and quality.

Poetry, in its early creation, is composed of our raw thoughts or emotions, scribbled down in an unsteady hand on a commuter train or a dimly lit kitchen. Perhaps the pages are occasionally smudged with ink or stained by drops of coffee. Entries may be heartfelt and passionate, but can simultaneously be random, incomplete, unconventional and bold, without needing to please an audience.

I wish more of my poetry writing and creative writing students would take this approach. You need to get dirty digging a foundation before building a lofty structure. The idea is to let creativity unfold naturally, even when flawed. Get the ideas and images down on paper, and leave all the formal tweaking, rewriting and readjusting kept for later.

And while we work to fix part of a piece, we most likely mar another, however slight the blow. The imperfection in nearly any process we undertake only shows how human we are. It is human and perfectly natural not to be perfect! And writing is no exception.  

The process of writing a poem may ultimately add up to a complete picture or an epiphany of revelation. But most often, our trips toward a poetic destination most often start as a modest journey. We follow a foggy pathway with no promise of reaching a clearing. But we have faith.

At its most distilled, wabi-sabi exemplifies a sense of faith -- in yourself and in the promise of what you strive for, whether it’s poetry or any other creative discipline. According to poet Wallace Stevens, “The imperfect is our paradise.” We try, we fail, we pick up again and find new revelation. If you expect creativity to be a perfect journey, it’s a delusion.

As humans, and frugal poets, we must accept our imperfections, though we consistently struggle to be the best we can. One of my favorite quotes acknowledges human frailty in the midst of writing a poem. French critic and poet Paul Valery said, “A poem is never finished, only abandoned.” I can work and rework a poem many times over, but the moment finally arrives when I must let it go, let it be where it is, and allow it to find a landing place (or not) in my sheaf of collected works.
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The above excerpt is from my reference, memoir and creativity guide Frugal Poets' Guide to Life: How to Live a Poetic Life, Even If You Aren't a Poet

In parting, consider this Bible verse:

2 Corinthians 12:9-11 New American Standard Bible (NASB)

9 And He has said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.” Most gladly, therefore, I will rather boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me. 10 Therefore I am well content with weaknesses, with insults, with distresses, with persecutions, with difficulties, for Christ’s sake; for when I am weak, then I am strong.

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Let wabi-sabi take a brushstroke to your frugal poet life

What is wabi-sabi? How might it define the life of a frugal poet?

First in a series
Smiley-face note: Wabi-sabi is not to be confused with wasabi, a hot green horseradish paste commonly served next to Japanese sushi.

Japan, one of the most refined, thoughtful and poetic societies of the world has gone through unfathomable disasters in modern history. More recently is the profound earthquake, tsunami and nuclear catastrophe at Fukushima. Nevertheless, the Japanese people continue to push forward in quiet strength, dedicated to and motivated by their culture, history, sense of humility and connection with one another.

Wabi-sabi is a philosophy based in Japan that embraces a sense of flawed beauty, the profundity in nature, and of things impermanent, humble, primitive, transient and incomplete. It celebrates the modest, rustic and unconventional. It is the organic versus synthetic, the rough-hewn and uneven over the measured and laser-edged. Loosely explained, wabi means a philosophy of imperfect, natural beauty, and sabi means the artistic expression of what’s asymmetrical, aged or unpretentious.

Daisetz Suzuki, one of the first scholars to interpret Japanese culture for Westerners, considered wabi-sabi “an active aesthetical appreciation of poverty.” Rather than a poverty of pain and a sense of desperation, it instead gives the relief of removing the weight of material concerns from our lives.

Wabi-sabi suggests the notions that nothing lasts, nothing is finished, nothing is perfect. The Persians are known for a proverb about the true beauty of rugs, “A Persian rug is perfectly imperfect, and precisely imprecise.” Although spoken from a culture different than Japan’s, such a sentiment is truly a wabi-sabi one.

Remarkably, wabi-sabi has everything to do with the spirit of the frugal poet. We exist. We go with the flow. We focus on the beautiful. We have strength in light of hardship or snags in our lives. And our poems reflect this attitude. The concept of wabi-sabi reminds me of the lyrics in Leonard Cohen’s song “Anthem,” “Ring the bells that still can ring/Forget your perfect offering/There’s a crack in everything/That’s how the light gets in.”

It is the poets and those with a frugal poet’s spirit who can see both implicit meaning and opportunity in any situation, and can find voice, or at least search for it, to express compassion and humanity even amid injustice or when in mourning. Such is wabi-sabi.

One summer, I signed up for a multi-evening workshop in the craft of handmade bookbinding at Chicago’s Hull House. Our upper floor studio itself was a wabi-sabi environment of lovingly worn benches, nicked but well-used work surfaces and natural lighting pouring in from screenless windows. We used handcrafted papers, linen thread, monster-sized needles, scads of glue, bone folders, thick slices of cardboard and stiff oilcloth in an array of colors. There, I crafted and sewed a number of hardcover blank books, Japanese side-stitched bindings and cloth-covered boxes. The best part, we all helped one another try to get the techniques down as well as share our ideas.

I openly admired one fellow student’s finished handmade book, even though the pages were a bit uneven and wavy. “The only thing perfect is God,” she said, and matter of factly continued her work. I often remember her words in the midst of struggles. I am imperfect and every act of creation carries human imperfection along with it. In the bookbinder’s imperfection lay the beauty of her handmade book.

Flawed fictional characters, for example, are more interesting, textured, memorable and beautiful than perfect, static ones. What would Cyrano de Bergerac be without his big nose, The Little Match Girl without her poverty, or even Star Trek’s Mr. Spock without his lack of emotions?

Below, I attempt to pin down concrete examples of what wabi-sabi may be and what wabi-sabi may not be. You may disagree with some of the entries. You might like to try the same exercise and see where your own concepts surrounding wabi-sabi may lie.

Musings as to what wabi-sabi can stand for:

·      ~ The haunted mansion versus the McMansion.

·     ~  The vase off to one side instead of the center of the table.

·      ~ A piece of driftwood carved by water instead of a diamond faceted by human hands.

·      ~ A simple one-pot, home-cooked meal versus a block-long Las Vegas table buffet.

·      ~ A weekend of solitude versus a month of whirlwind travel with a dozen destinations.

·      ~ The hand-polished wood floor, simple room-divider screen and rolled-up futon versus a football-field-sized bedroom with wall-to-wall carpeting, big screen TV and thick brocade drapes.

·      ~ Browns, greens, grays and off-whites of nature versus neon, day-glow bright pinks and electric blues.

·      ~ Rock, leather, wood, candles and copper instead of steel, LED lights, vinyl, mirrors and glass.

·      ~ A coffee-stained, hand-illustrated journal filled with random thoughts instead of the word-perfect, crisply printed scholarly treatise.

·      ~ A wind-blown scattering of fall leaves on a neatly raked Zen garden.

·      ~ The changing nature of paper and cloth as they fade, fray and tear.

·      ~ Floors cleanly swept, laundry folded and beds made without regard to the type of flooring, price of clothing and thread count of bed sheets.

·      ~ A few handpicked flowers in a bud vase versus a formal English garden.

·      ~ The patina versus the polish.

·      ~ The flea market filled with surprises versus the big box store of generic goods.

·      ~ The used and cared for versus the new, flimsy and garish.

·      ~ Living happily in simplicity instead of sadly in luxury.

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The above is an excerpt from my reference, memoir and creativity guide Frugal Poets' Guide to Life: How to Live a Poetic Life, Even If You Aren't a Poet.

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What is wabi-sabi? How might it define the life of a frugal poet?