Honoring the Mensch - Giving Flowers to the "Uncles" of my Village

By Joey McDermott - “Your father is such a putz,” a Yiddish phrase I learned from Ronald, a non-practicing Jew. Ronald was the only person, better than me, at getting Michael McDermott’s Irish up.  Ridicule was Ronald’s love language.   

Ronald Shansky is an “uncle” from the village that raised me. My father’s oldest friend passed away months ago and I missed his funeral, so I wrote a tribute to him.

I realized that four of my other village uncles were also Jewish. They embodied the Yiddish term Mensch, a person of high character, integrity and honor. None of them were particularly religious, but along the way they taught me their heritage through their deeds.  

Ronald, wherever you are, please accept my flowers in honor of your passing. To the living, I honor Lon, Gary, Richie and Fred with their flowers now. They probably don’t know, but they shaped me as a man. I can close my eyes and imagine a past conversation, their wisdom bestowed on me - applied over the following decades. 

Ronald Shansky

On Friday nights Ronald loved Marcello’s on North Avenue. A husky man, he enjoyed great food and conversation. He’d order appetizers, entrees and dessert, but stopped short of consuming a high calorie beverage. 

I’d tell him, “Ronald, you consumed over a thousand calories!  What difference does a Diet Coke make?”

He took it in stride, “I don’t want to waste my calories, that’s why I eat what I want.” 

Ronald had a hairy upper body and proudly walked around shirtless. We once played basketball at Warren Park on the far northside. The sweat, combined with a carpet of body hair, gave him the appearance of my favorite

wrestler - George “the Animal” Steele. Despite the teasing, Ronald had no shame - and that’s a good thing. He was comfortable in his own skin, sweat and hair. 

Ronald taught me to enjoy life - sprinkled with moderation. He was unafraid to be himself and didn’t let others' jealousy alter his quirkiness. Until we meet again Uncle, thank you for being one of my menschen. 

Lon Berkeley

Lon with my brother Matt

Lon had no children when we moved onto Farragut Street, by Foster and Ashland. My mother moved us from Logan Square for a “better neighborhood.”  It meant we  lived miles from our father.

“Now we’re really the men of the house Matt,” I told my brother, “It’s just us and Mommy.” 

Lon saw two wayward boys, stepped up and became a man in our life.  “You boys are always welcome to play basketball in my yard, as long as you play the game the right way.”  

That meant a détente for Matt and I’s usual fisticuffs on the court, but we used his hoop every chance we could. This was our dream come true, a basketball court practically in our own backyard - something we didn't have in Logan Square. 

DePaul's Rod Strickland

I was Kevin McHale with my up-and-under moves, and later Rod Strickland with my drives to the basket.  Matt was Michael Jordan and dangled his tongue as he tried to beat me, fruitlessly throughout our childhood.  Lon played the game with us, teaching us, “When I was 14 I spent the whole summer taking shots with only my left hand,” as he nailed 9 of 10 lefty free throws.  

Lon played in a men’s softball league on Thursday nights at Crown Park in Evanston. Starting at 12 years old he picked me up in his Ford Festiva to go to games. I loved the action, but was inspired to witness grown men bonding with each other.  

Truthfully, I preferred the action after the game. Lon told me, “Be happy we won, otherwise we’d be at Dairy Queen,” on Howard Street, along the Chicago border with Evanston. "But we won, so we’re here at Gulliver’s.”  And a dozen men sat at 6 small tables lined up side by side, pitchers of beer flowing and panned pizza in abundance. They spoke in a way that was new to me, Lon was less guarded and laughed at sophomoric humor.

Lon took an interest in my school work, encouraged me to do better and asked me questions about myself. I learned the value of men having a friend network, and maintaining those networks for decades. Thank you Uncle Lon for your generosity and for teaching me work ethic, humility and love of sport.

Gary Rivlin

Gary was a reporter on Chicago politics in the 1980s. He knew my mother and took an interest in me, especially when I asked, “So Gary, what do you think of the Council Wars?  Is Eddie Vrdolyak a racist?” A reference to Mayor Harold Washington’s conflict with the city council leader and the satirically parodied stage show based on Star Wars. 

Harold and Eddie

“How does a 10-year old know more about the city council than most adults?”

I guess I was a political savant, Chicago politics was in my blood. Gary was the stone to sharpen my knife of expertise. I amused Gary with my witty banter and sharp criticisms.  

When Gary published Fire on the Prairie (1992), about Harold Washington’s tenure as Chicago’s Mayor, I read it immediately. I could hear his voice as I recollected my own experiences. Today my home library has a shelf on Chicago mayors, that’s why they call me "Chicago Joe." 

For fun, I went with Gary to the old Hild Regional Library on Lincoln and Wilson. He introduced me to the microfilm room for old newspaper articles.  It was so boring! I couldn’t believe he spent hours searching for something, only to come up empty handed.

Microfilm machine

I followed Gary’s lead and wrote my college senior thesis on Chicago politics. I spent hours in the archives researching the 1919 Race Riots and Bridgeport's social athletic clubs. My searches often came up empty, but was never dismayed. Gary

lit a flame in me for Chicago politics, history and research.  Once that flame lit it spread throughout my life (like a fire on the prairie). Thank you Uncle Gary!

Fred Schein

Fred taught me manners, how to dress for work and a love for the city of Chicago.  

As an obnoxious 6 year old I was enticed by the cans of Coke in Fred’s cooler. I had no self control with pop, kinda like Forrest Gump drinking Dr. Peppers at the White House. I chugged them too fast, which caused me to burp. I was thrilled letting out loud belches, hoping the adults noticed me.  

“You’re quite proud of yourself, huh Joey?”  I bent my neck up and was confused. “I mean, with those burps, that’s quite a skill.”  I stared in silence, awkwardly smiling. “I mean if I want to (belch) I could (belch) anytime I want (belch) but then (belch) that wouldn't be funny (belch).”

I was amazed!  How did Fred do that?  By the time he was done I felt like a fool. He never told me not to burp. He demonstrated how absurd my behavior was. Fred taught me my manners that day. 

When I was in my 20's…“Your ole man told me you’re a teacher now, how many ties do you own?”  

Seemed like a strange question. What do ties have to do with being a teacher? “I don’t know, like 4 or 5?”

Fred dedicated his career to public transit, while being dapper!

“Boy, Michael didn’t teach you anything…You’ve got to dress when you go to work.  There’s no nobility in looking like a schnook.”  Fred brought me to a small bedroom, in reality it was a large closet of his cloques, robes and linens. “Here, ya’ like Armani?  How’s this tie?”  By the time I walked out that room, I had five new ties.  

“Let me know if you need anything else, I gotta guy.”  Everyone in Chicago has a guy! Uncle Fred’s guy was a men’s clothier in the Merchandise Mart, which is where CTA had their headquarters. “Let me know if you ever need a summer job, CTA is always hiring temps.”

Richie Saks

“Richie, why are we parking here?” as I gazed 20 stories up at the concrete towering over us. Perilous shadows and dim lighting surrounded it. 

“Why not? It’s $20 to park in the lot.”

“Yeah but…”

I was interrupted by two youths, dressed in red Michael Jordan t-shirts. “Five dolla parking fee - Mr.”

I looked at the two of them, and thought, “Who the fuck do they think they are?  How are they going to charge a parking fee?”  I was 12 and short for my age, but they were smaller.

Henry Horner Homes aka "The Hornets"

Richie pulled out a fiver from his pocket, knowing the exact cost to park in front of the Henry Horner Homes. “Here ya go, please make sure nobody messes with it.”

“Of course sir,” as they pocketed the cash, “That’s our job. We protect all these cars from accidents.” That was a euphemism, because they were the main ones that caused the accidents - for those who didn't pay.  Nonetheless, it was cheap and safe to pay the $5, an investment into the community youth.  

Richie told me, "If we invested in their community they wouldn't need to "hustle" like that."

"The Madhouse on Madison"

To this day, I still don’t pay for parking at a Bulls game! My kids know what it means to briskly walk 6 blocks, because in February its so cold you have to haul ass.  

Richie taught me the importance of community institutions and investments into public services. Especially for low income neighborhoods, like the one that surrounded the old Chicago Stadium. While bringing me to the “Madhouse on Madison,” Uncle Richie broadened my horizons and opened my eyes to the disparity of our city.

The types of Uncs

Today my children know my good friends as Uncles as well. Whether it’s Uncle Dave, Israel, Antoine, Scotty, Jer, Tio Matt, Tio Chris and several more. Their children are my children’s “cousins.” So, to all the unc’s out there - remember, we are the voices that the children will hear and apply later on in life. We are the elders now, it’s on us to carry on traditions and alter the traditions that need to be corrected.