MY HOME, THE MUSEUM
The Museum of Science and Industry was built on a large plot of land next to Lake Michigan. Its Beaux Arts style architecture holds it strong and memorable by the shore, and at least as much so in my mind.
As a child, it was my playground. Jeff and I had free, unlimited access to its marble staircases and metal, double wide banisters, always inviting us to slide. We could ride through the petroleum exhibit, enjoying the swiveling chairs and flashing lights without feeling obligated to pay attention to the lesson on fossil fuels.
Any time we wanted to, we could just go out the door of our apartment building, turn right, cross the street, the grassy expanse, and the giant parking lot, and we were at the impressive front doors in only minutes.
I moved away from Chicago at eighteen, but every return trip with my kids included a visit to The Museum. THE Museum. As if the dinosaurs at The Field Museum or the clown fish at the aquarium were afterthoughts. Well, they were — when they were thought of at all.
The Museum was where we measured ourselves next to the giant tractor wheel, where we watched chicks hatch, where we walked down Main Street and watched the silent movie, climbed through the window of the black train car after moving all its gears, and where we stood at the base of a Xmas tree that filled the atrium and I told my kids stories of seeing Santa there when I was little and getting a stocking made of red plastic netting that was filled with yellow butter scotch candies.
When my dad died, we brought him to Chicago for the burial. Our first stop was The Museum. I bought the kids presents from the gift shop in his honor. He always said yes to that. When my mom died during Covid, The Museum doors were locked, but its steps were open and welcomed me home. They gave us a place to picnic before heading to the cemetery.
The Museum is always there. From its front steps I take my kids down memory lane. I point out the way to the apartment where I grew up, I point out where Aunt Millie lived, where Oma G lived, where she and Opa had stayed in the summers so long ago, when they visited from Florida, when I was little and The Museum was big. Now I am big, but The Museum is still bigger.
Last night I dreamt that I was visiting my parents. In the dream, I parked my car in the parking lot and walked into The Museum. There they were.
