Summer’s End with Danahey on the Loose

 

 

Summer is officially over, and its final weekend was a wet one.

No, not an antibacterial wipe, but definitely super soaker soggy.

I spent the last Friday of summer mostly indoors: caught up with a buddy of mine over dinner at Paul’s Family Restaurant in Elgin, a mom and pop place owned by the Paul family for 65 years.

We picked Paul’s because it’s a solid suburban classic. And because it made us feel young. Ok. I’m actually not so young, but at Paul’s I skew that way.

On top of that, for various reasons I’ve been losing weight on purpose, so I had a salad. Yup. A guy who used to be able to eat a whole large thin crust pizza by himself had a salad he could barely finish.

Next we hit a place in downtown Elgin, the Martini Room. It has a mellow, clubby Chicago vibe, fine mixed drinks and $11 cans of Guinness.

Then it was time to see moviemaker/comic book artist/podcaster/theater owner/cannabis connoisseur/vegan/raconteur Kevin Smith chat with the audience at the Hemmens Cultural Center.

That guy can talk. At least one of his speaking engagements went for eight hours.

So my friends have no room to complain when I ramble on and on and on and on. Or so I think.

Smith kept it to a breezy two-and-a-half hours-without-a-break, sharing stories from his youth in Red Bank, New Jersey to the present, including one about when his home in the Hollywood Hills did not burn down in the 2025 wildfires.

Somehow, his mansion being spared led Smith to become a collector of all things Rocky and Bullwinkle.

I missed part of that story. Bathroom break. Smith is 56 now, too. Given the average age of his audience, it was surprising more people weren’t heading in and out to pee.

As is his custom, Smith wrapped up on a positive note, telling the audience that they are all smart and good, have stories of their own to share, so find a way to share that.

Hey, Kev. I’m doing my best here with this blog.

After the show, I ran into a buddy of mine who also still toils in the world of suburban journalism. She had not eaten, so we headed over to the nearest pizza joint. It’s a big room, but the only other customers were five people sitting at the bar.

They gradually left, but over the course of my pal having lasagna and me downing a few quarts of plain old ice tea,  four other folks showed up to take their place, albeit at a table to eat.

Sadly a slow soggy summer’s end there, that night at least.

I headed home, hoping the weather would cooperate by Saturday afternoon in time to make the annual trek with Tom to the Chicago Beer Society’s umpteenth picnic in LaBagh Woods on Chicago’s northwest side.

I don’t drink much beer anymore, so stuck mostly to small pouts of Eris Pepper Jam, a cider with peach and chile de arbol. Doesn’t Sephora make a version of this?

 

 

The food was why I was there again anyway, and it seemed particularly tasty this year – maybe because I’m on a diet. I grazed upon the following: Buffalo shrimp, smoked trout, thin crust pizza made in $999 portable, propane pizza oven, heirloom tomato bruschetta, a small peanut butter and bacon cupcake, homemade pickles, pickled green beans and garlic, Italian chili, ribs, brisket, burnt ends, two small tacos, and a bite of shredded pork with bbq sauce and a pickle served on a small, homemade donut.

We brought snacks to share, too, some rabbit pate, imported cheese, white headcheese and a small jar of sprats from the Polish store. I refrained from getting some of their bakery’s cookies. Flies. Yup. Flies. So packaged ones it was.

The cookies came back home with us to give to Tom’s grandkids one of these days. The other stuff I gave to one of the guys who goes all out every year with his picnic spread. This year he made slow roasted pork tacos and his own salsas for them.

His eyes lit up when I thanked him for all the hard work he puts into his annual picnic fare. That he’s a big guy with a long, wizard beard made the moment all the more magical.

The rain held off until 4 or so. We headed back on a route through the downtowns of various northwest suburbs. There were a lot of fests going on that weekend, a lot of folks getting wet. Most of these gatherings seemed to be on concrete, mind you, so no Riot Fest mud messes, apparently.

We hit the winery for a tasting and to share tales of the great grub. After decompressing at Tom’s, I headed to Rosie O’Hares in East Dundee where my pals Jamie and Gary were celebrating the 15th anniversary of them owning the pub with a table full of mutual friends.

They had John Babin playing acoustic takes, mostly on Beatles tunes. He’s heading to Carmel by the Sea soon to help his girlfriend take care of her mother – which seems like it could be the subject of a song of its own. More John Prine, then Fab Four.

It was a pleasant way to end the last Saturday in summer night, among pals, having one solitary pint and four – make that six – cheese curds.

The rains returned, but the fest across the Fox River in West Dundee seemed to be going strong in the mist. I could vaguely hear 70s or 80s rock music from my driveway more than a mile away – which wasn’t a bad thing at all.

For some end-of-season reason, I fell asleep thinking about my favorite August summer day.

 

 

I met Tom, Mark and Tom’s three grandkids for a park district fishing event. Us being us, we went to the wrong park first. Who knew West Dundee had two riverfront park district parks?

Nobody in our group caught any fish, but we had a fun time anyway. The kids did find and keep a decorated rock.That should count for something.

The grandkid trio decided to hang out with me the rest of the afternoon. In typical me fashion, that meant cramming too many stops into a day. The kids seemed to recharge their batteries. Me, more like a draining DieHard.

After fishing, we hit an old fashioned candy store. The kids thought it funny for me to buy candy cigarettes for themselves and a bubble gum cigar for their grandpa. They can be old school like that.

Next we stopped at the Bricks & Minifigs store to add to their stash of Lego sets and random parts. As but one example, tiny Lego people run at least $3 to $5 each, so, I put a cap on spending.

Shopping makes kids hungry, so we hit the Dos Bros Mexican place across the street. It wasn’t busy, and the kids played with their Lego there while they ate burrito bowls and drank horchata.

Much to my chagrin, the eldest asked for a container for what she didn’t finish. (She spilled half of it while trying to eat it on the way home. Go figure. I needed a time out. Go figure.)

 

 

Then we went to the Goodwill store. As luck would have it, they had a fad collectible toy in stock behind the counter – mystery squishy dumplings. The dumplings are packaged in faux bamboo steamers.

We wound up getting six of them, because, you know, they could be worth a small fortune one day. To get that many, we told the clerk that three of them were for three cousins.  The clerk probably didn’t care, but she was very nice about it.

How was I to know that a month later there would be a recall on these? “If a water bead (inside the dumpling) is ingested, it can pose ingestion, choking and intestinal obstruction hazards inside a child’s body, resulting in severe discomfort, vomiting, dehydration and a risk of death to a child,” the recall said.

As far as I know, none of Tom’s trio has tried to eat their toy dumplings. I hope.

Goodwill also had a case for a tuba, which also would be good for stowing a kid. Anyway, after Goodwill, we were off to the nearby Dollar Tree, looking for a phone case for the youngest kid. They didn’t have any, but we left with more stuff – small squishies for them, a toilet bowl cleaner for me.

The eldest went back in by herself to return her damaged squishy. She’s 11 and in middle school now, but I was still impressed she did this.

Next was a stop at a park in Algonquin close to where we had been shopping. While they played, I had the bright idea to take them to the Fox River Trolley Museum, a half hour or so away.

The three had never ridden on a train before and seemed interested. The trolley museum also was hosting a Ragtime fest.

Well, the museum is run by volunteers, and an elderly gentleman working behind the counter in the depot was having a hard time working the iPad/register. I thought we might miss our train, but that was just me being impatient on a humid day.

Turns out tickets were $15 each, so $60 for a 40 minute ride. Metra still has a $10, all-you-can ride weekend pass – but I think these three are a few years away from attempting that, with me anyway.

 

 

The train follows part of a line that once ran from Aurora to Elgin. The museum runs it into a nearby forest preserve.

On our ride out, an older woman played a piano placed in the car and sang along to a few tunes. The kids found her voice screechy.

The youngest used his phone to make a video of the trip. Me being me, I thought he might drop it out the open train window. He didn’t. He probably didn’t watch the video, either, but it kept him occupied.

For the ride back, we switched to another solo car that didn’t have a performer. Two of the crew, though, were just a bit older than Tom’s trio. So they all wound up talking – and the trio even tugged a chord to sound the whistle at a short stop along the route.

Once off the train, we walked around a bit; heard a piano player in the barn (he was better, the kids said); climbed on some 100-year-old trolley and train cars (they smelled funny, the kids said); and tried to find a place for the boys to pee. The closest one was occupied. So they did what boys do.

You might think we would head home, but the kids spotted an adjacent park. And you can’t pass up a chance to visit a playground.

As you can probably tell, I have a hard time saying no to kids who want to do things that keep them active.

Anyway, we were running late for dinner at Mark’s. During the meal, the kids’ dad called. He was going to pick them up, but he also needed a favor – help putting on new, used tires on his SUV.

So Mark’s son agreed to help put on the rims, All went well for three of the tires coming off. The passenger side front, though, well, one of the bolts wouldn’t budge.

That meant trips to three nearby auto parts stores for equipment. For naught. So, about two hours later, their dad and the kids went home in the SUV still in need of a tire change.

That’s how summer can go. Or anytime, really.

Still, it was awesome to enjoy a day where it was still light until around 8 p.m. which provided so much material.

And kudos to you. If you made it this far, you would be able to sit through a Kevin Smith talk. Maybe without having to pee.

See you next trip. Have a nice fall. Or something like that.