YOU’RE IMPORTANT TO US.

I was swept away.  My heart fluttered dangerously, my mind raced, my fingers trembled as they scanned the words.  You’re important to us.

But I digress.  We on the North Shore think of ourselves quite well.  We were raised by “good” parents, although we might suggest otherwise in the privacy of our therapist’s office.  We know exactly where our alma mater ranks in the Newsweek list of best colleges and if we didn’t go to a “good” one, we would never admit to it.  We pride ourselves on our taste in wine, food, clothes, and hostas.  We will tell you our children are wonderful in that coy backhanded way as in “it was as much of a surprise to us as to anyone else when Hermione graduated first in her class at Harvard because she’s never really focused on academics as much as athletics”.  Still, we sometimes forget the basis of all civilization and act like jerks.  And then we get so accustomed to other people being demanding, abrasive, inconsiderate jerks—and those are our friends!

So today, I opened the mailbox to find the usual catalogs, bills, statements, and magazines and amongst them was a small, dainty white envelop.  The sloping handwriting was decidedly masculine.  It was a PERSONAL NOTE.  That sort of thing doesn’t show up in a girl’s mailbox all that often—I can’t remember the last time it happened to me.  I tore open the envelope.  Inside, a card with a watercolor of a cobblestone bridge over a gentle stream, daffodils and tulips blooming on the banks, and the words YOU’RE IMPORTANT TO US. 

Opening it, well, the script said it all:

“Customers like you are the foundation of our business.  It has been a pleasure serving you, and we want you to know we appreciate your business.  Thank you.”

And it was signed “FREDS”.  As in Fred’s Winnetka Service, Inc.  As in the gas station on the tri-corner of Chestnut, Spruce, and Green Bay Roads.  As in Fred Majewski, Owner of.

I’ve never met the actual Fred.  I know Fatih, who roars through town in his reconstructed blue Camaro that he takes up to Wisconsin for the informal stock car races.  I know the three brothers R.J., C.J., and A.J.—each of whom has confided in me that they are the smartest and most handsome of the brothers and so I shouldn’t have so much trouble keeping them straight from their other two siblings.  And there’s George, easily the suave-est of the bunch. 

George will come find you and your car any time. Just call 847/571-8185

I had a problem with the window of my Landrover.  It wouldn’t close.  The chill on my left shoulder as I drove on the highway was quite something.  I called the dealer who scheduled an appointment sometime in the next Bush adminstration and so on a whim I had taken the poor baby into Fred’s where I always bought gas and the occasional candy bar.  No, they couldn’t give me a “loaner” car like the Landrover dealership would but one of the brothers (which one?) drive me home? But still, they didn’t offer free lattes and bagels like they serve in the Landrover dealership kitchenette, but Fatih did ask me if I wanted a piece of gum as he was breaking out a pack.  And no, there wasn’t the faux adventure décor of the Landrover dealership.  In fact, Fred’s has absolutely no décor whatsoever.

But I have a thank you note.  A real note signed by a human being with a pen.  Although the FREDS is most baffling and I suppose is meant to convey a sense of the gratitude of the entire auto service crew as opposed to any one individual.  Still—I’m enchanted.  I’m not sure I can ever take my business elsewhere because, somehow, the note has made me feel special, necessary, and connected.

There are companies that create thank you notes.  Townproud is one.  Crane’s for the upper income.  And anybody can go to Kinko’s and create several hundred notes.  But the handwritten aspect, the individual address—it makes a difference.  The thank you note is the basis of civilization and just as you can train a grandmother to send you fifty dollar checks every birthday and Christmas by sending one, you can train a gal like me to bring in her ‘Rover the next time something goes wrong. 

Oh, and you’re welcome, FREDS.

Technorati Tags: Winnetka gas station, Kenilworth gas station, thank you notes

I’ve done everything in my Landrover:  eaten fast food and slow, excoriated Horatio or Beauregard on their abysmal grades, put on my make-up, read the newspaper and once even changed my clothes for the Silver Wicket Croquet Tournament.  And that’s just while driving the car.  The stuff I’ve done when the car hasn’t been in motion I can’t tell you because there are children who surf the internet, including my own. 

And talking on my cell while driving?  But, of course!  It’s nothing less than my duty to keep in touch with my friends and the open road is meant for confidences and gossip, especially of the intimate and malicious sort.  I turn the ignition, dial while backing out of the driveway and grab a quick snort of latte while adjusting the steering wheel with my knees.  When Beauregard took driver’s education I was appalled that they didn’t teach them how to drive while talking on the cell phone.  How did they expect these kids to learn?

Illinois is one of five states which allow municipalities to ban cell phone use while driving.  Chicago allows one to talk and drive, but only hands free.  Winnetka passed a similar ordinance, effective this month.  There was heavy opposition from people who point out that all sorts of things distract a driver—eating, putting on mascara, reading and ogling whatever hottie crosses the street.   Their point:  cell phone use is only one among many evils. In that vein, Highland Park allows its police officers to cite drivers for “distractions” without specifically banning cell phones.  But it’s tough to take away a North Shore resident’s cell.  This past week, Skokie’s Public Health Department decided it wouldn’t ask the village council for a cell phone ban because of the enormous opposition it expected to such a request. 

Had I known about the department’s decision last week I would have applauded it. Then I had this rather unfortunate incident involving a car, a cell phone and a baffling loss of my superpowers.  I was walking across the street Friday afternoon après lunch and a car turned left into the crosswalk.  I had just a moment of eye contact with the driver.  She didn’t even talk to me—instead, she punctuated her cell phone conversation with an “oh my God” just as I put my hand on the hood of her car.

I don’t know why my “stop cars immediately” superpower didn’t kick in.  But it REALLY didn’t kick in.  Instead, I got kicked.  The next thing I remember was looking up at the sky thinking “we all are so very busy we never stop to look at the beautiful, beautiful stars.”  And this was just after lunch.

The police were wonderful.  The fire department was wonderful.  The paramedics were wonderful.  The nurses at the hospital were wonderful.  Everyone, everyone was wonderful—my thinking might be clouded by all the drugs they gave me, but they are wonderful drugs.  I’d love to share them with the world and then we’d all have the same wonderful, wonderful feeling.  We’d all sing kumbaya together and peace would break out all over the world.

But then I think about the cell phone.  I feel for the driver.  I know she didn’t wake up Friday morning thinking “I’d love to run ArLynn down in the middle of Green Bay Road” unless, of course, someone hired her.  And I’m not completely convinced that had she not been chatting on the phone that the result would have been any different. 

But I could think of myself in that some position:  distracted, thinking about whatever the conversation is, and then suddenly, there’s this person on the hood of the car. 

So I’m making a promise to myself:  I’m not going to talk on the cell phone when I drive.  I’m also going to put on mascara BEFORE I get into the car.  I’m going to eat my Happy Meal and play with my Happy Meal toy BEFORE I pull out onto the street.  And I’m NEVER changing my clothes while driving, even if I’m running late for the Silver Wicket Tournament. 

I thought Winnetka Police Chief Joe DeLopez was going too far when he asked for a total ban on cell phones—he begged the village council for an even more restrictive ordinance than was passed.  Now I think he’s onto something.  On the other hand, what do I do if Publisher’s Clearing House calls with my prize and I’m on I-94 all by my lonesome? 

There’s the time I stole the Christmas tree from the Boy Scouts. Or how about when the neighbor across the alley, the one who liked to set off firecrackers when he was drunk, set the garage on fire?  And when I discovered the true identity of the Crow Island Pumpkin Man?

Every stupid thing I’ve done will, with luck, fade into the mists of time.  But some stuff will be remembered.  THAT stupid stuff is what we call history. 

 the dawes house looks great for my surprise birthday party!

 Every North Shore town has one—a historical society.  The Evanston Historical Society is perhaps the most sophisticated, working out of the Charles Gates Dawes mansion across from the lake.  You even can rent it for parties, weddings, family reunions—although a July wedding or an August reunion isn’t wise since, in the interests of strict historical accuracy, there’s no air conditioning.  Luckily, they aren’t so historically accurate about bathrooms and wheelchair access.  The house holds a museum of pictures and curiosities.  If you’re successful in your application to have your little bungalow declared a historic landmark, you can purchase a bronze plaque from the society for $135.  Put it by your doorbell.  If that doesn’t impress the neighbors!

House histories are the bread and butter of North Shore historical societies.  And every house has a history.  I look over my computer screen at the home of the area’s most reknown plastic surgeon and think “that’s the house where Scot Biro grew up.”  Scott Biro is this town’s most notorious murderer, perhaps because the competition isn’t all that stiff.  My own lovely cottage was part of a compound of summer villas built by the Anheuser Busch family—the North Shore being a summering community for folks from St. Louis before air conditioning and timeshares.  Even a house that has been torn down and rebuilt as a McMansion has a history—the Peck home, the first built in town, has long been replaced but the land upon which it stood has landmark status.  You might not know your family home or plot’s history, but most historic societies will, for a small fee, uncover the past—just think of it as something to talk about at the next dinner party you give when politics, religion and sex have been exhausted as topics. 

Historical societies also have exhibits of artifacts and curiosities donated by residents.  The Wilmette Historical Society, for instance, is opening two new exhibits on March 4^th—photographs by Ron Testa and a railway history of the town, complete with a motorman’s cab.  These societies really want your grandmother’s high school yearbook and your father’s collection of Tinkertoys, your Aunt Mildred’s wedding dress and the 78 l.p.s found in the attic.

But Winnetka’s historical society wants even more—as part of its celebration of its 75^th anniversary, the society wants residents to write down short memories of life in Winnetka.  The stories can be mailed to The Winnetka Historical Society P.O. Box 365 Winnetka, Illinois 60093.  The stories will be archived in their permanent collection and may end up in a future exhibit or in their newsletter.  You don’t have to be a celebrity like Winnetkans Donald Rumsfeld or Chris O’Donnell.  Or even have a tie to famous relative, like the Gray family whose grandfather Isiah was beaten to the patent office by Alexander Graham Bell in the race to make the first telephone.  The historical society likes you just the way you are, a North Shore resident with some happy memories and some sad ones. 

And stupid ones.  Maybe I shouldn’t tell them about the time I stole the Christmas tree from the Boy Scouts.  Horatio and Beauregard would be mortified and the statute of limitations might not have run.  Some stuff is just meant to dissolve in those time mists.  For everything else, there’s historical societies:

To ask for a history of your modest or not so modest home, to donate a family something, to write a history, however humble or highfalutin’:

Evanston Historical Society www.evanstonhistoricalsocietry.org or (847) 475-3410

Wilmette Historical Museum and Society www.wilmette.history.org or (847) 853-7666

Glenview Historical Society www.gvkhome.northstarnet.org/gvhist/ or (847) 724-2235

Glencoe Historical Society www.glencoehistoricalsociety.org or (847) 835-0040

Northfield Historical Society www.northfieldhistoricalsociety.org

Skokie Historical Society www.skokiehistory.info (847) 673-1888

Winnetka Historical Society www.winnetkahistory.org (847)446-0001