Wednesday, May 20, 2020

How an 'Ugly Law' stayed on Chicago's books for 93 years.

In 1881, Chicago Alderman James Peevey had a mission: to rid the city of "all street obstructions."

By street obstructions, Peevey didn't mean food carts, construction materials, roadblocks, or potholes.

He meant beggars, such as the ones described in the Tribune as "the one-legged individual who, with drooping eye and painfully lugubrious countenance, holds forth his hat for pennies" or "the fellows who yell 'ba-na-naas'" and "the woman with two sick children who were drawn through the carding-machine in a woolen mill, and who grinds 'Mollie Darling' incessantly on a hurdy-gurdy on a street corner."

The alderman took issue with people displaying their disabilities on the street for alms or change — so he took action. In May of that year, Peevey pushed an ordinance through the City Council that banned anyone who was "diseased, maimed, mutilated, or in any way deformed, to be an unsightly or disgusting object" from being in the "public view." Beggars were fined $1 to $50 — a hefty sum in the 1880s — or shipped off to the Cook County Poorhouse.

Peevey wasn't completely heartless, though: He tried to carve out an exemption for a one-legged, one-armed soldier. But overall, his ordinance made the streets of Chicago unfriendly to those who were blind, deaf, or disfigured.

Chicago was just one of several cities to pass an "unsightly beggar" ordinance — what came to be dubbed an "ugly law." The trend started in San Francisco in 1867, only two years after the end of the Civil War, and spread throughout cities in the West and Midwest from 1870 to 1880.

At the time, reformers viewed these laws as ways to better their communities. In his book "The Welfare Debate," Illinois Wesleyan University professor Greg Shaw explains that the county poorhouse model (think: Charles Dickens' "Oliver Twist") that was supposed to keep the poor off the streets and in work turned out to be too expensive and too corrupt to maintain.

In 1872, the Cook County Poorhouse — which shared the land with Dunning Insane Asylum, the county's psychiatric hospital — was dysfunctional enough to warrant a complete overhaul. Within 20 years, the place was labeled a "festering mass of moral corruption and official fraud" — again.

It isn't a surprise that the poor sometimes preferred the streets.

But fear spurred civic leaders to keep the streets clear. They worried that disfigured beggars would scare women. They were wary of the tensions between the lower and upper classes. They felt a sense of religious obligation to help the poor. Community leaders settled on an idiomatic solution: out of sight, out of mind.

The ugliest part of these laws came from the underlying mistrust of those who were poor and disabled. Throughout the 19th century, there was an ongoing debate over who was worthy of charity. According to Shaw, most felt that widows and orphans — victims of circumstances — warranted help from the state and the wealthy. At the same time, able-bodied paupers "were seen as chronically irresponsible and thus much less deserving of assistance."
Those with disabilities, however, were caught between "worthy" and "unworthy," and news stories gave people little reason to trust them. During an interview from 1880, the general superintendent of the Relief and Aid Society offered this advice to Tribune readers: "The fact is that nine out of ten of these street-beggars are either impostors or thieves, who come to spy out the houses and give 'pointers' to burglars. Nobody ought to give it unless the applicant is known to be worthy of relief."

When the ugly law was in its heyday, the Tribune featured reports of blind beggars who, when brought to court, could suddenly see and deaf beggars who could hear. Case in point this snippet is from a 1908 Tribune story about a deaf and blind beggar who had a hearing before a judge: "As if by magic the man's hearing and eyesight were restored, and he took $80 from one of his pockets and counted out the amount of his fine."

There were stories like the one of a blind organ grinder who, when arrested, was found with $710 on him and was said to treat his "lady friends" to car rides and cafe luncheons. Or the double-jointed 18-year-old who was put on probation for pretending to be disabled and begging for money. In 1902, the Tribune reported that the Chicago Police Department even declared war against a "beggar fraternity" that poured acid on their bodies so they'd cut a more pitiful figure.

Then came the first World War. Soldiers came home from battle, and their bodies were torn, limbs missing, minds addled. Attitudes toward people who were disabled started to change. In 1911, the CPD issued its edict "prohibiting blind mendicants, legless unfortunates and other seekers of alms from exhibiting their misfortunes to the public view." Still, no new ugly laws were passed after World War I ended in 1918. Instead, plans were made to help manage veterans' physical and mental care.

It was a slow process. The end of each subsequent war — World War II, the Korean War, the Vietnam War — and the work of activists on behalf of all people with disabilities shifted sentiments. Bans on jobs that were previously barred to disabled people — such as hotel clerks — were lifted. Mentions of Chicago police officers fining and arresting "ugly" beggars dropped off in the 1950s. The 1960s and 1970s saw laws drafted to protect the rights of the disabled and cities remade to be more accessible — and in 1990, the federal Americans with Disabilities Act was passed.
Policeman Stephen Schumack left and led a crippled man to a police wagon on July 22, 1954, from the skid row area in Chicago. (Photo: Luigi Mendicino / Chicago Tribune)
Somehow, Peevey's 1881 ordinance stayed on the books throughout that history. When the City Council finally voted to repeal it in 1974, a co-sponsor of the repeal, Ald. Paul T. Wigoda said simply, "It is cruel and insensitive. It is a throwback to the Dark Ages."

Chicago Tribune June 23, 2016
By Elizabeth Greiwe
Edited by Dr. Neil Gale, Ph.D.

Monday, May 18, 2020

The History of the Springfield Tank Natatorium at Beilfuss Park in Chicago.

The West Chicago Park Commission laid out Humboldt, Garfield, and Douglas Parks in 1869.

In the early 1900s, some of the independent Chicago Park Districts began building natatorium facilities with showers, indoor swimming pools, and gyms, to provide public bathing (Bath Houses) and recreational opportunities to the city's community parks with the quickly increasing number of residents. 

By 1915, Mayor Carter H. Harrison II and the West Chicago Park Commission had hit upon the idea of building natatoriums adjacent to city water pumping stations to take advantage of the excess steam generated there. The Springfield Avenue natatorium, nicknamed "The Springfield Tank," was adjacent to the pumping station in the Humboldt Park Community. It was one of three such facilities under construction that year. The others were the Roseland Natatorium (later Griffith Natatorium, in Block Park) and the Central Park Avenue (Jackson) Natatorium. 
The Springfield Tank at Beilfuss Park in Chicago
On March 29, 1915, at the suggestion of Mayor Harrison, the Special Park Commission named the new Humboldt Park facility in honor of late ten-term Republican Alderman, A.W. Beilfuss (1854-1914). A native of Germany and a printer by trade, Beilfuss was serving as Special Park Commission Chairman at the time of his death.

The current "Chicago Park District" was created in 1934 by the Illinois Legislature under the Park Consolidation Act. By provisions of that act, the Chicago Park District consolidated and superseded the then-existing 22 separate park districts in Chicago, the largest three of which were the Lincoln Park, West Park, and South Park Districts, all of which had been established in 1869.
Beilfuss Park, 1725 North Springfield Avenue, Chicago.
The Beilfuss Natatorium, located at 1725 North Springfield Avenue, was so popular that by 1935 it drew more than 300,000 patrons. During World War II, boys from Beilfuss Park began to publish a local-interest newsletter that was circulated to former patrons serving in the military around the world. During the same period, the Chicago Park District installed a playground adjacent to the natatorium, as well as an athletic field, that during the winter months, was flooded for ice skating.

The park district replaced the original play equipment with a new soft surface playground in 1992. In 1998, the out of date, 1915 natatorium was razed. 

Compiled by Dr. Neil Gale, Ph.D.

Sunday, May 17, 2020

The History of the Relic House in Chicago.

At the rear of the Chicago History Museum (formerly the Chicago Historical Society), within a clearing in the bushes, lie unmarked chunks of molten masses of metal. The foliage is pruned just enough to allow the informed person the ability to see the objects hidden within the leaves if they know where to look. Knowing what these objects are is a different issue: no signage or other markers alert the viewer to their provenance. Many people learned of these mysterious artifacts by word of mouth. The reconstituted objects were created by the extreme heat from the 1871 Great Chicago Fire

The Chicago Historical Society acquired these pieces of fire-altered iron, brick, and stone in 1921 as part of a large donation by Chicago candy magnate Charles Frederick Gunther. Gunther, a former director of the Chicago Historical Society, made his fortune from his popular caramel candies and used them to purchase art and historic materials, especially those relating to the Civil War (1861-1865).
The remains from a hardware store, after the 1871 Great Chicago Fire, fused into a metal bolder that used to sit outside the main entrance of the Chicago Historical Society.
Perhaps because his own business was destroyed in the Chicago Fire, Gunther also extended his collecting interests to fire materials. In 1890 the estimated twenty-ton chunk of fire debris, eventually owned and donated by Gunther, was uncovered during excavations fo the footings of the Masonic Temple at State and Randolph Streets, along with a melted pair of steel scissors and part of a silver watch. Why these fragments are so hard to visually locate today—buried in the shrubbery on the east side of the museum—is not made clear by the Chicago History Museum. Although currently hidden, the fragments were intentionally preserved for some time after the Fire.

The "Relic House" was created to display and preserve the remnants of the Chicago Fire, to remember, to fascinate, and, at a base level, to serve as a construction material that purposely maintains a material connection to the initial event. In 1872, a man only recorded as "Rettig" constructed a cottage-sized structure from a melted mixture of stone, iron, and other metals at the corner of North Park Avenue (Lincoln Park West) and Clark Street. 
Relic House at Clark and Lincoln Park West. Robinson Fire Map 1886.
Further accounts state that the structure had walls made from melted globules of metal, masonry, sewing machines, and china doll parts, with an interior decorated with pre-1871-style furnishings.
Original Relic House, 900 North Clark Street, before the Refreshment and Music Hall, was added. (1872)
An 1878 advertising card shows the Relic House surrounded by streetcars, pedestrians, and prancing horses, and it lists Hermann Klanowsky as proprietor, whose father supposedly took over the establishment in the early twentieth century.
The Relic House—At the Entrance of Lincoln Park.
A popular account from the Chicago Tribune claims that around 1882, Phillip Vinter (or Winter) took over the Relic House and moved it to North Park Avenue (Lincoln Park West) at 900 North Clark Street (2021 North Clark Street today). However, an Albert Rettig—likely the same Rettig who built the Relic House in 1872—is listed as a saloon keeper living at 900 North Clark Street in the 1880 Census, casting doubt on the Vinter attribution.

William Lindemann bought the Relic House sometime before 1890 and established a 'refreshment parlor' in the saloon. By 1890 its importance had risen to a point that a Chicago Tribune editorial called for the entire structure to be temporarily moved to Jackson Park to display the city's history, specifically the 'fantastic freaks of the flames' from the 1871 Great Chicago Fire, to tourists at the 1893 World's Columbian Exposition. Such an exhibit was a fit medium to position the fair planners' narrative of Chicago's rebirth from the flame. Lindemann agreed: "It would make a good American curiosity," but only if he was paid enough for his efforts. This plan did not come to fruition, nor did Lindemann's proposed six-story revamp of the Relic House of 1896. Lindemann purportedly continued to add 'relics' to his establishment as new construction projects continued to unearth them. However, precisely what these items may have been have not been located in any documentation.

The Relic House served as a saloon into the twentieth century, and a speakeasy during Prohibition (1920-1933), and its ownership continued to change hands during this period. 


By 1906 John Weis had become the proprietor, spending time and money to improve his establishment. With 'the most tempting dishes... served in real German-style' in a setting newly decorated with stuffed moose and deer heads, stuffed sharks, engravings of German arts, and a large oil painting of the Chicago Fire, Weis encouraged visitors to his 'quaint monument and rustic resort.

In 1914 an advertisement shows it as one of the seven saloons in Chicago to have Munich's St. Benno Bier on tap. Its location, directly across from Lincoln Park, made it a prime spot for thirsty tourists traveling the Clark Street cable cars.
During Prohibition, the space continued to serve Alcohol as a speakeasy, as did other Chicago saloons. The Relic House continued to serve liquor until Mr. Volstead turned the place into a restaurant serving beer. However, it had served food from around 1900 as the "Familien Lokal," or family-style German restaurant, as well as during the Weis years.
The "Dil Pickle Club" (yes... only one 'L')  added a bohemian chapter to the Relic House story. The Club, started in 1914 as a cultural center by Archibald 'Jack' Jones, an organizer for the Industrial Workers of the World, found a decrepit barn on Tooker Alley, off of 867½ North Dearborn Street in downtown Chicago.

In 1920, having been kicked out of their previous address, anarchist Dr. Ben L. Reitman arranged for the Club to meet at the Relic house for the first of many poetry nights. The Club members renamed their venue the 'House of Blazes,' reaffirming its link to the 1871 Fire. Considered an offshoot of the Dil Pickle Club proper, Reitman leased it for two years. Other artistic uses for the Relic House included as a home for Meyer Levin's experimental Marionette Theater in 1926.

The Relic House was razed in 1926, only 57 years after it was built, and replaced by a 210-unit apartment building at 2000 Lincoln Park West.
Compiled by Dr. Neil Gale, Ph.D.