Daywatch Special Edition: Chicago during the Boss years

Good morning, Chicago.

Few names are as synonymous with Chicago as Richard J. Daley, better known to some as Hizzoner or Da Mare. And perhaps no event better epitomizes the way Chicago was changing during the Boss years than the Democratic National Convention in 1968, as Rick Kogan details in his latest piece. Daley was nothing if not a builder, and the vast network of expressways Chicagoans still love to hate took shape during his reign. But that building boom in suburbia had its consequences, as Ron Grossman notes.

While we’ve been celebrating for a few weeks, Friday was the official anniversary of the Chicago Tribune. To mark the occasion, we invite you to read stories from former carriers who delivered the Tribune, aka “Chicago’s alarm clock.” You can also read a selection of favorite columns chosen by some of our past writers, and learn the story behind our snazzy 175th anniversary logo. And if you’re looking for something to do with that stack of papers piling up on the kitchen table, why not make a party hat?

Finally, don’t miss this vintage photo gallery of Tribune readers through the years — you might see some familiar faces. (Still not a Tribune subscriber? Take advantage of some vintage pricing and sign up here today.)

— Jocelyn Allison, Marianne Mather and Kori Rumore

More anniversary coverage | Vintage Voices | Pulitzer Prizes | Famous front pages | Vintage Tribune newsletter | 175th merchandise

Four days after longtime Tribune editor Col. Robert R. McCormick died in 1955, Richard J. Daley was elected the 48th mayor of Chicago. That night, at a tavern on North Avenue, 43rd Ward Ald. Mathias “Paddy” Bauler, a famous City Council clown since the 1930s, uttered a phrase that would echo for decades: “Chicago ain’t ready for reform.”

The Edens Expressway, opened in 1951, and the expressways that followed were more than a transportation network. They dramatically reshaped Chicagoland’s human geography, determining who resided where and how well they lived. But the explosive postwar growth did not come without costs, including deeper racial segregation and economic divides as affluent white residents left the city behind.

Sixteen-year-old Betty Johnson arrived home to find her mother frantically loading the station wagon with clothes and canned goods, and her father and brothers on the roof futilely directing a garden hose at a neighboring building in flames. It was April 5, 1968, one day after the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated, and the West Side had exploded in tumult.

Checking into the Conrad Hilton Hotel, the Democrats’ convention headquarters, a reporter had observed: “I think this is going to be a week to remember.” He was prescient. The phrase “’68 Convention” was about to join “Al Capone” as mnemonic shorthand for the more notorious chapters of Chicago’s history.

Chicago, already a city with more than its share of tragic fires, had one of its worst Dec. 1, 1958, when three nuns and 92 children died in a blaze that broke out in the basement of Our Lady of the Angels Catholic school. Children jumped from windows, and neighbors ran to the school with ladders and blankets. The fire led to massive overhauls of fire codes and higher standards for building safety.

Thousands of people were stranded. About 50,000 vehicles and 800 Chicago Transit Authority buses were abandoned. Expectant mothers were taken to hospitals by sled, bulldozer and snowplow. Twenty-six people died, including several from heart attacks while shoveling snow. The blizzard of 1967 caused the biggest disruption to the commerce and transportation of Chicago by any event since the Great Chicago Fire of 1871.

Before The Second City’s doors even opened, the Tribune’s nightlife columnist wrote an obituary for the famed cabaret comedy theater. Will Leonard wrote that the theater founders’ previous enterprises, two theater companies and a comedy club, were “all ill-fated ventures,” and he took a pass on The Second City’s Dec. 16, 1959, debut.

Though the Chicago-style hot dog is arguably the greatest hot dog in the country, for most of the 20th century, Tribune reporters and recipe writers mostly acted like they were deeply embarrassed about the dish.