40 years ago

Bill Hughes of Vancouver, Washington was a “sick” man in 1970. He was fed up with society, so he slashed out an open letter to hundreds of newspapers. Editor Larry Kaercher printed the letter in the Review. Please keep in mind George Santayana’s dictum, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

Hughes’ preface: “There are those who claim that ours is a sick society; that our country is sick, our government is sick, that we are sick. Well, maybe they’re right. I submit that maybe I am sick … and maybe you are, too.

I am sick of having policemen ridiculed and called pigs while a cop killer is hailed as a folk hero.

I am sick of being told that religion is the opiate of the people, but marijuana should be legalized.

I am sick of commentators and columnists canonizing anarchists, revolutionaries and rapists, but condemning law enforcement when it brings such criminals to justice.

I am sick of paying more taxes to build schools when I hear of some faculty members encouraging students to tear or burn them down.

I am sick of Supreme Court decisions which turn criminals loose on society.”

Forty years have passed since Mr. Hughes sent out his letter. As time and events pass, our thinking can change. Only dead-in-the-head minds maintain rigid, lifelong political and social mindsets. If Mr. Hughes is alive (and alive in his head) he surely might amend a few of his 1970 convictions; if for no other reason than it is difficult to think and re-think … and be committed and flexible at the same time. (More to come.)

From the Aug. 26, 1970 Forest Park Review

30 years ago

Arch-rivalry. Forget the Cubs and Sox, Yankees and Red Sox, even the Bears versus Packers. Forest Park had it all over these guys whenever there was a Lions-Kiwanis softball game at The Park. This photo ends the ferocity of play and freezes a moment of confusion and contention.

Cub-like base running screwed things up. Note the Kiwanian runner’s surgical attachment to the base. (See photo.) The play has drawn the attention and concern of the entire Lions infield, while umpire Marty Popelka (far right) seems to be doing his Dennis Miller “I’m outa here” routine as he blocks out an unknown passer-by. By the way, the Lions racked up a cool dozen runs in the first inning and hung on for a 12-9 win.

From the Aug. 6, 1980 Forest Park Review

20 years ago

Editor Claudia Lenart’s column focused on Police Chief Robert Conklin’s “imagination,” of all things. Conklin had previously admitted to being asked by federal agents to wear a wire in a probe of organized crime in the western suburbs. He declined to do so. Later, he added he “wished he had.” The article was reported in another newspaper.

“Silly me,” wrote Lenart, sarcastically, “I jumped to the conclusion that he must have had relations with organized crime figures.” She reported having told Conklin that “Anyone who read the article would come to this conclusion. But the Chief set me straight by telling me I had ‘a real big imagination.'” Lenart, again sarcastically, wrote that she felt “bummed out” that she and other reporters weren’t asked to wear a wire.

From the Aug. 29, 1990 Forest Park Review

10 years ago

Armand Ladeuceur. If you’ve lived here more than 10 years, you’ve heard of him. He was a good example of a model citizen. Concerned, involved, honest and sincere, he was best known for his real appreciation of this town.

Armand and his wife, Adela moved to Forest Park in 1957. He retired 25 years later from Chicago’s Metropolitan Sanitation District. Among several interests, he found the local political scene and the village itself most to his liking. Growing tired of the by-stander role, he filed as a 1991 and 1995 mayoral candidate. It wasn’t to be, yet he retained an activist position in town, only rarely missing a village council meeting. Some say Mr. Ladeuceur may have been a bit too quixotic or visionary for the times, yet no one doubted the intelligence and care the man showed for Forest Park and what made it tick.

From the Aug. 9, 2000 Forest Park Review

Bob was born in Yonkers, N.Y., in 1932. His family encouraged him to join the Air Force (ours) during the Korean War. There, he fell into the clutches of Barbara Miles. They still have two world-class daughters, Jill and Cara. “Each of the four of us likes the other three of us,” says Bob.