SELL IT OR SMELL IT

by

Leon A. Carrow

Delivered to The Chicago Literary Club
November 9, 1998

In the late nineteenth century, there were scattered throughout Eastern Europe hundreds upon hundreds of segregated Jewish settlements where the inhabitants practiced their religion adhering to the traditions of centuries, educated their children, and generally managed to eke out a living, while having minimal contact with those of a different persuasion.

Such were the beginnings for a boy born in 1893 at home, of course, in a small community called Viducla, situated within the capitol province of Lithuania. He was the fourth in a family that eventually would number ten children, three of whom would succumb before reaching adolescence, felled by one of the many diseases of that time such as typhus, diphtheria, tuberculosis, and appendicitis which exerted an appalling mortality. The young boy, whose name in the English language was Charles, grew healthy and sturdy, exhibiting an inquisitive, facile, and adventurous mind.

Responsibility for education rested with the rabbi and other elders in the community, concentrating on the Hebrew language and the reading of the Old Testament. Charles was an enthusiastic student who absorbed his studies quickly. Yiddish was the spoken language at home, and only a minority of those in the community was familiar with the Lithuanian language. One of those who had mastered Lithuanian sufficiently to be conversant was the itinerant peddler who bought and sold his wares to both Jews and non-Jews. Besides his function as buyer and seller of goods, the peddler served as the communicator between all of the communities he visited in the countryside.

Charles eagerly awaited each and every visit of the peddler; he would follow him on his rounds, watch carefully the negotiations of the purchase and the sale, and join him on day long trips to the non-Jewish areas where he would learn the basics of the Lithuanian language. The peddler's tales of happenings in far off places conjured up the imagination and dreams in the mind of the entranced young child.

By the time Charles was nine years old, the rabbi and his other teachers came to the conclusion that his further, significant education could only take place where there were more scholarly teachers. All were in agreement that this was available in a locale some forty miles distant. With the aid of the peddler who arranged the itinerary including people who would house him on the way, and after receiving the blessing of his parents, Charles took off with a knapsack on his back to walk the forty miles to his new home, to live with a family whom he obviously had never met. There he remained for two years, studying the Talmud intensely, returning to his parents at the age of eleven.

Back home Charles, now the eldest male child since his older brother had been sent off to America the year before, continued studies on his own and supplemented his family's meager income by taking on any jobs which became available. In addition, he served as an apprentice to his father, the primary tailor in the shtetl. His father had aspirations that his son would follow the path leading to rabbinical status, but the youngster, though fervently steeped in religious lore, vowed that he would channel his future elsewhere. Realizing the limitations that their segregated life imposed as well as the increasing instances of progroms in the countryside, both parents reluctantly decided to send their second son to America. Though their decision was difficult, the practicality of carrying it out was monumental. Once again the task of amassing the money for passage to America fell to the child as well as the parents. Three years later, at the age of fourteen, Charles bade his family and homeland goodbye, traveled to Bremerhaven, and boarded a ship to the United States.

After ten days my father, along with hundreds of other immigrants, was deposited at Ellis Island. There, comforted by the Yiddish interpreters, he was continually referred to as "Charlie", and this was the name he carried for all of his life. Though his brother was living in Chicago, Charlie, having no means of getting there, settled in the Lower East Side of New York and found a job in a hat factory. After two years, feeling financially secure enough to travel to the Midwest, he joined his brother running their small grocery store at 29th and Cottage Grove Avenue.

The recent immigrant, realizing once again the importance of education, enrolled in night school to learn the English language. He studied this as fervently as he had when pouring over the Talmud, resulting in a fluency without the accent which was evident in so many others. In the store, working with food excited him far more than dealing with the staples of the Lithuanian peddler. It was the fresh fruits and vegetables which heightened his senses; certainly more than a box of cereal or even a piece of meat or poultry. After five years he was restless, continually thinking of other opportunities; thus, one day Charlie took the streetcar to the South Water Street Market, rented a horse and wagon and bought a load of watermelons.

The market, situated on both sides of South Water Street along the south bank of the Chicago River, extended from State Street west for approximately one half mile. Its conception coincided with the origin of Chicago itself at the time when the fledgling city was described as nothing more than a mud hole. It grew with the city, becoming the principal center for marketing wholesale perishable produce as well as poultry, eggs, and butter. The market was ideally situated to transport merchandise by way of the railroad or the river. By the early 1900's the physical facilities consisted of some 200 buildings, two to four stories high, small in size, and generally inadequate in display and storage space. Many of those dealing in fruits and vegetables were either immigrants or first generation Americans, the preponderance being Italians, Greeks, Jews, and to a lesser extent Irish and Germans. The business day started about 3:00 A.M., and within a few hours the noise of the bartering amplified by the shouting in a multitude of languages was overwhelming. The price of a given item could vary significantly during the course of the day, especially downward if the perishable showed signs of untoward ripening. This was and is to this day a realistic factor in market price, but was far more important in the earlier years of the market when shipments from distant farmlands of Wisconsin and Michigan traversed the waters of Lake Michigan before reaching the quiet of the Chicago River.

Congestion caused by horses and wagons lining South Water Street created an almost impassable barrier along the entire south river front. As the years went on, the advent of motorized trucks exacerbated this problem to the point of bedlam. Pedestrians were unable to walk on the crowded sidewalks, having to take to the middle of the street, competing with the wagons and slow moving trucks. Delay in movement and transport of these perishable items was a constant problem, but even with this serious obstacle it was estimated that by 1915-20 the total market was responsible for over $200,000,000 in commerce annually. However, the unrelenting density of people and vehicles critically affected the traffic pattern in the nearby Loop. As early as 1915, when my father entered the fray peddling watermelons in outlying neighborhoods, the Chicago Plan Commission was formulating plans for the relocation of the produce market.

This concept, proposed by Daniel Burnham in 1909, in his master plan for a greater Chicago, called for the ousting of the produce market and building a handsome driveway in its stead. Charles Wacker, the Plan's Chairman, led the fight to get rid of the market, which to his mind littered South Water with ramshackle structures, broken chicken coops, and food merchandise discards. In contrast, Lloyd Lewis and Henry Justin Smith remembered, " For all its shortcomings South Water had its charm. It was a cheery, chaotic, bartering street, often utterly jammed with wagons or traders. It blocked off bridgeheads and slowed carlines. Pedestrians squeezed between wagon wheels, stepped over planks laid from barrels. It was a silly old street for a great city. Yet every one half loved it; and the traders loved it devotedly."

The impetus for change was slowed by the country's entry into World War I, but by 1920 Wacker and his Commission were in high gear with plans to replace the aged market place. A young entrepreneur such as my father, now a naturalized citizen with a record of Army service in France, was more immersed with thoughts of buying his own horse and wagon, enhancing his stake in the world of commerce, dealing directly with produce growers, acquiring a business partner, and getting married with hopes of raising a good sized family. Older, more established occupants of the Street struggled for their historic location. One opponent of change contended that "We want to stay where Nature put us, here on the old waterfront," and others, not surprisingly, said, "We were here first, we belong here, and have no place to go."

Wacker and his group were adamant, however, in the need for change. A ruling of the Federal Government stipulating that the height of new bridges across the river be raised strengthened their position. In January, 1922 the Commission published South Water Street Facts, which included a detailed account of the consequences of meeting the new requirements. In essence, South Water Street would have to be either "humped' up to meet every north-and- south street from Michigan through Franklin and then Lake Streets, or bodily raised an average of six feet. Either of these methods would cost about the same- nine million dollars.

The Commission, however, strongly recommended an alternative with little additional public cost; namely, the creation of upper and lower thoroughfares in South Water Street giving the city two greatly needed east-and-west streets. Its report included the following: "By its connection with Canal Street, the South Water Street improvement will form the northern boundary of a circuit of wide traffic arteries around the congested center, composed of South Water Street on the north, Canal Street on the west, Roosevelt Road on the south, and Michigan Avenue on the east. Not only will this quadrangle greatly relieve loop congestion, but the removal of the South Water Street produce market to a better, more economical and better adapted location will take 16,000 market vehicle trips per day off loop streets-thus freeing traffic movement on the north-and-south and the east-and west streets- and reducing the present congestion in the downtown district sixteen per cent."

In spite of continued legal battles, the plan was finally approved, condemnation was authorized, and construction of what was to become upper and lower Wacker Drive was begun in late 1924.

Frantically needing some organization in light of the impending court order to move, the merchants formed the South Water Market Trust which investigated possible sites for the new market; chosen was the so- called Valley District, then notorious as a center of criminal life and activity, some two and one -half miles southwest of the existing facility. Land was purchased, demolition of the tumble -down houses was begun, and architects were hired who began the feverish chore of drawing up the plans so that construction of the new buildings could begin. The court order calling for relocation was handed down in January, 1925, and the last day of market activity occurred on August 27, 1925.

The new market, covering eight square blocks, bounded by Racine Avenue on the west, Morgan Street on the east, 14th Place on the north, and the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad on the south, opened for business on August 29, 1925. It consisted of six three story buildings housing a total of 166 stores, each of which was but 24 feet wide and 81 feet deep. Each building had an elevated loading dock-sidewalk 30 inches above the street, which was 90 feet wide. Streets in the South Water Market were and are the only unnamed streets in the city. Any place in the market is simply "South Water Market." Numbers having no connection with the city's regular street numbering system identified the various units.

Initially, the 90-foot -wide expanse enabled the horse drawn wagons and compact trucks to easily transact business at the loading docks, and the market became the central fruit and vegetable distribution point for restaurants, hotels, hospitals, small retail chains, independent stores, and smaller wholesale markets. This ease was short lived as the wagons and horse troughs disappeared, replaced by larger and larger trucks.

Congestion reappeared, and with it an increasing noise level brought on primarily by the insistent shouting of the produce market men, universally practiced by all, from owner to laborer on the docks. Much of the produce reaching Chicago came by rail, and in 1925 the Chicago Produce Terminal, a 75-acre tract at Ashland Avenue and 28th Street opened. This rail yard at its height of operation in the late forties and early fifties, received annually as many as 120, 000 carloads of fresh fruits and vegetables, from all of the contiguous states. Some of these were scheduled for local unloading, others were reconsigned and re-iced , if necessary, for forwarding, while still others were held for higher prices or inspection by prospective buyers. However, almost 70,000 carloads were destined to be unloaded for the South Water Market. On a given morning samples of the fruit were transferred onto the floor of the auction warehouse located at the Terminal. As reported in the Chicago Tribune, "The dealers would adjourn to the auction room, equipped with loudspeakers, and the drama began. Bids often involved an elaborate system of gestures and silent signals. A subtle glance at the auctioneer could raise a bid of five cents, blowing a ring of smoke toward the ceiling another five. It was an old-fashioned, Old World way of doing business, handed down from generation to generation, with a simple handshake often clinching a deal." My father, at that time, no longer had a unit in the market per se; he and his partner, (whose association lasted for thirty-five years, supposedly without a written contract), were now dealing exclusively in carload lots.

While his partner functioned as the "inside" man, Charlie would travel throughout the country for weeks or months at a time conducting business and cementing long standing friendships with the growers of watermelons, apples, potatoes, onions, and peaches. Although obviously involved with the purchase of a given crop, acting alone or in partnership with the grower, he also participated in all aspects of the process up to and including its shipment by rail. Sensing the emerging importance of the "chain" food stores, he forged alliances with their buyers, who came to the producers and bought from people like my father since the "chains" at that time had no distribution centers of their own.

Charlie's son was imbued at an early age with the vibrant and tumultuous face of the produce market place; utter congestion of both man and machine, fresh aroma of fruit and vegetable, lingering smell of fragments of discarded food stuff, loud and raucous shouting in more than one language, taunting and ethnic slurs without rancor, continuous haggling of the bid and asked price. I inhaled all of this, but in addition was, on many trips with my father able to explore and appreciate the mysteries of nature. Whether it was in the peach and apple orchards of Michigan and New York, the watermelon fields of Mississippi and Florida, the potato and onion fields of Alabama, I was struck by the passion and unspoken ardor of those who dealt with this commodity. I remember with fondness the exact manner in which my father rolled in his fingers an apple or peach testing its texture and goodness, or the simple tapping on a watermelon to diagnose the condition of its innards. Such memories resulted in the following:

Father
Caress the supple, ripened fruit,
Firmly held in the palm of a hand;
Loving fingers softly rotate
Slowly upon the surface.
A measured, faint smile emerges;
Not seen nor appreciated except
By those who can absorb.
Pass on to the next,
Quality assessed by simple percussion.
Approval by a subtle nod, dissent
By frozen stare.
Professional attainment, logged
In undocumented journals.
Fingers, hand of a surgeon

. When I was a child, the business of perishable fruits and vegetables was strictly a seasonal one. For instance, there were no watermelons in Chicago prior to the 4th of July, and these were gone once summer had passed. In my home, seasonal designations were often replaced by the fruit or vegetable of the time; thus, Spring became potato season, Summer was watermelon season, Fall was apple season, and Winter the time for pinochle and planning for the coming year. By the 1950's the increased presence of airfreight along with the greater capability of shipping perishables by sea brought to an end many of the seasonal limitations. This era also marked the beginning of the decline in shipments by rail. With the federal government building more and more inter-state highways, with larger and larger trucks housing self contained refrigeration units, deliveries could be measured more in terms of minutes or hours rather than in days.

Eventually, more than 75% of produce docking in South Water Market arrived by truck, resulting finally, in the closure of the Produce Terminal along with its auction facilities.

Congestion in the market, while ever present since the turn of the century, became more serious with increasingly strangling consequences each passing year. The chief villains were the trucks themselves; a one-piece vehicle grew eventually to 38 feet, while tractor-trailers extended to 45 feet in 1980 and later to 54 feet. Considering the width of the major market thoroughfare, even one-piece trucks of sufficient size, parked at opposite docks, left little room to maneuver. As early as 1960, the Market Service Association, representing the merchants, passed a rule restricting receiving to the hours of 9 a.m. to midnight, and shipping from midnight to 9 a.m. This rule was often ignored.

Compounding the problem was the vertical movement of goods in the stores between the basement, the ground, and the top floor. Loading and unloading by forklift or by hand was dependent on the one, original freight elevator. It was estimated in 1980 that this labor intensive, inefficient mode of operation created a cost of moving a package into a produce house and out again from 50 cents to $1 per package, depending on weight. That same year, Jerry Crimmins wrote in the Chicago Tribune: "After 55 years in the same location, the market, a collection of competing wholesale merchants, is being choked by truck congestion and bled by high overhead caused by antiquated facilities. Some experts in the produce business predict if South Water Market, one of Chicago's basic institutions, does not move, it will wither away. Others say the market can never die because its function is indispensable. Even these experts believe present conditions may cause the number of wholesale merchants on the market to dwindle to a few big ones, reducing competition."

Indeed, the numbers had already decreased, called by one merchant a war of attrition, caused in part by the difficult conditions in which they were forced to operate. In 1960, there were 155 wholesale produce merchants at South Water Market, in 1970 there were 87, and by 1980 the number was down to 67. The Market Service Association, with a Board of Directors of eleven merchants, an organization whose major stated purpose was to represent all of the merchants and act as their official mouthpiece, was founded in the late 20's. Initially, all owners signed on, becoming dues paying members, with a monthly fee assessed to cover watchman service, equipment maintenance such as street lighting, canopies, etc. In the ensuing years, when change in individual ownership occurred, not all chose to join the Association, though legally they had an obligation to do so. This divergence has not been enforced, and has contributed to the description of the Association as being "very loosely organized;" nevertheless, it has been a voice in and deliberation for merchants, particularly in efforts regarding relocation of the market.

As early as the 1960's plans had been proposed to move the market; the grandest plan of all, conceived in the early 70's but never progressed beyond the first trimester, was to move the market, along with Chicago's entire food industry, to the Lake Calumet Area. Later, in 1979, the city, through its Economic Development Commission along with consultation from the executive director of the modern Maryland Wholesale Food Center Authority, laid out plans to move the market to an 80 acre site at 31st and California Avenue. Bob Strube, the largest owner of units in the market and then president of the Market Association, aware of the necessity for a move, championed its cause. Over a quarter of a million dollars was collected in seed money from 36 of the produce merchants for planning a new market that would have wider streets and more practical buildings.

However, roadblocks like shrapnel were thrown into the deliberations; many were unconvinced of the prediction voiced by some industry experts that South Water Market must move or face extinction, and virtually all of these were reluctant to go into debt, as would be necessary to build a new market. In addition, there was the expressed fear that Chicago might end up with two wholesale produce markets in different locations competing with each other. Those willing to invest in a new facility wanted some assurance that all produce wholesalers, even the reluctant ones, would be forced to leave South Water Street once the new facility was built. To accomplish this, condemnation of all of the properties would be necessary; a move, which was considered to be very difficult at best since other food businesses, namely the meat and grocery wholesalers were mixed in with the produce houses.

The struggle went on for months; the city was willing to make concessions which would financially benefit, to some degree, the individual merchants, and officers of the Association repeated the necessity and value of the move citing the large overhead carried by all working in an antiquated facility. But the smaller, and in some cases the older entrepreneurs who had made it on their own continued their objection to the move. Finally, the consultant left, seed money was returned to the 36 produce men, and the market continued without physical change. Bob Strube was quoted in the Chicago Tribune: "I'll be moving South Water Market on the day I go to my grave. I want to move the market, but I don't know how to do it."

Throughout the 80's the Market's role as the dominant factor in the wholesale business in the Midwest gradually diminished. Competition increased from the smaller but newer and more efficient regional centers in St. Louis, Milwaukee, Minneapolis, Cleveland, and Indianapolis where labor cost and overhead were appreciably less, and buying directly from the growers with speedy interstate delivery by truck bypassed the gridlock of South Water Street. Growers would accommodate smaller buyers by "drop shipping" produce to their place of business. More importantly, chain stores became more and more significant in the retail produce arena; they bought directly from the growers, then shipped to their warehouses, distribution centers, and ultimately to their stores via their own trucks. South Water Market still functioned, albeit in a lesser role, but the situation was serious enough for Bob Strube to tell the Sun Times in 1989: "If we're going to save the wholesale food market, we're going to have to move within ten years."

Enter the City of Chicago. The deputy commissioner of planning and development, Charles Thurow, in an article written by Henry Henderson, was quoted as saying: "There is no way these 62 competing businesses can structure themselves to effect a move. The city has to be the glue." Thurow was put in charge of the project; he knew that this would be the 8th major attempt to rebuild and/or move the market since 1950. Having already issued a report on Chicago's wholesale food distribution markets, he was well aware of the current markets inadequacies, including, of course, the enormous inefficiencies and costs caused by the huge trucks delay in delivering and unloading their wares. Seeking to recoup some of the dominance as the major Midwest distribution center, the City, in 1993, engaged the services of Stein and Company who were charged to develop the overall plan for a new market.

A 62 acre tract with railroad connections off Ashland Avenue between the South Branch of the Chicago River and the Stevenson Expressway was chosen; an ideal location for trucks coming on the interstate highways. Stein estimated the total cost at $100 million, financed by the city's committed general obligation bonds, possible federal and state funds, and private funding. The latter "was especially tricky," said Thurow, noting that these small merchant businesses basically had no inventory that the banks could take as collateral. Further, each merchant owned his storefront valued by him her at from a quarter to one half of a million dollars, in contrast to other mall type operations where the proprietor would lease from a central market authority. As Richard Stein pointed out, "The physical value of the buildings other than the market being there was zero." That being the case, it was thought that banks were unlikely to loan money without a strong central market management. Stein proceeded to formulate the plans with the reorganization of the market as a cooperative, with Stein and Company as manager, each merchant trading his storefront for equivalent space in the new facility on a long term lease basis, with possible ownership after ten years. In February, 1994 Stein completed a detailed information package of the Chicago Wholesale Food Market with specs, drawings, prices, financing; "the whole thing." Included was the schedule with construction completion and opening in late 1995.

Rosemary Auster, who with her husband owned eight units second only to the Strube Company, headed the Market Service Association. Very favorably inclined toward a market move, she led the discussions with the developer and city. In the midst of the prolonged deliberations the Teamsters Union, representing the "hustlers" (laborers on the docks and in the storefronts), voted to strike in November, '94 after the Association rejected the request by the union that the hustlers' hourly wage be raised from $16.50 to $19.00. The strike was a selective one, closing only those houses owned by the eleven officers and board of the Market Association; all others remained open with a "service agreement " agreed to by the union. With legal consultation, Auster acted as lead negotiator, and all merchants, perhaps for the first and only time, acted cohesively through the Service Association. Throughout eleven weeks of the contentious strike, pickets endured the rigors of an early Chicago winter, while the owners withstood the predictable threats and intermittent property damage. Much of the merchandise on hand at the Austers and all others who were struck ultimately had to be dumped. The eventual compromise resulted in a wage of $18, along with a wage and benefit package amounting to a total of $26 per hour, maintaining these employees as probably the highest paid of all produce wholesale laborers in the country.

Once the strike ended Rosemary Auster, though focusing her major efforts on the reopening of her produce house resumed participation in dialog with the City, voicing major concerns that she and others had. Finally, Thurow, acknowledging insufficient numbers of merchants, particularly the dominant players unwilling to buy in, terminated the proposal. He cited some of the reasons for the failure: individual competitiveness with some distrust of each other, their conception that they were losing value even with the City willing to buy their old places "for something," their inability to comprehend that once the market moved, their real estate value would go to zero, no incentive for collective action, and their incorrect feeling that Stein had a secret deal to his advantage. Thurow concludes: "They shot themselves in the foot because never again would they get such a sweetheart deal."

Stein identified the strength of the market a mark of the individual operator. Of different socio-economic, ethnic, and intellectual backgrounds, he considered them all quintessential, expertly knowing how to price and move merchandise. He felt that the market would have moved if "one could have gotten a critical mass of those guys to agree to it; but they didn't trust each other, they liked where they were, they didn't like change, and most were in their fifties or more." Considering the woeful inadequacies of the present facility secondary to antiquity, the market will disappear as such, Stein noted. Auster summarized the failure of the move in 94-95 simply due to the fact that the whole deal was very costly, and not economically feasible. The biggest drawback, there being no proposal as to what to do with the units on South Water. Two views, as quoted by Henderson in his article, express the antipathy of some of the independents regarding the then proposed move: "We can't afford it. The new place will be more expensive and we'll have to charge more. I've had fifty customers tell me, if you move to a new market, you're going to lose us. The only way they're going to get me out of here is feet first." And, "Why the bureaucracy? Get some engineers, build a new market. There's never been a management committee running South Water Market in 65 years."

Today the large tract of land is gone, the dream of Rosemary Auster for the development of a mega market dealing with produce, meat, poultry, fish, and flowers along with an upscale restaurant to attract the tourist trade remains a dream. Volume at South Water is down, in some part as a consequence of the strike, but to a greater extent due to the increasing presence of chain stores and large food service operations who bypass the terminal market by purchasing from growers with shipment directly to their own warehouses; in addition, a greater preponderance of food brokers who also buy directly and service customers, often without ever seeing the product.

Still, the independent, though diminished in number survives, ranging from the Strube Company with seventeen storefronts and at least twelve Strubes in employ, to the next largest Auster and Company, to a one-unit owner with a niche such as Pets Calvert. Founded by a Greek immigrant in the old market, Pets Calvert has occupied the same storefront on the northeast corner of the current market since its opening; it has remained in the family throughout its existence, now being run by its third owner, fourth generation Mike O'Neill. The strength of his firm is derived in large part from its long standing ties with growers and shippers throughout the nation; in the past, exclusive deals with these formed a greater component of the business than that which occurs today. This has led to some loss in flexibility of pricing a product since the costs are generally more well known, but the bartering and haggling is just as ferocious as ever, always by shouting, never in a conversational tone of voice. O'Neill describes the market as obviously obsolete, likening it to driving a 1927 Ford to California on the interstate. With the one ancient, dilapidated elevator, coolers in the basement and third floor, two to three men, (with labor costs staggering), unloading trailers at the back, trying to get out orders in the pre dawn, all is noise, congestion, and commotion. Underlying the entire process is timing, with the oft quoted declaration: "Sell it or smell it."

Rosemary Auster, continuing as president of the Market Association, reaffirms her enthusiasm for the business, citing the daily challenges and excitement out weighing the twelve hour days starting at 3:00 A.M., noting that the market has changed but it is not dying. The importance of ethnic and exotic produce along with more Hispanics and Asians merchants in the market place is a nationwide occurrence. Chain stores, while becoming increasingly dominant, continue to rely on South Water almost daily to supplement products for which they are short, and all the other businesses and institutions buying produce remain as customers. There will always be a need for a terminal market in Chicago, Auster contends.

The impetus for a move, instigated by the City in 1992 was primarily an economic one, though cognizant of long range plans of the University of Illinois to expand its campus south towards South Water Market. This development, with property acquisition now well under way, would be adjacent to South Water to the east, south, and north. It is obvious to Auster that the University, with its vision to create an in town campus including residential quarters, would not want a produce terminal as its next door neighbor. She states: "It's simply common sense that the two would not be able to live together nicely. Would you want your daughter walking to her dorm with huge trailer trucks driving down the street?" "And unfortunately," she continues, "produce does produce garbage; it is not the perfume business."

Some feel that the institution known as South Water will disintegrate slowly, and then disappear. Others are certain that a move will occur; if so, where, when, and under what circumstances remains as clouded as peering through cataract stricken eyes. But once the surgery is done and a clear vision results, almost certainly we will see an antiseptic, one story, singularly efficient warehouse with the virtual absence of smells, pleasant and unpleasant, of the incessant shouting with verbal insults between buyer and seller followed by a friendly lunch, and of the apparently general chaos. Perhaps a photograph of the ancient freight elevator will hang on one wall, reminding us of the flavor of the old place.

EPILOGUE

As reported by Crain's Chicago Business in their October 19th issue, a large South Water firm, Anthony Marano Co., has signed a contract to purchase one-third of Ashland Market Place, a 500,000 plus square-foot distribution center planned by the real estate firm of Hiffman Shaffer Associates. This is the same site on which Stein and Co., in 1993, had formulated plans to construct the Chicago Wholesale Food Market. However, when those plans were rejected by the wholesalers, the city subsequently sold the river front portion of the property, which is now being utilized for the construction of a new printing plant for the Chicago Sun-Times, resulting in the site of the proposed new market place being only one half of the original size.

Reacting to the opinion of some that the site is unsuitable, 26 of the 45 active South Water produce firms have formed a limited liability company called the Produce Market Relocation which has begun looking for alternative sites that would accommodate a home for a new market. One concern of this group is that the Ashland project's smaller size severely reduces the chances of keeping the wholesalers together in a single place, the way South Water has functioned since its inception. They estimate that in the space available, no more than 15 tenants could be accommodated. In response, a spokesman for the developer is quoted as saying: "We have clearly not designed the building for the small vendor."

Crain's reports that the city's Department of Planning and Development, the force behind the 1993 efforts at relocation of the market, will continue to work with the merchants. A spokesman there says: "Hopefully, the Produce Market Relocation group will give them a unified voice, so that we can give them the assistance they need."

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