Twenty-one years since the war's end. The city has tripled in size—perhaps quadrupled. What was frontier becomes civilization before one's eyes.
Today marks the anniversary of nothing particular, yet everything. Walking Michigan Avenue, I counted seven new buildings under construction. The hammering never ceases. Steel girders reach skyward like iron prayers to progress.
A curious exercise seized me today: imagining Chicago one hundred years hence. Will we recognize this place in 1986?
Surely the railways will multiply beyond current imagination. Perhaps every street will bear tracks, every home connected by iron veins to the greater body of commerce. The grain elevators already dwarf cathedrals—what monuments might industry erect given another century?
The electric lights spreading through downtown suggest possibilities. Might the entire city glow at night by 1986? Could artificial illumination banish darkness as completely as gas lamps conquered our parlors?
Mrs. O'Malley's boy operates one of Bell's telephone devices at the exchange. He speaks of wires carrying voices across continents. If such marvels exist today, what conversations might span the globe in 1986?
The mechanical arts advance with frightening velocity. I've witnessed horseless carriages—crude, loud contraptions that terrify the animals. Yet their inventors speak confidently of refinements. Might Chicago's streets run thick with mechanical traffic a century forward?
Population swells beyond counting. Irish, German, Polish voices blend into something distinctly Chicago. The mixing continues—what manner of citizen will emerge from this crucible by 1986?
Labor grows restless. The recent troubles at McCormick demonstrate how quickly progress can turn violent. Will the century ahead bring harmony between worker and owner, or deeper divisions?
The buildings climb higher each year. Foundation work suggests structures of unprecedented scale. Might Chicago rival ancient Rome in grandeur? Could towers pierce the clouds themselves?
The young architect Sullivan speaks of form following function. His philosophy, applied across decades, might reshape not merely buildings but the very character of urban life.
What legacy do we leave? This generation rebuilds from war's ashes, constructs something unprecedented. Will 1986's citizens thank us for our choices, or curse our shortsightedness?
The prairie disappears beneath brick and steel. Perhaps our descendants will create artificial prairies, mechanical nature to replace what we've consumed. Or perhaps they'll find beauty in pure human creation—cities like vast organs, playing civilization's complex music.
The lake remains constant. Wind, waves, seasons—these anchors might still ground Chicago in 1986. Citizens of that distant time may walk these same shores, contemplate their own century hence.
Change accelerates, but human nature persists. Love, ambition, hope, fear—these constants will shape 1986's Chicago as surely as they mold today's.
The future builds itself from today's small decisions. Each brick laid, each rail hammered, each child born carries forward possibilities we cannot foresee.
Tomorrow I return to my ordinary labors. Tonight, imagination enough.