Remembering the lives of those in Illinois who died from coronavirus

They were mothers and fathers, daughters and sons. Many were proud grandparents. Two were sisters from a tightknit South Side family. All were loved, relatives say, and will be forever missed. As the number of deaths attributable to COVID-19 ticks upward, the Tribune is working to chronicle those who have lost their lives in the Chicago area or who have connections to our region. These are some of those victims.

PHILMAN WILLIAMS, 70

From Chicago. Died April 1.

For the last couple of months, the lobby of the 777 N. Michigan Ave. building has contained a series of poster boards that quickly filled with handwritten messages such as, and there were hundreds from which to choose, “A good man. You will be missed by many” and “You will always be in our hearts” and “You were always a beacon of civility, class and coolness.”

These outpourings of emotion, goodbyes and gratitude were written by the 700some residents of the condominium building and were the result of the death of Philman Williams, who had worked as a doorman at 777 for a decade. A photo of his smiling face was also part of each poster board and people could be seen smiling in response, in memory.

“He was very other-oriented,” said longtime building resident Roberta Shwartz. “We remember how concerned he was when his son was having heart troubles. Also, during the time my husband Leslie was ill, he was constantly asking me how he was doing. When he recovered, Phil was joyful, as if Leslie had been a member of his own family.”

Williams was one of the early casualties of COVID-19, dying in Jackson Park Hospital on April 1. He was 70.

Born on Dec. 12, 1949, to parents who had moved to Chicago from Alabama, Williams was raised in various neighborhoods on the South Side. He attended Roosevelt High School and while later enrolled at the University of Illinois at Chicago he met and fell in love with a student named Linda Bronson.

“I was so shy,” she said. “He was such a fun-loving person that he brought me out of my shell.”

They were married Aug. 23, 1975, at the Antioch Missionary Baptist Church and settled into domestic life in a one-bedroom apartment in the South Commons apartments and both started their careers in the banking industry.

With the arrival of the first child, a girl named Alexis, the family moved to a larger apartment in nearby Lake Meadows, which soon also welcomed a boy named Eric.

Williams would work for many years in various capacities for First National Bank and ADP and later in the security business. He came to 777 in 2010 as a doorman. He was made for the job.

In his private life he was known by the nickname “Partyman” but at 777 he was so quietly gregarious and efficient that he was soon dubbed, by more than one resident and many neighbors, “The Mayor of Michigan Avenue.”

Every pleasant day and even some not so pleasant would find him outside on the sidewalk smiling and greeting pedestrians that comprised a constant parade down the avenue.

“Every morning when I walked by the building on my way to work, his was a welcoming friendly wave and smile,” said Christie Hefner, a business executive, activist, and philanthropist.

Williams was also admired by colleagues.

Doorman Mike Keenon said, “He was one of the nicest guys I have ever worked with and he always had a smile on his face. A great doorman but an even greater person.”

Another doorman, Johnny Davis, said, “He was always in a good mood. He liked to whistle, old show tunes and the theme songs from TV game shows. He was so joyful that I would join in.”

Williams loved to travel. Barbados was a favorite destination and he had visited Alaska and Cuba in recent years.

“When we were married most of our trips were by car since I was not very fond of flying at the time,” said his ex-wife, recently retired after a long career at BMO Harris. “After our divorce he really started to travel, and I have a houseful of souvenirs that he would send or bring to me after his trips.”

The couple had divorced after 10 years of marriage but remained on such friendly terms than “we never had to have any kind of legal agreement about visitation or custody with the children,” she says. “He was always coming over to my place to see the kids.”

“I have wonderful memories of being with my dad,” says daughter Alexis Williams-Lee, now a married middle school Spanish teacher in Maryland; she and her husband, also a teacher, have five young boys. “There were those take your daughters to work days for me, going to softball games with him, his coming to all the events my brother and I participated in and going out for bowling at Skyway Lanes. In recent years he was just crazy about our boys, his grandchildren.”

Weeks before his death Williams had celebrated Mardi Gras in New Orleans.

He had what he said was a “great time in a city jammed with people, all ages and types,” but after returning to work he began to feel ill and checked himself into Northwestern Memorial Hospital. Results of various tests were negative, and he was out in two days and back at 777.

Still, the next night his condition worsened, and he was taken by ambulance from his South Side home to Jackson Park Hospital where he was diagnosed with COVID-19 and placed in the intensive care unit. He would spend more than a week there as his family tried energetically but unsuccessfully to move him elsewhere.

“It was a frustrating time for us,” said his daughter. “Not only was his doctor connected to another hospital, but we were hearing some disturbing things about Jackson Park.”

Indeed, there were reports in newspapers and on television detailing complaints from its employees about the hospital’s lack of sufficient personal protective equipment. There were also stories that such shortages were causing some nurses to avoiding entering patients’ rooms.

“It was a terrible situation,” said Williams-Lee. “It was hard for us to even get through on the phone. My mom even walked in front of the hospital with a poster in protest.”

Williams died in the hospital and within weeks he was among the many deceased subjects of a chilling and sad early May story from ProPublica. Illinois. Titled “The First 100,” it detailed how, of the first 100 of the city’s COVID-19 victims, 70 were Black, noting of these people that “their lives were rich, and their deaths cannot be dismissed as inevitable. Immediate factors could — and should — have been addressed.”

Williams’ death hit his friends and family hard, a family that also included another son, John John, from a later relationship, and a sixth grandson. They are all planning a memorial service when large gatherings are again allowed.

Williams’ son Eric, recently retired after a decades long career in the Navy, was the man responsible for making and placing the poster boards that dotted the 777 lobby. That is where, in time, another memorial celebration is planned for Williams. It is sure to be jammed.