My sister, Christine, and I shared a bedroom for many years, sleeping in a double bed with a special head board, handcrafted and painted blue and white by Dad.
Perhaps he was inspired by our dining room window seats, as he fashioned "window seats" for us as our head board. Hinged covers opened to a storage area, one on each side, so we each had our own. In them, we kept books and assorted treasures. They were also a great hiding spot, though frowned upon by Mom, for candy.
On one particular occasion, we had gotten some root beer barrels (2 for a penny at Dory's), and they were safely stowed away for a bedtime treat.
We crawled into bed, turned off the lights, and had no sooner popped them into our mouths, savoring the strong flavor of root beer, when Mom came into the bedroom to check on us and say good night.
"What's that I smell?" Mom asked.
With our mouths full (root beer barrels are pretty hard to hide in your cheek), we mumbled something like, "I don't know" or "Oh, nothing."
Needless to say, our root beer barrels were confiscated, but we couldn't figure out how she knew about them in the first place.
~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~
One summer evening, Mom had a ladies' gathering at our house. The coffee was percolating, the cake was cut, the glass dessert plates, the ones with the spot to hold the small cup, were set out on the flowery tablecloth in the dining room.
We were all sent off to bed as the ladies began to arrive.
After awhile, we could hear that their party was underway and assumed they were all present.
Since our bedroom faced the front of the house, Christine and I often perched on our elbows by the window, just to look out to see what was going on. In our quiet neighborhood, usually nothing.
But on this particular evening, we noticed a woman walking up the street. Unable to resist, we leaned out the window and hollered, "Hey, you, Lady!" or something to that effect.
We knew we were in for it when the woman proceeded up our front steps and we heard our doorbell ring. Sure enough, it was Mrs. Melander coming to join the ladies' gathering.
But what wasn't so amusing the following morning sure is funny to us today.
You know, I really think we'd do it all over again.
Showing posts with label neighborhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label neighborhood. Show all posts
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Lincoln house
It was the early 1950s.
We had long outgrown our little duplex on Minnehaha Avenue that my parents had bought as an investment. Seven of us lived downstairs, and the upstairs quarters were rented to a newly-married couple.
During the summer of 1953, we moved to Lincoln Avenue in the Macalester-Groveland neighborhood of St. Paul, Minnesota.
The big white house looked like a mansion to us.
Built in 1913, it had three stories and a full basement, plus five porches. There were two large enclosed screened porches, one off the living room that became our playroom in the summer; the other off the master bedroom.
There were flower patterns everywhere: in the carpeting, the wallpaper, the drapes, and the hallway going upstairs.
There was one pattern for the carpeting, one pattern for the living room wallpaper, a different pattern for the dining room wallpaper, and yet another pattern for the drapes. Though perhaps fashionable then, it would be HGTV's nightmare today.
Our green nylon frizee couch, moved from the duplex, now stood amidst pink and rose colored flowers.
The kitchen had black linoleum flooring in a square tile design. We had a white chrome table, usually covered with oilcloth, and a defined seating pattern that never changed: two children on youth stools either side of Dad; three on a green bench on the other side of the table; Mom and me on each end.
A white Gibson refrigerator sat in the entryway of the back door. The back door was never locked, even if we were gone from the house for a week on vacation. If we ever had keys, I doubt that we even knew where they were.
The dining room had a built-in buffet that held everything from the telephone and phone directories, to combs, brushes and curlers, to Sunday School books and offering envelopes, to Mom's china dinnerware and silver. The phone was the only one in the three-story house, and we were on a party-line.
One phone, five teenage girls, a shared party-line.
The dining room had a pair of window seats that you never see anymore, but should. They were ideal storage places for Mom's fabrics and sewing supplies, since her sewing machine was also in the dining room.
When weddings approached for five girls, our just-received gifts were proudly displayed on the window seats.
The top of the window seats provided a great play space for my little brother's Tonka trucks and matchbox cars. He must have worn a path along those window seats as he ran his toys up and down the wooden surface.
An upright piano was on the opposite wall of the dining room, and, of course, there was a big dining room table and chairs in the center. On birthdays or holidays, we ate in the dining room, a real treat.
I'm not sure how my parents found the house, or their criteria as they were house-shopping, but they couldn't have chosen a better neighborhood than Mac-Groveland, as it was, and still is, called.
I can't imagine growing up in any other area of St. Paul. The neighborhood's proximity to private colleges and schools made it academic-rich and was comprised largely of professionals.
Of course, the decor of the house changed over the years, thank goodness. The flowery carpeting was replaced by beige plush; the wallpaper removed and walls painted; the green frizee couch went out with the 50s, along with the white chrome table.
But even an extreme makeover couldn't erase the many years of warm memories in our Lincoln Avenue abode.
We had long outgrown our little duplex on Minnehaha Avenue that my parents had bought as an investment. Seven of us lived downstairs, and the upstairs quarters were rented to a newly-married couple.
During the summer of 1953, we moved to Lincoln Avenue in the Macalester-Groveland neighborhood of St. Paul, Minnesota.
The big white house looked like a mansion to us.
Built in 1913, it had three stories and a full basement, plus five porches. There were two large enclosed screened porches, one off the living room that became our playroom in the summer; the other off the master bedroom.
There were flower patterns everywhere: in the carpeting, the wallpaper, the drapes, and the hallway going upstairs.
There was one pattern for the carpeting, one pattern for the living room wallpaper, a different pattern for the dining room wallpaper, and yet another pattern for the drapes. Though perhaps fashionable then, it would be HGTV's nightmare today.
Our green nylon frizee couch, moved from the duplex, now stood amidst pink and rose colored flowers.
The kitchen had black linoleum flooring in a square tile design. We had a white chrome table, usually covered with oilcloth, and a defined seating pattern that never changed: two children on youth stools either side of Dad; three on a green bench on the other side of the table; Mom and me on each end.
A white Gibson refrigerator sat in the entryway of the back door. The back door was never locked, even if we were gone from the house for a week on vacation. If we ever had keys, I doubt that we even knew where they were.
The dining room had a built-in buffet that held everything from the telephone and phone directories, to combs, brushes and curlers, to Sunday School books and offering envelopes, to Mom's china dinnerware and silver. The phone was the only one in the three-story house, and we were on a party-line.
One phone, five teenage girls, a shared party-line.
The dining room had a pair of window seats that you never see anymore, but should. They were ideal storage places for Mom's fabrics and sewing supplies, since her sewing machine was also in the dining room.
When weddings approached for five girls, our just-received gifts were proudly displayed on the window seats.
The top of the window seats provided a great play space for my little brother's Tonka trucks and matchbox cars. He must have worn a path along those window seats as he ran his toys up and down the wooden surface.
An upright piano was on the opposite wall of the dining room, and, of course, there was a big dining room table and chairs in the center. On birthdays or holidays, we ate in the dining room, a real treat.
I'm not sure how my parents found the house, or their criteria as they were house-shopping, but they couldn't have chosen a better neighborhood than Mac-Groveland, as it was, and still is, called.
I can't imagine growing up in any other area of St. Paul. The neighborhood's proximity to private colleges and schools made it academic-rich and was comprised largely of professionals.
Of course, the decor of the house changed over the years, thank goodness. The flowery carpeting was replaced by beige plush; the wallpaper removed and walls painted; the green frizee couch went out with the 50s, along with the white chrome table.
But even an extreme makeover couldn't erase the many years of warm memories in our Lincoln Avenue abode.
Friday, October 29, 2010
The shops on Grand
We had the typical shops of the 50s and 60s in our quiet Mac-Groveland neighborhood in St. Paul. I wrote about Dory's corner grocery store in the "Boxcar Children" post.
Our weekly allowance was most often spent at Dory's, on the corner of Grand and Prior. There we'd find shelves of penny candy or two-cent Tootsie Roll pops; or Popsicles and Dreamsicles in the freezer.
Dory was a fat, grumpy old guy. He was always clearing his throat. We could almost hear him groan as we approached the store. Not a friendly shopkeeper at all.
So we would request candy from the very bottom shelf where the penny candy was kept: Double Bubble or Bazooka gum, root beer barrels, or candy buttons on a paper roll. Then Dory would lean over with his fat body, hold his back with one hand, and grunt as he retrieved the candy.
But then, when he straightened up, we’d change our minds and select something else instead: candy lipstick, Lik’M’Aid, a wax pop bottle, or a marshmallow cone.
Then he’d have to lean over, groaning, again.
This sounds so cruel now. But I can’t help but wonder: Why didn’t he just put the penny candy on the upper shelf in the first place?
Besides Dory’s, we liked to go to the dime store further down on Grand Avenue. There, the rotund owner, Mrs. Stetson (we named her Stella), and her mouse-like clerk, Mrs. McBride (we named her Minnie), watched as we perused the selections of construction paper, scrapbooks, black photo mount corners, rubber cement, wedge-shaped erasers, colored index cards, finger paint sets and protractors and compasses.
The wooden floors creaked and there was a large black heater vent in the middle of the store that we liked to walk over. If we were lucky, the heater fan would kick in, sending a blast of hot air to blow on our bare legs.
Next to Stetson's store was the Grandview Theater. The local neighborhood theaters (indeed, all theaters then) had only one screen and one feature movie that played for weeks.
My mother took my sister, Christine, and I to see “The King and I” and also “Rear Window,” though I can’t for the life of me imagine why she’d take us to an Alfred Hitchcock thriller.
I already mentioned Lacher Drugs in the "Corner drugstore" post, on the corner of Grand and Fairview where you could sit at the fountain and drink phosphates or cherry, vanilla or lime Cokes, and buy magazines and comic books.
Across the street on Fairview was Strandy’s Bakery. Mom would send me and Christine there to buy bread. It was so fresh, yeasty and warm, and we’d always eat the crusts on the way home.
Next to Strandy’s on Grand Avenue was a supermarket under various ownerships. Originally a Klein’s, it became Krogers, then Piggly Wiggly. You could get Klein bars for three cents, and small jars of pickles or maraschino cherries for a dime. Yes, we would buy dime jars of pickles with our allowance and eat them on the way home.
Next to Strandy’s on Fairview was the Dairy Queen. On occasion, Dad would take us all for five cent ice cream cones. Of course, the Dairy Queen was only open in the summertime and only had one outdoor window, unlike the fast-food restaurants they are today. And though it was only a block away from home, it was a rare summertime treat to go there.
Today, Grand Avenue remains dotted with small shops and, for the most part, except for a Subway where Lacher's was, has escaped the chain-store invasion. I believe that a concerted effort on the part of the neighborhood association of residents and business owners has been responsible for this. They have been outspoken in their protection of the quaintness of Grand Avenue and, to their credit, have thus far been successful.
If you visit Grand Avenue now, you'll find a neighborhood that has remained pretty much as it was when I was growing up there. Yes, Dory's is gone (a small bicycle repair shop took its place), Stella Stetson and Minnie McBride are no longer there, Lacher's has closed, Strandy's is now a cafe, and the Dairy Queen has been razed.
But Grand Avenue has been well cared for by its inhabitants and shopkeepers. And the heart of Grand Avenue is the same.
Our weekly allowance was most often spent at Dory's, on the corner of Grand and Prior. There we'd find shelves of penny candy or two-cent Tootsie Roll pops; or Popsicles and Dreamsicles in the freezer.
Dory was a fat, grumpy old guy. He was always clearing his throat. We could almost hear him groan as we approached the store. Not a friendly shopkeeper at all.
So we would request candy from the very bottom shelf where the penny candy was kept: Double Bubble or Bazooka gum, root beer barrels, or candy buttons on a paper roll. Then Dory would lean over with his fat body, hold his back with one hand, and grunt as he retrieved the candy.
But then, when he straightened up, we’d change our minds and select something else instead: candy lipstick, Lik’M’Aid, a wax pop bottle, or a marshmallow cone.
Then he’d have to lean over, groaning, again.
This sounds so cruel now. But I can’t help but wonder: Why didn’t he just put the penny candy on the upper shelf in the first place?
Besides Dory’s, we liked to go to the dime store further down on Grand Avenue. There, the rotund owner, Mrs. Stetson (we named her Stella), and her mouse-like clerk, Mrs. McBride (we named her Minnie), watched as we perused the selections of construction paper, scrapbooks, black photo mount corners, rubber cement, wedge-shaped erasers, colored index cards, finger paint sets and protractors and compasses.
The wooden floors creaked and there was a large black heater vent in the middle of the store that we liked to walk over. If we were lucky, the heater fan would kick in, sending a blast of hot air to blow on our bare legs.
Next to Stetson's store was the Grandview Theater. The local neighborhood theaters (indeed, all theaters then) had only one screen and one feature movie that played for weeks.
My mother took my sister, Christine, and I to see “The King and I” and also “Rear Window,” though I can’t for the life of me imagine why she’d take us to an Alfred Hitchcock thriller.
I already mentioned Lacher Drugs in the "Corner drugstore" post, on the corner of Grand and Fairview where you could sit at the fountain and drink phosphates or cherry, vanilla or lime Cokes, and buy magazines and comic books.
Across the street on Fairview was Strandy’s Bakery. Mom would send me and Christine there to buy bread. It was so fresh, yeasty and warm, and we’d always eat the crusts on the way home.
Next to Strandy’s on Grand Avenue was a supermarket under various ownerships. Originally a Klein’s, it became Krogers, then Piggly Wiggly. You could get Klein bars for three cents, and small jars of pickles or maraschino cherries for a dime. Yes, we would buy dime jars of pickles with our allowance and eat them on the way home.
Next to Strandy’s on Fairview was the Dairy Queen. On occasion, Dad would take us all for five cent ice cream cones. Of course, the Dairy Queen was only open in the summertime and only had one outdoor window, unlike the fast-food restaurants they are today. And though it was only a block away from home, it was a rare summertime treat to go there.
Today, Grand Avenue remains dotted with small shops and, for the most part, except for a Subway where Lacher's was, has escaped the chain-store invasion. I believe that a concerted effort on the part of the neighborhood association of residents and business owners has been responsible for this. They have been outspoken in their protection of the quaintness of Grand Avenue and, to their credit, have thus far been successful.
If you visit Grand Avenue now, you'll find a neighborhood that has remained pretty much as it was when I was growing up there. Yes, Dory's is gone (a small bicycle repair shop took its place), Stella Stetson and Minnie McBride are no longer there, Lacher's has closed, Strandy's is now a cafe, and the Dairy Queen has been razed.
But Grand Avenue has been well cared for by its inhabitants and shopkeepers. And the heart of Grand Avenue is the same.
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