Lincoln house, continued

In my reminiscing about my family's years at the house on Lincoln Avenue in St. Paul, I neglected to take you through the other, most interesting rooms.

So, to continue our little tour, off the dining room was another room that might be described as a den. However, it was never actually used as a den, but served as my Dad's home office as it had a built-in desk. A black Royal typewriter sat atop a metal stand, and a green swivel chair made it look pretty official.

But the room had other uses as well. A baby changing table made it "baby headquarters" as my new little brother arrived into the family. It also served as an "ironing room" for the many baskets of ironing that seemed to multiply by themselves. The ironing board was kept at the ready in this room, awaiting the laundry was that rolled up after being sprinkled with water from an old 7-Up bottle.

And, if a bottle of Mogen David concord wine and a few stemmed wine glasses qualify as a liquor cabinet, then, yes, that was kept there as well.

The second floor could be accessed either through the kitchen or the living room.

There were three bedrooms and a very large, spacious bathroom that was about the size of a bedroom. We had an old-fashioned porcelain sink; no double-sink vanities for us, though we sure could have used them. A plain tub and toilet, linoleum flooring, a couple of wall medicine cabinets, no frills.

We had a clothes chute in the bathroom which continued down through the kitchen. As the clothes made their way down the chute, they would sometime land on a pregnant cat, about to give birth. Or a new mama cat and five or six little ones. Then, of course, we wouldn't disturb the laundry.

The only other bathroom in the house was in the basement. We hated it (cement floor, cobwebs, no door), but when it was needed, we were glad to have it, pulling the chain to flush as the tank was mounted above the toilet.

Dad had a workshop for his tools and woodworking equipment. He was a handyman-wannabe, good at patching and improvising repairs. He was creative in his woodworking, and eventually refinished the third floor attic, dividing it to make a bedroom for me.  My very own bedroom! He even built in two shadow-box shelves.

The attic, we'd all agree, was our favorite part of the house, and was accessible through the upstairs bathroom. It was our general playroom, but was transformed into a dentist's office, a library, a school, a store, or anything else our imaginations inspired us to create.

Our doll house, a desk, some old furniture, shelves for our plastic dishes, a miniature wooden ironing board and an iron that actually plugged in and heated (well, slightly warmed) made playing "house" seem quite realistic for us girls.

Remember, my little brother was downstairs, never far from Mama's apron strings, running his little Tonka trucks up and down the window seat.

Although we tussled, argued, and generally questioned each other's existence, there was much laughter and fun coming from that third story. Many happy hours were spent there together, usually when we couldn't be outdoors.

I end the tour with the outdoors.  Our back yard was large, bordered by shrubs which created privacy. Unique to the yard was a stone fireplace, set slightly askew next to the large vegetable garden.

Gardening occurred haphazardly, I guess depending on my Dad's ability to devote time to the effort. But on a good year, we enjoyed tomatoes, carrots, and a large rhubarb patch. Sometimes the produce made its way to the table, or the blue speckled canner; other times we'd simply pull it out of the ground and eat it on the spot.  Especially rhubarb.

There were two apple trees in the yard, and the side of the house contained plum trees and Lily-of-the-Valley, still one of my favorite springtime flowers.

The front yard was set on a hill and was the neighborhood gathering place for the games we played at dusk. The sloping of the hill, the shrubs and pine tree made it perfect for hide-and-seek.

I once described my years growing up to a friend, who, after listening patiently to my recounting, concluded that it doesn't get any better than that.

So true.

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.

The iris are blooming

Of course, the iris are blooming. It's what iris do every spring.

Well, not my iris. But my iris comes with a story.

When my sister, Joan, lived in rural Ames, Iowa, there were several abandoned - and I mean abandoned, as in no one was ever coming back - farm houses: delapidated, decrepit, deformed and unfit for human habitation.

But oh, the treasures we found in those old places.

Carefully creeping through windows and negotiating wooden floors about to give way, we found old pots, teakettles (perfect planters), an old bed frame, a wonderful old hand lotion bottle, some great rusty utensils, some old clay pots, and other various items of nostalgia.

Because we needed to feel connected to these places, we named them. One was "Margaret and Thomas's" house (I think we found some old junk mail in the house addressed to Margaret and Thomas), and the other was "Elizabeth's house." The former occupant really was named Elizabeth and my sister had heard she had long ago been moved to a nursing home.

It was at Elizabeth's where we found the iris. Sorely neglected but still standing proud and strong, they needed to live with us (we decided) where they would receive tender, loving care and continue to honor Elizabeth.

So we dug them up, divided them, planted some at Joan's and I took the rest home. We didn't even know what color the flowers were.

Sure enough, the following spring, they stood in my garden sturdy as can be and the most beautiful yellow blossoms came forth.

The next year - nothing. They just stood there, all green, no blossoms, no flowers. The year after, same thing. The third year, out they came again with beautiful yellow flowers.

So it appears that is their cycle. And this is the year of the bloom.

Aren't they lovely? Thank you, Elizabeth.