Put on your Keds or store brand sneakers. Get your bike. Hop on and let’s take a ride down one of the city blocks that was the western boundary for the neighborhood that hosted my childhood. We will visit the homes and families that played an integral role for my formative years in the 50s and 60s. We will meet a variety of people and in order to be respectful, full disclosure of their last names won’t be part of this tour. Their names aren’t the driving factor of our tour; it’s what I recall from each of them and how they helped to form my values and opinions today, living in the 2000s. Are you ready? Do you have your bike? Do you have your baseball card and clothespin clipped to the spokes of the wheel to make a cool clicking sound? Are there plastic streamers hanging from the plastic grips on the handlebars? Is your city issued bike license clearly displayed on the frame under your seat? No matter the answer, let’s go!

Our first stop is the home of the H’s. They moved in after the family of 3 left. They had four kids, drove a Ford (on goodness no! We all declared–this was GM territory) Playdates were a daily event with them and soon we learned that Mrs. H had an uncanny knack making homemade donuts and her willingness to share with whoever happened to be outside her back door was indeed a jackpot win. The H’s were Lutheran like us although they attended a church closer to home compared to us.

Across the street from the H’s, on the other corner of Zauel Street, was the D family. They had two children and their oldest daughter Karen was also a daily playmate for me. Mr. D was an assistant principal at an elementary school and he often brought home confiscated items from his students. Mrs. D was also very proficient in her kitchen and any meal or snack made by her hands was delicious! They were Baptist, attended church twice on Sunday and midweek on Wednesday. As a child I could not wrap my head around all that church attendance. Wasn’t once a week enough?

Next door to them we park our bikes in the double driveway of the G family. Theirs was the largest home on the block, beautiful brick compared to the wood siding of all the other homes on the block. Why? Mr. G owned his own construction company and was responsible for many custom homes built in Saginaw in the boom of the 50s and 60s. They had five kids, two cars in the garage and a cottage up north. By outside appearances they were rich. They also liked to party. It was not uncommon to see a beer truck back up in that double driveway, pick up the empty bottles and deliver cases of long neck beer bottles stacked on a pallet in the corner of their garage. As I recall, my mom and dad were never invited to any of their parties. The G family, as far as I know, never attended church; weekends found them at the cottage. By the way, that double driveway made for a perfect basketball court for the boys; their hoop was mounted on a pole that was erected on the side between them and the D family.

Further down the street was the S family. They had four boys, all tall like their dad. Mrs. S was barely five feet tall but what she lacked in stature she made up in personality. She had complete control of those boys and her driveway was often the place for a pickup game of basketball with the hoop that hung over the entrance to the garage. As far as I know, they did not attend church either.

Our little legs are pedaling our bikes to another corner of Zauel. It’s here that we park them on the lawn and play with the D kids, all four of them. Their mom could take an entire loaf of wonder bread and turn it into peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to feed a bunch of kids. She did so with no hesitation, only taking a moment to pickup the rotary phone to call mom…”Ida, Susan will be eating lunch down here today, just wanted you to know so you won’t worry…” Those rotary phones in each home were secondary communication; the first was sending a kid with the necessary message, pedaling as fast as was needed based on the urgency or topic. The D family was related to the G family; Mr D was a finish carpenter and brother-in-law to Mr.G. If they attended church I wasn’t aware; later in life when I saw them at the funeral for Mr. H I found out they were Methodist and very involved in their church and faith.

Coming back down the street, after enjoying one of Mrs. D’s sandwiches we meet another G family. They had three kids. And, this Mr G also worked for Mr. G’s construction company; he was the bricklayer. They were frequent guests at the house parties across the street….and I don’t believe they attended church either. Both Mr & Mrs G were rather gruff people and once in awhile let words fly that weren’t common place in my house.

We can leave our bikes in the yard of the previous G family and walk next door to the F family. They had six kids, the most on this busy block. They were Catholic, sent their kids to the local parochial school for their parish. Mr. F was a car salesman for the Oldsmobile dealer, smoked huge cigars, and coached the boys of the neighborhood in a city little league. Mrs. F kept to herself; she was a quiet private woman. Oddly, I cannot tell you what the inside of their home looked like. None of us kids were ever truly allowed or invited inside their home. When we came to the front or back door to “ask” if their kids could come play, we had to wait on the porch, even in the rain or cold.  Speaking of their kids, and the fact they attended parochial school, I was always jealous of the days they were “off” from school to honor a saint. It seemed they got more days off than us public school kids. They were the only Catholic family in an otherwise protestant or agnostic group of families.

Next to the F family was another home with dad, mom, and two boys. I cannot pull their last name from my memory. Mom’s first name was Shirley. Why can I remember that? The boys in the neighborhood liked this mom. In the summer she wore short shorst and tube tops. She had a beautiful figure and always had her hair very stylish and makeup applied. Their home was across from the G construction family. Both yards hosted snow walls in the winter for snowball fights. She, too, was non intrusive or a domineering factor in our childhood play. She pretty much kept to herself, but it was her that came immediately to my aide one August evening when I took a bad spill on my bike. She cleaned me up while Mr. and Mrs. D came outside to investigate.. It was Mr. D who drove mom and me to the ER because my dad had the car that evening. I don’t think Shirley and her family attended church either but she was very kind under all the outward beauty.

We can park our bikes in my yard now. Our short ride took us to a variety of homes. The memories and character of each home, whether churched or not, are not things to be judged with a critical spirit. Rather, I would tell you that in evaluating how each set of parents in these homes acted, how they talked or treated us kids was quite remarkable. Expectations were mostly the same. If a line was crossed the rotary phone was used without hesitation to report any misconduct. Imagine that before you could pedal back home from any one of these houses, your mom already had received a call informing her of your infraction.

I may not have completely understood my Baptist, Catholic or unchurched families, but I knew I was loved, cared for by all of them, especially those moms who were home all day while the men were at work. Course language was mostly saved for adult time, yards were turned into play areas, pantries were emptied for simple lunches and pitchers of Kool Aid kept us hydrated on hot summer days.

Our ride has revealed a total of 50 kids living on the east and west side of Zauel Street; there’s actually more but a fading memory isn’t allowing me to visualize all.  By today’s measure, that’s a lot of kids in the span of one block. That’s a lot of donuts, snacks, P & B sandwiches, Kool Aid and phone calls from a black rotary phone on a kitchen counter.

Keep your bike nearby and your sneakers ready to be laced up again. Our next ride will take us down Wheeler Street where we will meet some more neighbors.

She grabbed a simple spiral bound notebook and pencil. At age 13 these two common items were part of a normal 8th grader’s pile of textbooks and accessories used every day in the classroom. Only now the paper and pencil take on a new adventure. Instead of writing out assignments or calculating math problems, she will choose to write, calling upon her growing imagination to string clever words together, to tell a story that is her own, but not really knowing where to begin she looks for an example and she decides she can be the next Laura Ingalls Wilder. Yes, she will write about living on a farm, on a prairie, with a family of her own carefully characterized as she births each one in her mind, translating those images to the paper. Yes, she will become a famous author. And so she begins….

She’s in high school now. The spiral notebook and pencil from long ago were laid aside after writing only two chapters of a book that would make her famous. What happened? She doesn’t truly recall, except that without a solid plan or outline her “book” was tossed on the pile of procrastination and lack of follow through that seemed to be larger than her dream to write. Entering high school she still yearned to write; she engrossed herself in language arts and enjoyed all the reading and writing assignments by her teachers. To her surprise, she chose to be part of the school’s yearbook team and in her senior year was chosen to be the editor, though her skills were immature and not as strong as others who could have done a better job in the role. Yet, she stepped into the role and flourished. She had a place to write and to shine.

High school graduation came and went without much fanfare. The uncertainty of where to go, what to pursue, the  “what do I do now?”  questions haunted her. Working on a yearbook that won national awards had spurred her on in her desire and dream to write. Maybe she could work in an advertising agency and create awesome ads for companies? Yes! She could try that, she could finally gain recognition and fame for fancy words and unique ideas. But she didn’t. Practically speaking,  she didn’t know how or where to go for that kind of education or opportunities, Lacking clear direction or guidance, she landed in business school and upon that graduation landed a position in a small local bank which launched a 20 plus year career that taught her immeasurable skills, put her in the path of many interesting people and yet in the midst of those productive years, the desire to write did not fade. 

Marriage and raising children came along which was a different way of satisfying life’s dreams for her. She made numerous friendships along the way, mostly with women she met in the church that had become a second home. Other worthy connections developed in her community and during her youngest child’s high school years she found herself employed by the town’s small newspaper. Her responsibilities consisted mainly of clerical and office duties, but being in the presence of all the words, all the daily work associated putting together a newspaper reignited her dream to write. So, one day, in the midst of doing her routine tasks she asked the owner of the paper. “Could I have a chance to write?”

She can still remember how getting her first writing assignment made her feel. She “had arrived”. She would write such a wonderful and amazing article, one that would surely launch her into the exciting world of being a “writer”. The owner of the paper was impressed with her work and her father kept a copy of the article in his drawer at home, a sign of his ongoing role as one of her biggest fans and encouragers. Other than this, there was no huge fanfare, no demands for her skills with words.

Several more writing opportunities were given to her over the course of her tenure at the news office, but they didn’t completely satisfy the need, the draw, the hunger to “write”. Leaving that job, she settled into being home more, spending time with friends, serving in a variety of roles at her church. Soon, she was introduced to social media and with the convenience of having a laptop and access to the Internet, she found herself daydreaming again, wondering, asking herself “what if” questions, remembering the 13 years old girl, the high school student, the young adult woman who entered her senior years still embracing the deep desire to weave words, paint word pictures, inspire, spark a smile or a gut wrenching laugh, the flow of tears down cheeks–those kind of compositions. She remembered, too, once thinking how great life would be to write and publish a magazine or newspaper that only featured positive news, human interest stories reflecting the goodness and kindness of people. With easy access to social media and the Internet that idea which could have consumed her dream, burned up or faded away into nothingness did not happen. She found an avenue to write using a blog site and she created her own “Page” on social media. The ordinary items from teen years–a spiral notebook and pencil–were now replaced with a keyboard and a screen, merely awaiting to be opened, clicked on, echoing  clitter and clack sounds under the direction of her fingertips.

She has come a long way from the days of a notebook and pencil, from the desire to be the next Laura Ingalls Wilder, a famous advertising agency writer, or renowned author of human interest stories. She can look back on 50 years of  life and see exactly how every experience, each cherished memory, those things that make her who she is, will be her source for pulling out ideas to thread into a story, a blog, a series of topical devotionals, a record of her life that allows her to offer encouragement, kindness, love, and above all, hope. 

She is walking on a path that is pursuing and hopefully leading her to great things, no matter how many rocks she needs to step over or having to decide which twist and turn in the path to follow. She has not arrived. She is only beginning. She is “Me”.