Seasonal changes and the addition of 50 plus kids of all ages make for a noisy neighborhood. Outdoor play was our main source of attraction in year that didn’t include digital devices, where watching television was limited to three channels (more if your house had an antennae) and nearby empty lots, a cow pasture, an abandoned glass factory from years gone by, and the farmland I talked about in an earlier entry. While the memories are countless, what I remember most are pickup baseball games, shooting hoops in driveways, snowball fights on a perfect packing snow day, and a variety of other childhood play that satisfied energetic minds and bodies.

Before housing developers came along and changed its landscape with homes, the area behind the houses facing Zauel Street was void of buildings of any kind. Stretching for a city block, this land teemed with grass, weeds, and a set of rail tracks that were no longer in use. The southern portion of the grassy area became the diamond for us kids to play a pickup game of softball. Well, for the boys really. We girls were not invited to play with the boys. Instead, we could watch and cheer to our hearts content. On many summer days, a game was launched with the boys taking time to carefully “choose up players” for each team. Games were played following the rules, using no official umpire other than playing fairly and with honesty. A lot of dust was kicked up as batters rounded the homemade bases and long throws to home plate in attempts to get the player “out”. It was a sad day when the first home was built right where home plate and the foul line to left field was “home” for hundreds of games…

A game of pickup basketball was another favorite summer time activity. And, again, mainly for the older boys in the neighborhood. They had a couple of houses with a hoop mounted on a pole or above the garage entrance. The G family had their hoop on a pole located on the edge of the double paved driveway. The width of the drive made it perfect for games of one on one, Horse, or teams of 3 to 5 depending on who showed up that day to play. My oldest brother was usually one of the consistent players. He’d play baseball, too, but really enjoyed basketball. His tall, lean build was very advantageous for the sport. Down the street, the S family had a hoop above their garage door. Their drive was long and narrow and though paved, served as a slight disadvantage to how the boys enjoyed more elbow room when playing. No matter where the boys played basketball, I would watch from the grass, especially as we all grew older and the boys started getting cuter for some odd reason….

Winter weather did not keep us kids inside unless the temperatures were extremely cold. When the temperature was “perfect for packing” we knew the day held a pretty good chance for a snowball fight, all in good fun of course. Unlike the baseball games being relegated to “boys only”, we girls were included in these wintry escapades. Armed with mittens and an appetite for victory, at a designated time we “chose up sides” again, each side’s “captain” eyeing every one of us who wanted to be part of the challenge. Rules were established by the captain (with input from us other kids as the majority)  Molding, shaping, and piling our ammo usually took about half an hour. No matter how many snowballs we could form in that time, when the 30 minutes were up the signal to attack was given with a mere vocal countdown “1-2-3–Throw!” and throw we did. I need to mention also that part of the fight’s effort included building a snow wall to hide behind and also served as a barrier to stack our ammo.  Our snowball fights spanned the width of the street since one team used the G family’s front yard and the opposition was in the C family’s yard. The danger of passing cars was zero as our street was not a major route on anyone’s radar. So, we could throw snowballs all day long without seeing a car for hours. The only dangers we encountered were the possibility of a carefully aimed snowball hitting someone just the wrong way on a face or head and mittens that could not keep us warm or dry for extended “fights”. Even with those factors, we were pretty invincible or so we thought….

Baseballs, basketballs, snowballs. They all served as wonderful sources of play that was orchestrated by us kids establishing our own rules, including who we chose to be on our team, and playing until we got tired or it was time to go home for lunch or dinner. Seldom did a parent interrupt us and most certainly, these were years none of us paused to check a phone for a message or pull up social media to see what was happening around us. We were connected with each other by the echo of a bat meeting with a ball, the dribble noise of badly worn basketballs and cold melting snow on crusty mittens. As we all grew older, the games didn’t change, but the players got bigger, stronger, and slowly too old to be “on a team” anymore. Regardless of each kid moving on as maturity occurred, the memories still remain. Each time I revisit the old neighborhood, the houses are still there. Many different families have come and gone. I wonder if they’d be interested to know there are two perfect front yards that make for a good snowfall fight?

In a neighborhood of 50 plus kids, ranging in ages from babies to those in junior high grades, a variety of behaviors and activities are sure to blossom in creative or otherwise mischievous minds. Our neighborhood did not lack these departments. Let me share some episodes with you.

It seemed that every few days or so, especially during hot summer days, a fight would break out with at least two kids, maybe more. And the fighting wasn’t limited to rambunctious boys; we girls took a good many turns as well. The difference was that the boys would punch, kick, and wrestle one another until someone cried “uncle”…those participating in the quarrel got up, brushed off  dirt from jeans or shorts and resumed playing whatever had pre-empted the scuffle. We girls didn’t fight like the boys. Instead, our feelings got hurt or we became angry at not “getting our own way” playing house or Barbies, and one or several went home in “pout mode”. It usually took hours or minutes for the pout to subside before we returned outside to join the very girls who had angered us. My “girls” were Karen and Kathy. The three of us were pretty much inseparable as playmates but when emotions got in the way, we were good at getting mad and marching home to mom or tattling to their mother. Fortunately, our respective moms were cautious at taking sides; my own mom would advise me to stay inside and play by myself for awhile until some time had passed by to build a bridge back to my “threesome” friendship. It always worked.

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Our small neighborhood of Zauel Street was the second to last one before the city boundary which made up the southwest corner. Superior Street ran behind Zauel and was bordered with a cow pasture from the time of my birth until the 60s when a grocery store was built on the northern part of the pasture. Arthur Street, where our house sat, ran east and west, was dirt until the mid 60s. Mr. Rader’s farm field was across from our house and his western border had a ditch that ran north and south which served as runoff for the Saginaw River located to the south of our neighborhood. Though I don’t have any clear recollection of its history, a very small air strip had been in existence on the western side of the ditch, on higher ground. When I began adventuring further away from our streets, I and my friends discovered concrete amidst the overgrowth of grass and weeds. This area, along with the trees, shrubs and tall grasses in the drainage ditch made for perfect fort building and the pretend games that came with our crude structures being whoever we wanted, consuming our summer days with physical creativity and stretching our imaginations. Our forts weren’t fancy. They were semi sturdy, allowed a break from the sun and even rain drops. We didn’t care how they looked or the quality of their function. Our only care was that we had a secret place to retreat to, away from pesky kids, and any cares of the world that a kid might take on as part of growing up.

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Remember that ditch that ran along Mr. Rader’s farm acreage? It not only helped house our forts but since the water was never beyond ankle or low calf depth, it teemed with frogs, tadpoles and other little critters. All were fun to catch in a Mason jar and take home to be kept as “pets” or “treasures” from the wild. But for the older boys in the neighborhood, the frogs had a different purpose. This scenario from an exchange between my oldest brother Dave and our mom is a favorite memory.

On a hot summer afternoon David came running into the house and he went directly to the kitchen cupboard where the skillets were stored. He grabbed the heavy cast iron skillet (the largest one) and headed back out the door, all while trying to avoid any contact with mom, who (to his dismay)  was nearby in the living room and witnessed his antics. “David”, she said. “Where are you going with my skillet?” 

“I need it to fry up frog legs, mom. Us guys are catching frogs down by the river and we’re gonna eat them.”

She gasped. She almost shrieked. Later, we discovered she was disgusted as she envisioned those frogs being cut up and becoming a delicacy to a bunch of junior high age boys. She tried to stop him but it was too late. As fast as David had entered the house to get that skillet, he was back out the door and half running down Arthur Street to his waiting cohorts in crime and batches of unsuspecting frogs.

David returned home by dinnertime, with a full belly, skillet in hand that was in need of a good scrubbing. At least according to mom anway. She was still aghast at the thought of frogs in her favorite skillet she used for pork chops, fried chicken, German potato salad, green beans with bacon….”normal” foods….Yup, she scrubbed that thing like it was caked with layers of dirt, grease, and grime that had gone unwashed for years. It went back in the cupboard. Both she and David had their version of freshly cooked frog legs to tell and these 60 years later? The skillet is in my possession now, still cooking up tasty recipes for my own family but I can honestly say no frog legs have sizzled on its surface since David’s “fish fry” with a bunch of guys cooking them over an open fire on a hot summer day.

Recently, I undertook the task of sorting through a box of photographs, all black and white I might add, that spanned a lot of family history from my family. There were numerous photos of dad while serving in the Navy, poses of mom with us kids whether it was all three or as we joined the family. They also include those moments and memories when dad captured the antics created by us kids. While sorting and fingering these precious  memories I came across one that brought a big smile to my face and a chuckle in my throat. I found myself looking at myself, a photo taken in July 1957; I was four years old,  sitting on my tri- cycle wearing a metal sand bucket on my head. Standing next to me with a very serious look of scorn or sadness is Katie, my little playmate. She lived next door to us and was the youngest in her family.

We are both wearing warm coats so the weather must have been chilly that day. Not only am I wearing a bucket on my  head, but there’s another one swinging from the handlebars of the bike. Maybe that’s why Katie is sad? Did I not share the other bucket with her? Where’s her bike? Did we take turns riding the one that is shown in the picture? Though I don’t have the answers to these questions I can clearly recall that getting the handle of the bucket down below my chin was a tricky feat. The sturdy handle didn’t “give” way for the snug fit created by this original “look”, my little fingers tugging at it until I got it positioned under my small chin.

Katie and I were pretty tight. She had a hard time pronouncing my name, Susan or Susie, so hers came out as “tooey”….a nickname that stuck with me in the neighborhood and even mom who stretched it to “tooey pie” as a term of endearment. Because both Katie and I were the babies of our families, we often played by ourselves as our older siblings went off to other adventures that didn’t include two little sisters getting in the way. But this didn’t mean we weren’t capable of dreaming up our own shenanigans. Enter a new car and a big mud puddle.

It had rained during the night and a big wonderful mud puddle was formed next to the driveway at Katie’s house. She had an uncle who visited one day, driving his new car for all of her family to come out and admire. It was yellow, about the shade of a creamy homemade lemon pie. And it was parked right next to that mud puddle. At first it was fun to make mud pies with our tiny hands, patting them out flat as we flipped them back and forth between our palms, feeling the wet gooey dirt between our fingers. As much enjoyment and fun we got from forming and squishing the pies, our attention turned to the car and we had a lightbulb moment. What if our pies would stick to something? We carefully planted a pie on the side of the car and voila!–it not only stuck, it stayed in place and in a short while dried a bit, all the while staying in place on the car door and fender as we continued our mud pie display. We were SO proud of our artwork that we didn’t notice when the front door opened and her uncle appeared on the scene. I wish I could remember if he was angry, laughed, or reacted some other way but I don’t. All I can recall is that he asked us “what did you do!” Being the sweet little girls that we were we gave the only rational answer possible…”nothing”. Never mind that our hands, pant legs, and sleeves were covered in the undeniable evidence left from mud pie making turned into displays of art on a ready canvas. Never mind that as the pies dried out even longer, they eventually fell off the car leaving a faint circle outline on that beautiful creamy yellow backdrop.

I’m pretty sure we weren’t punished other than a verbal scolding. Katie’s uncle was left to the task of washing his car and at day’s end our mother’s would put us in a tub to soak away the mischief of the afternoon. It’s a great memory, but unlike wearing a bucket on my head, there’s no photo of the mud pie art display, only faltering details of a new car, a mud puddle and glorious opportunity with a partner in crime.

Heartache in the Neighborhood

Years have passed since we rode our bikes through my neighborhood of childhood that eventually ushered in teen years, high school graduations, college educations and launched fcareers and life as adults taking on the beauty and responsibilities of marriage and becoming parents of our own. This stage of my adult life includes a reflective mirror that allows glimpses back on those formative years that seemed so idyllic. And, though they were, holding onto the treasures and memories of bike rides, games of hide and seek, Halloween night escapades along with snowball fights and the building of forts, sorrow was not an unfamiliar guest.

We are standing outside the home of the G family, the ones who lived in the brick home, owner of the construction business. The years of long neck beer bottles being delivered to their home have taken on the reality that alcoholism exists in the lives of these wonderful friends and neighbors. It’s a truth that escaped my childhood innocence for many years. I wouldn’t come to recognize and understand for quite some time the devastation this disease’s toll can have on a person. While I never actually saw anyone in the family when they were drunk, I knew. Slowly, details of dysfunction emerged in the life of their oldest son, Gary. I would describe him as a “bad boy”, handsome, talented in many ways, but possessed a weakness towards alcohol and rebellion. Though our lives separated once high school graduation took place, I learned that after working with his younger brother in the family business for many years, he died. His body was destroyed by the effects of too much drinking. I can only imagine the mental anguish he endured that drove him to drown his problems in a glass of beer.

This same family had another son, Jeff. He came along late in life to Mrs. G. I can clearly remember him being born and becoming a delightful child. But, later as an adult, whatever tormented Jeff caused him to take his life. As if losing one child is certainly unbearable in my own imagination, I cannot fathom the loss of two.

We can wander now to the middle of the street, to the P family. Let me introduce you to them as I didn’t do so in the previous year’s bike tour. The P family had two daughters, both of them very pretty and fun to play with outside or with our Barbie dolls in the shade of a tree or garage. Mr. and Mrs. P were rather private people too. (I used to confuse private with being stern or mean)

Like the lost connections with the other kids of Zauel Street, I had no contact with the girls after moving away from home. I learned that the oldest daughter, Barb, had married and had a toddler son. She had a great job which involved the opportunity to travel. One of those business trips took her and her husband to Texas. I learned that before they left for the trip she insisted on creating a will and custody arrangements for their son in the event of death. This desire was scoffed at by her husband and I hold no fault for that. Don’t we all assume life will never be interrupted? But it was. Barb and her husband were in the back seat of a taxi one evening during the trip and they were rear ended in an accident. Barb did not come home on the plane alive. Her husband, her family, joined the group of despairing families who had suffered extreme loss.

Remember the home of Mrs. H? The mom who made donuts or other goodies for us kids? They, too, experienced the loss of a child. Not one, but over the course of a few years, two daughters. Tragically, one took her life and the other died several years ago of an illness. Intertwined with those losses was the suicide of a daughter who belonged to the oldest son, granddaughter to Mr. & Mrs. H. This past year, the surviving daughter of David died from a heart issue; she was only in her 30’s. 

Back at my own home, now empty of our memories with a new family living there, I am thinking of my oldest brother David. He often recalled how he helped our dad with the different phases of building the house which was completed in 1954. He’d smile when he told me about seeing me walk for the first time, getting up from sitting on a pile of hardwood flooring and taking off through the house that could be walked in a circle through the doors to each room. David left home in 1967 when he married. He didn’t move far from us so visits were frequent, especially when his three daughters had birthday celebrations or holidays rolled around. 

Dave was my buddy. Seven years older than me, we seldom argued. He tried to teach me euchre, let me borrow his baseball mitt (we were both left handed) and we shared a love for popcorn and homemade ice cream, both of which he would make without any extra pleading on my part. 

It’s hard to believe that  memories are from the 60’s, 70’s, 80’s, 90’s. Before we both realized it, we landed in the 2000’s. Gone were the frequent visits as miles were put between us by my family’s move from Saginaw in 1989. Phone visits kept us connected with a few family gatherings in the summer months. News came by phone two years ago that Dave was struggling physically and emotionally. After several misdiagnoses, Dave received the final report that he had a tumor on his brain. At first, surgery seemed an option, but the tumor had a mind of its own, growing fast, creating and solidifying that surgical intervention was not an option. Dave left the hospital and entered a care facility. As the tumor gained in strength, overpowering his ability to converse much, he had an increased need for pain medication. My last visit with him in person is one I will always cherish. He was in and out of coherence; I can still hear him saying “whoa” repeatedly. Then, and even now, I believe he was getting glimpses of heaven. We were able to exchange “I love yous” that day which became the last words he spoke to me. News of his death came several days later. At the very moment of leaving this life, Dave was reunited with our parents, grandparents, numerous uncles, aunts, and cousins.

While I have absolutely no doubt where my brother is spending eternity, I have to confess I hold a certain amount of fear for Gary. For Jeff. For Barb. Any time I rode my bike or took a walk in my neighborhood back in those years of childhood, I don’t remember any deep connection with God for those families. The immaturity of a child cannot comprehend such a disconnect. It’s now, as I reflect, as I write and describe what I can “see” and “remember” that this precious gift of salvation was not taught or modeled by their parents. Thankfully, the H family were faithful church attenders and opportunity for a relationship with God was most evident.

I haven’t thought a lot about all the families I grew up with as a child. Occasionally a memory will pop into my mind and float by as quickly as it came.When I do ponder the variety of memories and experiences, I can clearly see now that as a child I experienced life  wearing rose colored glasses and adorned myself with  trusting innocence. That was comfortable attire for a little girl born in 1953 who left home in 1974. Now, in 2021, having “lived life”, complete with my own measure of joy and sorrow, coming face to face with my own weaknesses, I am looking at those years with lens of discovery and reality of brokenness, gazing at imperfect people who did their best in the moment, in the years of successes and setbacks, and above all–great loss. Now that I have been able to measure and evaluate the influences from each family, mainly the adults at the time, on my life, I am thankful. I am grateful that in the midst of dysfunction, lack of faith for some, each family was respected, loved, accepted–even disciplined–I marvel at how so “many” different people could build a home, have a family, and create a beautiful, loud, crazy neighborhood that I loved to ride my bike through, stopping for a cold glass of Kool Aid or a P & B sandwich served on a paper plate from one of the “neighborhood moms”. 

Our pleasant bike ride that took us up and down Zauel Street has ended and now we will venture up Wheeler Street to introduce you to those families that were also part of my childhood and teen years. These memories are not as vivid as I realize now that the majority of my childhood friends did not live on this side of the neighborhood block. Nonetheless, there are some interesting people and characteristics that I’ve never forgotten all these 60 plus years later.

Our house faced Arthur Street; we lived on the southwest corner of Wheeler and Arthur. Behind us, butting up to our very narrow backyard, was the K family. They had five children, were Catholic and Mr. and Mrs. K became good friends with my parents. Mrs. K made the best grape Kool Aid on hot summer days (I think she doubled the amount of required sugar, thus making her recipe one of my favorites compared to the conservative method my mom followed) They had a large backyard, a big sandbox and lots of bikes to take turns riding. 

Next to them was a couple who lived by themselves until late in life they were blessed with a son, who ended up being their only child. I can’t remember their last name; I think it started with a G so that’s what I will call them. Mr. G was VERY particular about his lawn. He tended it carefully, kept it well fertilized, and manicured. Mr. and Mrs. G were rather gruff, and I remember being instructed very sternly by him “don’t walk or play on my lawn.” So, is it any wonder that whenever we dare so, we would plant our feet in his grass just to say we had defied his orders!

A few houses down was the W family. Mr. and Mrs. W were rather stern people too. They had a daughter and a son, both of whom I didn’t get well acquainted with until our teen years when high school classes brought us together as well as a small band (more on that later). A couple doors from them was the E family, dad, mom and two daughters. It just so happened that they were the family we shared a telephone party line with which caused trouble on occasion (they didn’t always do the polite thing and hang up immediately when lifting the receiver; we could hear them listening and breathing until we’d ask “please hang up”.) I played with the E girls occasionally as my mother wasn’t fond of their “language” at times, thus banning them from our yard or me from theirs.

Next door to the E family lived a single mom raising two boys. She was one of two such women on the street, a rarity in my childhood years. I remember including her oldest son in some of our playtimes with the Zauel gang. 

Back down the street and on the corner of Wheeler and Gilbert was the S family. They moved in and aroused our curiosities since they had four kids and became the “new family in the neighborhood”. Two sons were their older children, followed by two girls. They quickly fit right in with all the Zauel kids and soon became a favorites place to play in the summer because they put up a small pool. Theirs was the home where I learned that white bread torn in chunks to soak in Campbell’s tomato soup was a delicacy. 

Mrs. S could sometimes use language that would make a sailor blush. I can visualize her leaning on her kitchen counter, smoking her cigarette and talking to a girlfriend, cuss words flying left and right. After experiencing this display of colorful conversations she carried on for what seemed like hours, I recall going home and telling my mom “Mrs. S sure is angry a lot” and explained my reasoning when asked why was because of her wide range of swear words. Mom laughed a bit and told me “She’s not mad, that’s just her way of talking.” And mom was right, when I got in my teen years I realized she was one of the most loving women I’d ever meet. In fact, she was very generous too, beyond opening up her home for inside play dates and serving up a quick lunch. She was the “cool” mom who, on an early Saturday afternoon, piled a bunch of kids into her car and deliver us to the Court Street Theater for a double feature of scary movies. Since this was in the early 60s seatbelts weren’t required so I know we had kids on the seats with a few of us smaller ones on laps. She’d drop us at the curb and tell us where to be at the end of the second movie for the ride home, windows all open and us noisy kids telling her about the movies!

When I hit my teen years of high school, Mike S., who was an avid drummer put together a small band. He asked me to join as a vocalist, along with Greg W., a guitarist he knew named Bob (he was really cute and eventually became a boyfriend for awhile) , my best friend at the time, Luann, and our manager was a good friend to Bob (can’t remember his name). Mrs. S let us practice in their home and never complained about the racket we made. We were lucky to get a couple of gigs and thought we “had arrived”. But, gigs come and go and so did our little band, but not without leaving behind some great times together!

In the middle of the block across from grouchy Mr. and Mrs. G was another family, Mrs. W and her children. She was a single mom too. She kept to herself and anytime I played with her daughters, it was in our yard. She had an older son who everyone liked; he served in the Army and during the Viet Nam War was killed. But that wasn’t her only heartache and tragedy. One summer night a couple police cars pulled up to her home and the officers lingered for a long time, going in and out of the house, carrying stuff, checking the trash can on the curbside for pickup. Soon, neighbors were coming outside to stand along the edges of our yards, wondering and speculating what the fuss was about. I remember standing on our front lawn, my mother beside me, and we too pondered the situation. I don’t remember if it was hours later that hot summer evening or a few days into the week when we found out that Mrs. W had birthed a child and whether she harmed the baby herself or something accidental happened, she had disposed of the tiny infant in the trash but her attempt to self protect was found out….I can still hear my mom, upon learning of the facts, told me that Mrs. W must have been in a very bad situation and it wasn’t our place to judge her, but to love and give her grace. It’s a lesson attached to a very vivid memory which has become foundational to my understanding of grace.

On the corner was the R family. They had two boys who were quite rambunctious and caused my dad a lot of scratching his head. Dad would often tell people he’d never forget seeing Terry on the roof of their home literally swinging from the rods of the TV antennae. Before storm sewers were put on our road, it was Terry who would sit on the drain to stop heavy rain water from escaping the curbed lined streets, so us other kids could wade, splash and ride bikes through the deep water.

Perhaps the last family to describe from my childhood memories is the R family who eventually came to build a home across the street from ours. Mr. R farmed the land along Arthur Street. He grew corn, wheat, and sugar beets. He and his wife had three children, all older than me so their boys were someone my brothers would “hang out” with and Mr. R also hired my brothers to be “water boys” for the migrant workers who came in during harvest time. Mr. R was a big, tall man with a huge smile and a matching belly laugh with nary a mean bone in his body until us kids would play in his wheat, knocking it down as we used it to create imaginary castles and forts. His youngest son Tom was a lot like his dad, all fun, always up to a challenge. In the aftermath of a snowstorm one winter, where we got over several feet of snow, it was Tom who decided he’d clear the road with a family car. Somehow, he managed to drive the car down the street a ways, rev the engine and drive at full speed right into a mound of unplowed snow where he promptly stayed stuck for awhile, giving all us neighbors a good hearty laugh and another person to dig out of the deep snow.

These families, along with all the others on Zauel Street, made up my childhood. Farming ended for Mr. R when I was yet in grade school, walking the two blocks to our new building that I attended from second grade until sixth. He sold his land to a private club who created a beautiful golf course and dining facility where corn and wheat used to cover the rich soil. Another developer turned the curbside portions of ditch and weeds into buildable lots and a variety of houses were erected in a matter of months, allowing countless families to join our merry band of kids riding bikes, tossing Frisbees, flying kites, and creating all kinds of snow forts. We all grew up, graduated high school, went off to college or the workplace. 

Everyone is gone. The years have taken parents to eternal resting places. Whenever I visit the “old” neighborhood, I can see faces, smell the kitchen aromas through open windows, hear the laughter and arguments typical of childhood play and growing relationships. The families are gone though the homes remain. The memories have faded but the feelings of love, acceptance, and adventure still linger, all worthy to be recorded and share with you as we park our bikes after enjoying this last adventure together, this trip around a city block that was home to a wide variety of families who will forever remain in my heart, soul and mind.