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.