Whenever I am asked who had the greatest impact on me as a role model, hands down my number one answer is my father. Dad was one of the kindest men I have had the privilege to know, let alone being his daughter. He always had a twinkle in his eye, calm emotions and spoke to people wherever we went on errands or short trips. His kindness, love and acceptance of other people flowed through his relationships within family as well as the workplace. In our neighborhood, children were valued and loved when they came to our house. I’d like to introduce you to a few favorite memories of interactions my dad had that gave me a beautiful eye into his soul and heart.

Carol. She was about five years old and lived at the end of our street. She was allowed to ride her bike or take walks that brought her to our house where quite often she found my dad puttering in the yard or garage after dinner. In the summer, the garage door was always open and he’d be in jeans and a t- shirt, working away and whistling. On one particular hot summer early evening, Carol stopped to visit with dad. Under a blanket of complete five year old confidence she announced to dad, “Mr. Jewell, I won’t get bit by mosquitoes because I’ve got Off on.” (Dad knew about the product but had to have some fun with her) “But, Carol, how can it be off if it’s on?” She rolled her eyes and attempted to explain a bit further. “Mr. Jewell, it’s called Off but you spray it on and then the mosquitoes don’t bite.” 

“So Carol, you spray it on, but it’s called Off, but it’s not really off you because it’s on you, so why is it called Off if it’s on you?” 

This back and forth went on for a bit longer until Carol shrugged her shoulders, rolled her eyes again and exclaimed “Mr. Jewell, I just don’t think you’ll ever understand.”

***

Lester. This boy who lived on a nearby street in our neighborhood came from a family that didn’t “have much” as my parents used to say to describe what would be commonly referred to as a low income family or poor. It’s crucial to know, too, that when I was growing up in the 50s and 60s, the Saginaw River that ran south of us was very dirty and polluted from chemical and other waste dumping. The river teemed with carp that were able to grow to a hefty size, but families living in the city were admonished not to eat them. But there was Lester’s family.

Again, on a hot summer evening I was sitting on the front porch with dad. Most likely he had just finished mowing or watering flowers. Sitting on the porch, talking, and waiting for someone to walk or drive by was a pastime as we hung out as father and daughter. The corner of our neighborhood wasn’t especially busy with a lot of traffic, but there was enough activity to help pass the time waiting for the hot sun to give way for cool evening breezes. Soon, along came Lester with a couple buddies, each carrying a catch of several carp, big slimy looking fish swaying back and forth on their poles swung over their shoulders as they made their trek home from the river. We watched in silence. I waited until they were out of earshot and asked dad, “Do you think they’re really gonna eat those awful fish!” Responding in his usual gentle manner, he simply replied, “Susan, those fish may be the best meal they’ll have this week.” Even for a girl who was about 12 years old when this incident took place, I knew what he meant. Not every family had ample or healthy food to put on the table. 

*** 

Warren. As dad’s career with the city grew and promotions came, by the time I was in high school he had been appointed as Chief Building Inspector for the City of Saginaw. That role put dad in a position of meeting a lot of diverse people, both on the city’s payroll or in the community he served. This is where dad met Warren who was the assistant fire chief. They took a liking to one another and became friends. Warren found out my dad was a woodworker with all the great tools for the trade and asked dad if he’d run some boards through his table saw for him. Sure! Was always the answer and once again the humdrum of a hot summer’s evening was interrupted with the humming of dad’s table saw which was in the garage.

Warren showed up at the appointed time, parked his car on the street and came to the front door. When dad greeted him, Warren asked “Jack, are you sure you want me in your neighborhood?” Without any hesitation, I heard my dad say “Warren, you are my friend. Now, go get your family, your boards and let’s get going with what you need.”

Why was Warren skeptical? Maybe even a bit fearful? Warren was black. 

My dad saw color in people, but beyond that he saw the person, their character, a potential friend and in this instance, an opportunity to do a small favor. What I saw as Warren and his family made their way into our home was genuine kindness and respect. I remember his wife and daughter joining me and mom in the breezeway as the men took care of the lumber; I made a big batch of popcorn to share with his little girl. We all had a wonderful time together before they left for home.

***

A “Bum”. Long before my time people who were considered homeless were called hobos. For some reason the term “bum” was conjugated and used to describe the less fortunate living in our midst. I don’t think we were being particularly nasty when calling someone a “bum”; it was merely our way to describe their circumstances without truly knowing how they arrived at living a life dependent on the generosity of others. So, meet one such “bum”.

Trash pickup was early Friday morning which meant dad or one of my brothers hauled the barrels to the curb on Thursday night. They were always overflowing with the week’s stuff that had to go. Our barrels would be full of cans, food scraps, paper, and chunks of wood from dad’s woodworking projects. There was never a lid on the barrels or trash can because of the spillage of “junk”. One week dad put out an old sport coat that he didn’t need or want anymore. Remember how I mentioned that our street didn’t see a lot of traffic? Well, on trash night, that changed. We’d see a few people doing drive bys in their car, scoping out what everyone had put out for the garbage company. One Thursday evening, a “bum” arrived on our street, riding his bike and stopping to scavenge through everyone’s stuff. When he got to our house, he saw the sport coat, parked his bike and promptly tried it on, stretching his arms up and down, admiring himself, looking down and over his torso to determine if it was a good fit. If I hadn’t known better, I’d swear he thought he was standing in front of a mirror to get a look at himself.  We guessed the jacket was a good fit, because we watched as he folded it very carefully and placed it in a basket attached to the handlebars of his bike. Dad’s reaction? “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t need that coat any longer; I hope it helps him out for a long time”.

***

Errol. This stern, grouchy man lived across the street from us along with his wife and two daughters. As a whole, the family was not very pleasant nor did they interact well or very often with the neighbors up and down our street. Errol was a city employee, too, so at times dad rubbed shoulders with him in addition to having him on our street. 

When I was a teen we had a small dog named Sydney and he didn’t know proper boundaries for staying in our yard if not leashed. It was another summer evening. Windows and doors were open to let in fresh air. Sydney needed to be “let out” to do his business and before I could snap his long leash on his collar he escaped my grasp and off he charged down the sidewalk. Errol’s two girls were in their front yard playing and Sydney made his way over to join in the fun. Only, the girls got scared, started screaming which alerted Errol and his wife who both came out their front door yelling at our dog to go home, which he did. But that wasn’t the end to the mishap which only amounted to our little dog jumping on the girls and trying to lick their faces. Errol walked over to our home, my mom answered his knock at the door and was the recipient of his curses and belligerent threats as a result of our dog’s wandering into his yard. I was shocked to hear a man use the Lord’s name the way he did, let alone his tone and pitch with my mom. (Dad was away during that time, most likely at a meeting of the city council or working a side woodworking job) Oh, but when dad arrived home. Details of the incident were relayed by my mother–still shaken and upset–and I saw a side of my dad that was reserved for such times.  We watched dad walk over to Errol’s home, have a brief conversation, and return home. This is what we learned that had ensued. When Errol came to the door dad unleashed on him “Don’t you ever talk to my wife like that again. Don’t you ever look at my house again. When you drive by our house, keep your eyes on the road, don’t bother to look at us or attempt to say hello or wave. As far as you’re concerned, we do not exist”. 

I can still see Errol driving to work or other places,both hands on the steering wheel and his stern face staring straight ahead. Dad had made his point and it landed well. 

So, how did my dad, the middle child in a very poor family of 11 children, who grew up in northern Michigan on an 80 acre farm end up in Saginaw and land a career with the City? That information and more will be revealed in future entries. For today, my goal was to give you but a small glimpse into the man who modeled love, kindness, and respect–even righteous anger–in the way he treated people. 

I wish you could see the twinkle in his hazel eyes that I still miss…hear the buzzing of his table saw…and share a porch that served as front row seats watching the variety of people that strolled over the stage we called life on many a hot summer’s evening.

Connected with bicycles, roller skates, baseballs and basketballs, before cell phones and personal gym memberships (except for the YMCA or YWCA) were city parks which were located throughout the city’s neighborhoods. These parks gave kids a safe, wide open space to go to after school or during the warm days of spring that ushered in the hot days of summer break between grades. If the play area wasn’t directly on a school property, they were operated by the city; in my case the City of Saginaw Parks & Recreation Department. Our closest large park was two blocks east of our house, Merrill Park, and it took up an area large enough to eventually house a new elementary school, baseball diamonds, two skating rinks in the winter, and open space of grass and trees. This park was a beloved host to many weeks and years of my childhood life, including as a young adult when ice skating remained a favorite pastime.

In my early years, when mom began allowing me to make the short walk or bike ride to the park, this gem became host to many favorite activities. There was a huge swing set under shade trees, sets of monkey bars to climb. In the summer months, when the “cooling/warming” house was staffed with high school or college age students, we had access to playing four square on the specially marked pavement, tether ball around the pole with its badly worn circle of dirt where scuffling feet and hot sunny days killed the grass. Kids from all over the adjacent neighborhoods came every day, all ages, to participate in whatever game or activity was taking place. Everyone knew the rules for behavior and if any problems arose or if tempers gave way to disagreements or fights, the staff was quick to supervise and determine if someone had to be sent home for the day.

Other activities offered by the City through the park were making crafts. While I don’t remember exactly how many different things we could make, I clearly recall purchasing strings of thin plastic and learning to weave them into a square that could easily become a keychain or streamers on the handles of our bikes. It was a pastime that made for a wonderful afternoon sitting in the cool shade and hanging out with other kids. If it was a rainy day, we sat inside the park’s lone building, to make our craft. Thirst was satisfied with a drink from the water fountain and luckily there were bathrooms which saved us from making a long trek home when necessary.

In the winter, the City flooded two areas of Merill for ice skating. To one side of the main building, a hockey rink was established, complete with the border walls. They were dark green and from years of use quickly became worn and chipped, but the neighborhood boys didn’t care. As long as the nets were in place and perfect ice had been achieved, games were played anytime enough guys were available to make up two teams. In the winter, the hockey rink was where my brother Mark spent all his available time. He developed into a pretty good player, smooth on his feet, and aggressive with his moves as he ushered the puck down the ice to the goal. Often, after school, as soon as he could get his gear together, he took off to play hockey until dinner which was promptly between 5:15 and 5:30. As much as he was instructed by mom  “to come home on time” he got caught up in the game and ignored his internal clock or responsibility to check the time and I’d be the one to get on warm clothes and boots to make the walk down to the park to plead “Mark, it’s time to come home. Mom said so…” and he’d reply “just one more time around the ice…just one more time….” I can’t tell you how many times I made my plea, got cold, and returned home alone, letting mom know I tried. Eventually Mark would come home and after one particular scolding from mom for being late, he said “Mom, I’d rather skate than eat”. It’s one of our favorite memories to bring up these 60 plus years later.

For kids and adults who obviously didn’t play hockey, a free skate rink was also created every winter. Banks of snow were piled high to encircle it which could also be used to sit and put on our skates if we didn’t walk over to the warming house, but most of us used the convenience and warmth of the building, sitting on old wooden benches as we laced our skates, sticking our boots under the bench seat knowing they’d be safe while we enjoyed the smooth ice. I was 11 when I got my first pair of skates. They were actually a Christmas present from my brother Mark who used earnings from his newspaper route to purchase them. I was so excited to get on the ice and give them a try. Dad went with me, helped me get them laced and tightened properly and in his own words told mom later “Susan, put those skates on and off she went across the ice like a professional!” Gliding across the ice came naturally, my strong ankles supported me well and those skates fit me well into my late teen years skating at Merrill or Hoyt Park (more on that park in a future entry)

Yes, Merrill Park offered me summer days soaring high on the seat of a swing or gliding across perfect ice in the winter. Numerous friendships came and went in the same manner that one season replaces another, giving way for games to end, memories to fade, and being “too old” for all that a park gives to a child. Countless works of art created with chalk on its pavement have been washed away by many a summer’s rainy day. Yards and yards of crafting yarn or plastic have been discarded after becoming old, losing their novelty and purpose. The “cooling/warming” house is still there. Gone is the huge swing set and monkey bars. Winters no longer see the two skating rinks as budgets don’t overflow with funds to pump the thousands of gallons of water needed to make for mirror quality ice. I can still see the green hockey walls, smell the interior of the warming house in winter or summer, and remember standing in line to be next in four squares when a player was “called out”. I can recall learning the techniques of tether ball and hoping I’d not get hit in the face with a fast return hit by my opponent….I have so many fond memories of the walks and bike rides to this beloved simple park that kept me and so many other kids busy year round. The park was free, it was beautiful. Our only cost to be at the park  was the energy it took to get there and make it through hours of play under sunshine, rain, or snow. 

Our bikes from early childhood years soon gave over to becoming more utilitarian, especially in our home where we were a one car family. This factored in to planning errands, appointments, and other things requiring a car for dad and mom. The majority of the week dad had the car for going back and forth to work. Most every Friday mom drove him to work so she could get groceries or get to her weekly hair appointment. This routine of sharing a car never changed; they shared one car into their aged years, always figuring out to make it work. But, back to the bike.

On days during the week when mom didn’t have the car and was in need of bread, milk, lunchmeat–whatever had become a necessity, one of us kids was sent to the neighborhood corner market which was several blocks away. We easily could have walked the distance but using a bike made for faster travel, especially on days when we were home for lunch from school. (Yes–back in my elementary days we got an hour for lunch!) Our neighborhood market was owned by the Trojan family. Father and son ran this small store that had all the essentials, grocery shelves, paper products, meats, and a walk in cooler where “adult beverages” were chilled, waiting for the after work crowd to purchase. The Trojan family was either Italian or Greek. No matter their ethnicity, both men were daunting in size compared to us kids. They were serious business men who got easily annoyed at kids dallying around in their store trying to choose penny candy from the counter, all under their watchful eyes set in a crinkled face, leaning over the counter wearing a look of impatience. No matter how we felt about going into their store, it served as a quick one stop place for the things mom needed to complete her lunch meal for us and dad (Yes–he came home for lunch!)

I remember many such trips to Trojans Market. The ride there was easy enough. Returning home was the challenge. Hold on and steer the bike, grasp the brown shopping bag, twisting the top around the handlebars making it somehow easier to still steer with both hands, making sure I had the change from the dollar bills tucked safely in the palm of a hand or deep into a pocket. If that wasn’t enough of an effort, it was important not to squish the bread or drop the entire bag of purchases. On days when mom felt extra generous, there was also a package of Windmill or Pecan Sandies cookies for dessert. Certainly, those were guarded with dear life!

In one of my past entries, I mentioned that Zauel Subdivision was bordered on the west by a cow pasture. For a time cows actually grazed in the grasses of this city long block, but as the years from the 50s eroded and made way for the 60s, the cows left, the grass grew taller until a developer purchased the land and a Vescio’s Supermarket was built. Competition for the Trojan family, as well as other small markets in our close vicinity, arrived. The Vescio family had several stores in Saginaw and a reputation of higher prices compared to A & P, Ray’s Food Fair, but for us they were a hop, skip and jump away. Unless we wanted to ride our bike to this new, larger store for the same things mom needed on occasion, we could easily walk which meant the ability to carry not one bag but maybe two! Many times, especially in my teen years, I was mom’s chosen errand runner. By this time my oldest brother had married and was on his own; my other brother had a paper route and eventually got a job at a restaurant right across from Trojan’s Market! I didn’t mind being sent to the store for mom because on the short walk there I’d secretly wish that “Kim” was working as a bag boy because he was one of the cute boys from Zaul Street. I had a crush on him and every time he was at the store, did bag my order, and smiled at me I noted that he MUST have the same feelings for me. Never mind he was enough older that being interested in me really never appeared as  a light on his dashboard of potential girlfriends. 

Other little odd stores in our neighborhood included a “dime store” It was in the same block, next door to Trojan’s Market. Though we could get penny candy here, too, it offered dry goods, toys, household goods for the families it served. For some reason, grouchy clerks behind a candy counter seemed to be the job description for the position. “Clara” was the long time older woman who clerked in the dime store and there were many hot summer days she grew impatient with us kids who were thinking, thinking, and rethinking what to exchange our two cents, nickels or dimes for from the array of candy bars, gum, or hard candies that came rolled in a small tube. We never left the store without having her tell us “you kids hurry up and decide what you want!”

Down Wheeler Street and off to the right on Jordan Street, bordering my original elementary school, was Skivington’s Market. It was very small compared to others like it. Along with the usual grocery items was its own candy counter on which the cash register sat. That’s were Mr. Skivington or his lovely wife stood and waited on every customer who came in. Unlike the Trojans and “Clara” this lovely couple absolutely enjoyed engaging in conversation and became a favorite place for my brother Mark to hang out, most likely on his walk home from high school, to grab a cold pop and snack, and chatter with these folks until he knew he best get home before mom began to worry. In my own junior high days their little market was about half way between the school and our house, so I became a buying customer, too, usually a Payday candy bar which was purchased with a nickel and shared with my best friend. 

Visits back to my old neighborhood, to the very places mentioned above, have revealed the sad erosion of once thriving businesses to either boarded up buildings or the disappearance all together. I no longer recognize the buildings that once housed Trojan’s Market or the “dime store”. The Skivington Market is gone now. Vescio’s Supermarket changed ownership a few times, sat empty for a while and is now a church.

Most families now have not only one car, but perhaps two or more depending on need and ages of who’s at home. Kids on bikes isn’t the crazy scene it was in those years that brought development, advancement, and change. Conversations over a candy counter in an unconditioned store have been exchanged for quick in and out transactions. Penny candy purchased with returning empty pop bottles have been replaced with bottle return bins. Bag boys–now referred to as a “bagger”–are fewer in number. There are little markets on most major corners in any city now. Joining in the competition for whatever we run out of, are the gas stations, donut shops, 7-11’s, etc. who all offer bread, milk, cookies, candy….but what they are missing is a Mr. Trojan, a “Clara”, or the Skivingtons…all small neighborhood business owners who were part of many a kid’s life whether it came with a grumpy frown or a long conversation with a high school boy taking a break on a long walk home. Say what we will about “one stop shopping” at Meijer or pushing our cart down the many aisles of any large grocery chain store, I miss riding my bike to the store. I miss the challenge of juggling and balancing precious purchases to make a school lunch. And I wonder where life has taken “Kim” after his brief stint as a “bag boy”. And I wish a Payday candy bar was still a nickel.