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.

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.

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”.

Matthew 4: 1 – 11

Stepping out from the cool deep waters of baptism, Jesus’ next recorded event by Matthew is a description of spending 40 days and nights in the wilderness, fasting. A look at a map from that time in history reveals a lot of barren land around the spot along the Jordan where He was baptized. If ever someone wanted to be alone, the expansive region certainly provided the right atmosphere. Yet, He is not alone. It’s the Spirit of God Who leads Jesus to the dry arid terrain and after His 40 day “retreat”, He meets His adversary who is first described as “the tempter”.

Before I expand on the encounter between Jesus and satan, there’s a couple of interesting things to know about some small details and background information contained in these 11 verses. First, is the significance of the number 40. According to one site which gave insight from the viewpoint of a Jewish rabbi, the number 40 in Hebrew represents transition or change, concept of renewal, a new beginning. Other examples were given as well, but it’s worth noting that His retreat to the wilderness for 40 days following His baptism signifies something new indeed is coming. It’s as though there are foundational blocks being laid to launch and support His earthly ministry.

Secondly, another scholar states that it was fitting for Jesus to be baptized in the Jordan River as this was where the Israelites crossed over into The Promised Land. It’s always apparent–and exciting!–how God uses numbers, locations, symbols to tie in everything in scripture to reveal truth for us!

So, back to our account of this desert experience. At the end of the 40 days Jesus is hungry and Satan seizes the opportunity to prey on the human side of His weakness. But, he loses. Not to be defeated he appeals to tempting Jesus to desire power. Another loss. Lastly, he brings out the big guns to entice Jesus into wrongful worship, and, again he is defeated, to the final point of leaving Jesus alone. He departed. When he does, angels swoop in to minister to Jesus, reviving Him, tending to His needs.

I have never attempted a 40 day fast. The longest I’ve done any fast is about one day’s worth of meals. It. Was. Hard. I cannot imagine a lengthy one at all, therefore my mind and body cannot comprehend the consequences of extreme hunger and thirst. What I CAN grasp is how quickly satan can and will arrive on the scene during a fast. When he does, suddenly everything food wise sounds delectable and aspirations to be spiritual begin to pale. But God.

No matter if I’m trying to fast or strolling through each day, when temptations come or situations that are hard wear me down, I–like Jesus–have scriptures to defeat my tempter. I may not have hundreds of verses memorized like some of my more astute friends, but I have enough of them in my memory bank to pull one from my quiver, aim and shoot back. I also have a shield of faith to ward off the fiery darts and arrows coming my direction! (Ephesians 6–The Full Armor of God).

Nope, I don’t plan to entertain entering a LONG fast anytime soon but I DO intend to keep reading, studying, devoting myself to prayer, and maybe, just maybe, memorize a few scripture verses. Just in case.