As I continue to reflect on my 20+ years in the banking industry, I would be remiss if I didn’t write about some memorable individuals and the experiences I got from meeting them, interacting in conversations or merely observing. While there are many to choose from, I hope to share some of my favorites and if their personalities and the things I share may seem odd or cause discomfort, it’s only my attempt to present truthful observations with no attempt to ridicule, put down, or lay down any judgment whatsoever. On the contrary, growing up in a very loving what I thought was “normal” family, my time with the bank allowed folks from all different walks of life walk into my idealistic world and shake it up in a good way. Here we go!

Betty:  Betty was mentally ill and for most of her adult life lived in a secure home or facility. During one of her times being on the “outside” she had opened a savings account with us (before my time) By the time I met her over the telephone, she was under lock and key so to speak, but with phone privileges. With one of her allowable phone calls, she called the office I was working in as an administrative assistant. She wanted to speak with Mr. Knapp who was our vice president at the time. She wanted him to send her a check to close her account, she wanted her millions that were on deposit. Betty remembered that she had opened an account and indeed it was with Mr. Knapp back in the founding days and weeks of the bank’s start. But, Betty didn’t have millions. She had $1 in the account. 

I don’t remember how he or I resolved her “command” to send her the money. I remember feeling sad for her and learning how to tactfully get her off the phone with repetitive questions leading to nowhere but frustration for both of us.

A Man & His Dog:  When I met this man I was working in a small office along with the bank president, vice president, and Doris, another administrative assistant. When this man came through our door with his dog, we two women were alone. Asking him how we could help led to his demands to “keep an eye on his injured dog” (a lab) until his return. He explained that the dog had been hit by a car at the intersection that the bank sat on, he was going to a pool hall to shoot some games and would return for the animal. He was adamant that we not call a vet or the police regarding the dog, that he fully expected the dog to be with us upon his return and to ensure our obedience he pulled a bullet from his pocket, placed it on the corner of Doris’ desk, and walked out. Once he made it out the door we turned to look at each other with “what the heck just happened!” expressions on our faces.

Doris didn’t waste any time calling one of the guys across the hallway to the bank lobby and I didn’t waste any time telling her I was allergic to dogs! I wish I could remember clearly how we dealt with the poor injured dog, I don’t. I do remember the man returning to the bank after a few hours and going up verbally against Ken, our branch manager. Ken had called the police who did take the dog away and the bullet was in Ken’s possession as they faced off discussing “who did the most wrong”. Once again, I got to witness the unfortunate effects of mental illness.

Mrs. W.: Her first name was Louise and she was well into her 80s when I met her. At first I fell in love with this older, sweet lady who had misplaced her checkbook.” No problem Mrs. W–I can close your account and open another, order you new checks.” Do that at least four times over the span of a few months and realize something “more” is going on other than an occasional misplacement of a checkbook. This dear woman, who was widowed and no immediate family to my knowledge, was in the early stages of dementia. My concerns grew but I was tied as to how I could truly help her. Out of appreciation for my continued assistance she even invited me to her small apartment for dinner and I went, even though bank policy may have dictated that I not. But going I went, ate a simply prepared meal with her followed promptly by a social studies lesson complete with a wall map and pointer in her hand as she “taught me a lesson”…one that I now know was in the deepest remotest part of her memories, far away from the present which most likely  included the whereabouts of her checkbook.

I knew Mrs. W was Lutheran and called her church to speak with her pastor, asking for help. I truly don’t remember what happened with her after that phone call. I think she was pointed in the direction for the much needed assistance required for a person suffering with dementia. On the evening she taught me the geography lesson, I’m sure it brought her great purpose and joy. Looking back, Mrs. W’s interactions with me  would later help me begin to recognize the lapse in my own father’s memory and cognitive thought processes. Dementia is pure hell….

A Widow: I met this beautiful 50ish aged woman at our administrative offices. Though we didn’t serve a lot of foot traffic, she had come to our location in need of help. Her predicament was related to her checking account which meant I was the person to help her. I got her seated at a small table where she proceeded to lay out several monthly checking account statements and her checkbook. “I don’t know how to write a check. I don’t know how to pay my bills. My husband did all the money stuff and he died”. I sat there stunned. My mind went different directions. How do I help her? How do I fix this and get back to my stack of work? How do I teach her? Oh my goodness, MY mom pays all the bills too and does the money stuff too!…..

I took her through basic check writing skills, showed her how to balance her account….started her out fresh with the amount she had on hand on that day.

She asked me, “Can I come in here and see you when I need to pay bills? Would you help me do that?

Oh goodness, I thought to myself. I can’t do that! We aren’t in the business of THAT kind of personal banking!  I couldn’t tell her my thoughts. Instead I asked her if she had family. 

“Some,” she said. I inquired if she had anyone she trusted that would help her in the future until she felt comfortable.  “My pastor, I trust him”.  I encouraged her to talk to him about helping her.  What happened next just before she got up to leave caught me off guard but has stuck with me forever; this kind woman didn’t hesitate or skip a beat, she bowed her head and prayed “Lord, thank you for Susan. Thank you for her kindness, for helping me….” Though I don’t remember the exact prayer, those expressions of gratefulness ring inside me to this day, echoing lessons of witnessing humility and thankfulness from one stranger to another. More importantly, from one Christ follower to another.

Floyd:  This older-grumpy-rather unassuming-man had a way of making his presence known whenever he entered the bank regardless if it was the posh administrative building or a branch location. He owned a meat market, had some pretty decent wealth and was someone that the commercial lenders and bank president pursued and wooed to gain his business. After many lunches and cold calls to his market, they succeeded. By the time his accounts were landed I was working in our branch location on Bay Road which was the closest for him to conduct deposits to his accounts. Floyd had no polish. What he lacked in manners and appearance he made up with loud course language which he used for shock value. 

I was working at my teller window when he came in one afternoon. He was garbed with his butcher apron that was covered in blood. As he strolled in holding his deposit bags, he began yelling “look at the GD people working here….no wonder I pay so much in F—-g service fees, gotta pay all these GD people.” By mid outburst our branch manger Elaine was out of her office scurrying around like a mother hen trying to calm Floyd and submit to his need for big shot status..  He loved seeing the frenzy he could create and she (unknowingly?) gave him great satisfaction. Me? Not so much. I kept working while I watched and listened, much to my amusement. Whose window did Floyd choose to plop his deposit bags down? You guessed it. Mine. I looked up, greeted him “Hi, Floyd. How are you doing?” 

“You!” he said. “Why aren’t you all in a tizzy with me coming here?” (He knew full well how and why his behavior affected people) I stayed calm, got a bit bold (could I get fired for what I was about to say?) “Well,, Floyd, I’m not in a tizzy because it’s you. You’re one of our customers and I treat everyone the same.” He quieted down, stepped back a little and said “I like you. Why can’t all the other F—-g people be like you? You don’t get flustered.”

No, Floyd, I don’t get flustered, I thought quietly to myself.  In the back of my mind as I was smiling at you, speaking with you and processing your deposit, I was thinking that even though you have lots of money and bank personnel thought you were important, you are no more important or deserving of special treatment that I’d give and continue to give to customers regardless what  their checking or savings balances reflected. And being a willing laughing or scared audience member to your filthy mouth and crude treatment of women was not a game I signed up to play. Yup, Floyd, a smile and ignoring your childish needs was all I needed that day to learn a lesson of respect, kindness, and remaining calm when up against a foolish foul mouthed person.

Mental Illness. Dementia. Fear. A Crude Fool. These few are but several of the customer relationships I encountered. Each conversation revealed things I  would learn about human nature and the circumstances that come with life. They are lessons that no one except fate itself could have written. They are memories embedded in my mind, ones that helped me to broaden my horizons and gain understanding into the hurts and needs of others. Those lessons I gained then continue to offer me insight as I wake each day wondering who will cross my path today….

Obtaining a position with First State Bank in June of 1972 was my first full time place of employment, one that spanned a good 20 years plus with a short break in between. I certainly cannot write about all the memories I made during that time, however, I’d like to highlight the ones that helped shape me into the person that I am today, good and bad if I’m being honest.

During the first four years of working in the installment loan department I aged from a mere 18 to a 21 year old. I really thought I had my life figured out, plans made for my future and knew what I wanted to make me feel happy and satisfied. I was meeting many new people as co-workers and customers, all who stretched and challenged my idealistic-good girl-naive mindset as new circumstances arose to make me rethink or stand firm in my convictions. I’ll do my best to describe situations or a person that made an impact on me.

Ron: He was a co-worker in the installment loan department. The only other person in the office was our supervisor, Russ. They both wrote loans for our customers and my duties were as receptionist and performing clerical work. Ron was not a trustworthy young man. At age 25 or so he was still living at home, had a wild imagination that produced lies and he had no boundaries concerning women. Ron was always on the prowl looking for someone to take on a date. Even though I had a boyfriend at the time, he didn’t care. His unwelcome advances towards me always went ignored on his end. It was an ordinary work day for us, Russ was out of his office, I was seated at my desk working and Ron grabbed a sheet of paper, wadded it into a ball and walked over to me and threw it away in my wastebasket, grabbing the back of my right calf as he stood up. “If you ever do that again,” I said, “you’ll be singing soprano”. He didn’t laugh, but he did try to back peddle from his obvious attempt to harass me. I continued working, he returned to his desk and I never told Russ or anyone else in supervisory roles about the incident. In 1972 sexual harassment incidents were not on anyone’s radar–at least not mine. I’d never been warned about them, the subject was not discussed at home or school. My response to him came from deep instinct and the knowledge “women deserve to be treated with dignity” (thanks Dad)

Geraldine: This spunky tall slender black woman was one of our most beneficial tellers in the main lobby of the bank. She knew all the “street” people, knew how to chat about their business, their lingo, their “situations”. I think Gerry was one of the first black women I’d met, other than several co-worker friends my dad had introduced me to in younger years. Gerry was married and had two boys. Her husband was not the most likeable or reliable man according to her gut wrenching belly laughing stories told over lunch. The way she described Curits was that the ‘family dog don’t like the man!’ Her reputation with the “looked down upon”, the “questionables” of Downtown Saginaw was visible by the sometimes long line of customers waiting for her to conduct their banking needs, usually cashing a check. As I said, she knew her customers and the trust they put in her was not transferred to other tellers. Often, we’d hear “I can help you over here” answered with “No, I’ll wait for Gerry.”

Debbie: Young, only 17, tall and very pretty, Debbie came to the bank as a high school co-op student to work in the installment loan department in 1975. The department had grown to our supervisor, myself, along with two lenders and two collections officers. Our afternoon was interrupted briefly when a male customer came to the work counter asking to have the lien statement on the title to his car terminated since he had paid the loan in full. I took care of the transaction, thanked him for his business and told him to “keep us in mind when you need to finance something in the future”. After he had left the office Debbie asked me “how can you be nice to n——-s?” I was shocked. I had never experienced such a blatant example of hate based on skin color. I was furious but maintained a calm to tell her “that man is our customer. This bank has MANY customers who are black, you better get used to it because it doesn’t really matter”. I think this was the turning point in our relationship where very few conservations took place between us. 

Steve: When I met Steve I was in my late 20s, married with our first child as a baby. By now the bank had been purchased by National Bank of Detroit (NBD) and administrative offices were relocated from Downtown Saginaw to a beautiful building along the river. No longer part of the loan department, I was now an administrative assistant for an executive vice president, Elwood. Steve was an assistant vice president in charge of the installment loan department. With the exception of the upper executives, our work stations were cubicles neatly arranged on the work floor. I was struggling with some work relationships and had an opportunity to discuss the matter with Steve. Like a gentle father reassuring a child, I remember that he placed his hands gently on my shoulders, looked me square in the eyes and told me “Not everyone is going to like you and that’s ok.” It’s now about 40 years later and I can still recall how his brief instruction with me changed my mindset and allowed some freedom to be enjoyed. 

Doc: I met Doc through the mail (no, not a dating site!) Doc was in a Michigan prison where he was earning money. Because his mother lived in Saginaw, he set up a savings account for the purpose to mail checks for deposit. I opened his account. I got the checks he mailed. I made the deposit and returned the receipt to him. This back and forth went on for several months until my phone rang. “Sue, this is (our receptionist); I have a Doc U. here asking to see you.” I hung up my phone and waited for a moment. Doc? To see me? Isn’t he in prison? These were the questions that flooded my head as I made my way to the front reception counter where I was greeted by a young, tall slender black man. I escorted Doc to a small conference room where we’d have privacy, shut the door and we both sat down. I sucked in a deep breath and boldy (with some embarrassment) asked “Doc! What are you doing here!?” He knew without a doubt all what I was thinking: shock *fear *What’s going to happen now?….After polite small talk Doc broke into the chase to tell me “thank you–thank you for being so kind to me while I was in prison.” Honestly, now I was shocked again, because taking care of his banking needs, though out of the ordinary for me, was all that I knew to do regardless of the “who” or “what” that came with the person’s name. Thanks again, Dad. (By the way, I DID ask and he DID tell me…Doc was incarcerated for breaking and entering; he told me he learned his lesson…..I pray he did and is doing well in life. I never saw or heard from him after our face to face meeting.

Elwood: The Bear. That’s what everyone called him. He was 6’4”, well over 250 pounds, with a voice that shook the building whether he was angry or laughing. As rough as he could be when supervising branch offices or commercial lenders and their business clients, his gentleness came in a close second for top personality traits. He was well liked and he was my “boss” as we called supervisors back then for the remaining years of my employment with NBD. I loved working for him. He had a charismatic way about him, one that allowed me to arrive to work early, get us each a cup of coffee from the machine (always his two quarters!) and sit in his office for about 15 minutes chatting up the start of our day….family….what needed to be worked on for the day or plan a future meeting. No two days working for him were the same thus boredom is not a word I’d use in the same sentence with his name. 

There are SO many good memories I have working for and alongside El. He never made me feel “less than” since I was younger, a woman, a mom, his assistant. On the contrary, I was always treated with respect, was given so many opportunities to serve above my normal job description and education background, to the point of being placed in management training upon the return from giving birth to our second child. (those months are another entry) 

I left NBD in December 1988. I went from full-time management trainee to full-time wife and mom (more future entries) Leaving NBD was a very bittersweet departure in my life. When I made trips back to Saginaw from our present home. I always made a point to visit my former co-workers. At first, it felt very comfortable to return. Slowly, faces changed. New people were now in those cubicles. A few “old timers” still lingered. Along with the fading of faces, I lost track of “The Bear” after he retired, became seriously ill, and much to my sadness, learned he passed away several years ago. His later years were not all healthy physically or emotionally. As I fondly recall all that he taught me as a “boss” who also became a good friend, I hope he knew that even among his trials, he was of great value which was transferred to me by our rare working relationship with each other. 

The years 1972 to 1988 at First State Bank, then to National Bank of Detroit, are filled with countless memories. Perhaps I will expand and write about more of those in the coming weeks. For today, as I described Ron, Debbie, Steve, Elwood please know this. Times change. Times develop. Times allow us to reflect and learn. Sexual harassment is no longer under the radar. Using the “N” word is STILL forbidden in my vocabulary and I’ll call anyone out who uses it….how we form work relationships is under much scrutiny now–I’m MOST certain that a supervisor would be instructed to NEVER place his or her hands gently on someone’s shoulders in order to speak a word of encouragement….I DO wonder if there is any working relationship today that mirrors the integrity, value, worth, and teachable moments I had with “The Bear”….for the sake of all that is good and wholesome, I hope so.

High School Years

One of the first memories that popped into my head quickly as I sat down this morning to write about high school was a warning my older brother Mark gave me: “Never ask an upperclassman for directions if you get lost in the building….” there were tales and laughter associated with misguided freshmen wandering the halls looking for a class during the first few days of school. This beloved high school is shaped like an H and boasts two floors with the choir and band rooms lofting above them in the center of the building along with the cafeteria which also served as a study hall. So, I was smart and heeded my brother’s warning but without asking in return “how will I know who is a senior!?”….I can confess to you I did get turned around one time and was late for a class after my lunch period and a couple times after being on spring or Christmas break I forgot my locker combination. Other than those minor situations, I loved high school. Let me tell you a few reasons why.

As a freshman I continued adding choir as an elective into my schedule. My vocal teacher was Mrs. Leis and she was wonderful! The school had added a girls ensemble to its offerings of girls choir and Honors Choir. I was placed in the ensemble class which meant it was a smaller number of students and there were no boys in the class (they were in Honors Choir) I loved to sing and easily picked up learning the melody of any song; it’s here where I was taught how to read music, acquired the ability to learn intervals audibly along with rhythm, counting, determining what key a song was written in…all the technical aspects of not merely singing. Most importantly we were taught proper breathing techniques for supporting our voices and how to sneak a catch breath for long phrases. Being part of the ensemble was also my first experience “going to vocal competitions”, usually at a school in the Flint area, where vocal students in our area came to perform and be judged for a coveted “1” performance. 

In the summer between my freshman and sophomore year I auditioned with Mrs. Leis to be considered for the Honors Choir. This was my first experience singing alone with her, listening to her play intervals on the piano and telling her the answer for each one, sight reading a portion of music, all so she could determine if I was qualified to be in the school’s prestigious choir which mainly performed acapella–no accompaniment–requiring perfect pitches in it’s four sections, soprano, alto, tenor and bass. My audition went well but I didn’t know until picking up by class schedule just before the start of school if I had “made it in”. I had all summer to wonder. To worry. To anticipate. Imagine my apprehension as I tore the cover off my class schedule. I didn’t look to see what my class load was….my eyes went searching for the choral class I was assigned. And there it was–Honors Choir. I was in! That sophomore year with Mrs. Leis was another amazing year of learning and expanding my love to sing. She made music come alive and she was incredible at forming relationships with us as individuals. She liked a good practical joke and took advantage of playing them whenever possible. She had a habit of swinging her foot with crossed legs as she sat on her stool in front of us. Occasionally her heeled shoe became an unintended projectile, landing somewhere near the front row of us girls in the soprano or alto section. 

Sadly for us kids, she left teaching after my sophomore year in order to return to college and pursue a degree in counseling. Our hearts were broken and we were determined there was no one who could replace her. Mr. Sarri was hired as her replacement and those of us very loyal to Mrs. Leis didn’t accept him for quite some time. In my junior year he took us to a choir festival as was the norm and we received a “2” for our performance…and quickly blamed him for breaking the long held reputation of never getting a rating other than a “1”. But, in my senior year with him, back to festival we went and something powerful happened. In the portion of our sight reading piece for the judges, we got our allowed instructions from Mr. Sarri, performed the number and upon ending stood in utter silence watching the judges making their notes, heads bowed down looking down at their paper. Breaking the silence and the dread surrounding us, one of the judges began to speak. He said “That was a difficult arrangement and you performed it without error. Now, please sing it again for us, but this time, relax and have fun. Enjoy it!” And we did! The real change, the real miracle was our heart change towards Mr. Sarri. He was no longer the “bad guy”. He, indeed, was capable of picking up where Mrs. Leis left us, and my time in the Honors Choir was filled with numerous performances and oh yes–ample “1s” at competition.

Mr. Matlock. Ah, this quirky rather young teacher was one of my favorites. As Mrs. Leis and Mr. Sarri honed my skills for vocals, this man taught me about writing, marketing, journalism, photography. In my senior year I was named as editor of our high school yearbook and Mr. Matlock was our “advisor”. He oversaw our teams that sold advertising for the book, took photos (we had our own darkroom to develop the negatives) , wrote articles about activities, captioned those photos, and built our pages that went to the publisher–all under strict deadlines that were never allowed to be missed. I can still hear him telling us “I don’t care how late we have to stay to meet a deadline. If it’s midnight, we will be here, and I’ll order pizza.” I don’t remember ever having to stay into the late evening hours but we certainly did work after the school day had ended. His discipline and hard work paid off for us; our bright lime green covered yearbook won a national award! I was inducted into the national Quill Society (other than that memory I really don’t know what membership gave me except pride in response to hard work that was not without its challenges.  If memory serves me correctly, I wrote about pubs and how they fit into the culture of their time….we were required to turn in a draft which was returned with red markings where and what to correct for our final submission. I truly don’t recall my final grade but I do know it was a good one, well above a C.

Final exams were part of our senior year, too, and Mrs. Cappells were not for the faint of heart. I was the kind of student who studied, wasn’t sure if my study skills were adequate, always studied up until the moment of picking up my pencil to begin a test. I also was the type of kid that seemed to finish a test first, causing me anxiety if I had rushed…did I answer all the questions correctly? So, when I took her final exam and went out into the hallway as allowed by her upon completion, she followed me out and asked “So,Susan, how do you think you did on the exam?” It was just her and me in the long quiet hall by a set of lockers. “I don’t know Mrs. Cappell. Your tests are pretty hard sometimes.” She assured me that I had most likely done very well and in that moment I felt relief. But more than a peace flooding over me was the sense of a firm, sometimes strict, well seasoned teacher taking an interest in a shy, sometimes fearful girl finding her way through challenging required classes and assignments. Again, I don’t remember my exact grade, but it was well above a C.

Graduation. We got our caps, our gowns, our gold tassel. We rehearsed several times and on the much anticipated evening of commencement over 600 of us filled the chairs that were on the football field. Our parents sat in the bleachers. Our administrators and guest speakers were in front of us on a temporary stage. Our graduation evening was beautiful. There was no rain; the sun shone from the western skies as we listened to each speaker, as we lined up as rehearsed to receive our diploma which actually was only the holder for it. We received our diploma when we returned our rented gown. Walking into the school office to do just that was my last time to enter this huge H shaped two story building that housed so many humorous and serious memories for three years. I was the last of us three kids to graduate high school but not alone to begin pondering “what’s next?” My “what’s next” actually began as I was seated in my chair on the football field. I was anticipating senior lockin that night, hanging out with my boyfriend and other kids…listening as each classmate’s name was announced receiving the “diploma”…actually having a moment of complete fear in the reality that the next morning I was faced with “what will I do now…..” Thankfully, answers came…..that’s another entry. For now, as part of the class of 1971, one of 600 plus kids….more life, more lessons to learn, more challenges to face were waiting around the corner. 

Three years of education for grades 7 through 9 will be hard to capture in one blog entry, however, there are significant memories and experiences that ignited “things” in me that I now refer to as passion(s)…I think that sometimes as people who want to truly know and understand who and what makes us the person we are in a moment, we must be brave or curious to go back in time to our memory banks and look at our “deposits”–those things that were put in motion for us as young impressionable teens trying to figure out life, school, and our giftings. Since I began writing about my early years of life, I am beginning to truly see the people and experiences that helped or hindered who I am today. In this entry, I want to focus on some positive moments during the awkward years of being a junior high student.

Meet how Susan and music collided together in 7th grade. Listening to music was part of our enjoyment in the home; my parents had a wide variety of albums that they played on the record player. There was opera, movie soundtracks, and vocalists with styles and names I no longer recall except for Nat King Cole, Tennessee Ernie Ford, Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Burl Ives…. But, what I do remember is that often the TV was turned off and the music was turned up and we enjoyed the sounds coming out of the speakers. There were evenings I watched as my parents danced in front of the fireplace, their feet gliding ever so smoothly and eloquently across the hardwood floor. I would sit on the couch and watch, and then there were the times dad held my hands and as I stood on his stockinged feet, he would glide me across the floor “dancing”. A love for music and the feelings it erupted in me began early in life with those living room seeds, which were watered and fertilized in 7th grade with a mandatory music class. My teacher was Miss Gase, who was young, very poised, perfectly groomed every day and had a no nonsense approach instilling music theory into our young minds. She was also the school’s choir director and because I loved to sing, I joined. Practicing in the classroom or the empty auditorium never bothered me. I was full of joy and confidence until our first performance in front of parents and teachers. My joy and confidence in front of full seats and bright stage lights were exchanged for fear. I was in the front row and to Miss Gase’s left as she began directing our arranged pieces. In the first few stanzas of our initial song, I must have gone white, pale, and I remember feeling flushed with heat and a need to throw up. Ever feel that way and try to escape? I had nowhere to escape unless I wanted to truly be the center of attention at that moment. I tightened my knees, clenched my toes inside my shoes, and hoped whatever was happening would leave soon before making a spectacle of myself. And then it happened. Miss Gase’s eyes made contact with mine. Without losing a movement of her hands that were directing our song, the choir and me singing out parts, she was able to point with her index finger towards the curtains of the stage while mouthing “are you ok?’….giving me a viable alternative to throwing up on the stage….and while that solution was perfect, it still meant I’d draw attention to myself if I suddenly walked off…but something magical happened. In that moment of eye contact with my teacher, I relaxed. The feelings of nausea and being overheated left my body and I was able to nod to her and mouth “I’m ok”. And I was.

I don’t think Miss Gase ever knew what her actions did for me that evening. I know what they did for me. My fears were acknowledged. I was seen. I was assured. I was given a chance to escape my fears. I stayed. I faced my fear and with a loving teacher, I replaced them with a newly learned confidence, one that would serve me well later in life as my love for singing grew and expanded for many audiences, but mainly for God. Thank you, Miss Gase.

Meet Mr. Noble.

As polished and elegant was Miss Gase, Mr. Noble was the opposite. He was an older, more seasoned teacher with a bald spot on the top of his head complimented by fluffy tufts of hair around his ears tinted with salt and pepper. His teaching methods weren’t what we’d call “safe” today (his paddle still hung on a corner of his desk) and the map pointer sometimes became a projectile aimed at a sleepy non-responsive student. Every week in our social studies book looked alike with reading, studying, quizzes and tests, but it was what he did with a blackboard and a piece of chalk that shone a new awareness in me–a love for words. Let me explain.

Every Friday Mr. Noble wrote a rather obscure word on the upper right corner of his chalkboard. When we came to class, it was our responsibility to write the word down in our notebooks and the assignment over the weekend was to find out the meaning of the word and write a complete sentence using it correctly. On Monday, when we came back to class for a new week, it was expected of us to have our research completed. This simple assignment was part of our grade.I wish I could remember all the words or phrases I learned from Mr. Noble in 7th grade social studies class, however, I’m sure those obscure words have and continue to make their way into conversations and written documents that I produce today. One phrase I DO remember is: Caveat emptor . If you don’t know what it means, well, how about you do an investigation, write it in a complete sentence and wait for a time when you can use it correctly when speaking with someone.

Meet Miss Roethke.

Miss Roethke was my 9th grade English teacher. She was another seasoned teacher by the time I was in her class. Tall, gray hair always coiffed, with round black glasses framing her blue eyes, she was serious and stern. She didn’t tolerate nonsense in her classroom either and anytime we were out of control she merely flicked the lights on and off a few times to regain our attention followed up with an admonishment. 

Miss Roethke used the upper right corner of her blackboard for similar practice as Mr. Noble. Each week, she’d write a word and it’s grammatical progression so we’d learn proper grammar. Lie. Lay. Laid.   There. Their. Then. Than. Except. Accept. (those familiar troublesome words!)

We read classic novels. We read poetry. We wrote stories. I loved it all! One of my favorites in her class? Listening. When Miss Roethke read poetry to us it’s a miracle I never fell asleep as her mouth and lips formed each word and phrase that made the lyrics jump off the pages as though dancing. The lilt in her voice was soothing and showed a side of Miss Roethke that was otherwise hidden. 

Another time that she appeared “real” to me was the Friday leading into spring break. Just because we’d be off school for a week didn’t mean we were escaping homework. Our assignment over spring break was to choose and read a book. To hold us accountable, we were required to write down the title and author on a sheet of paper she taped to the windowsill. Before leaving school that Friday, I stayed after my last hour and quietly entered her room. She was seated at her desk, a book in hand and we exchanged brief hellos as I walked past her to the window. With my back to her, as I was entering my information, I heard her ask “Miss Jewell, does your family have any special plans for spring break?” I looked up. I didn’t turn around. For a moment I was in shock. “Miss Roethke just spoke to me!” I pondered…she didn’t talk about our classroom work or a particular issue I may have had regarding  understanding conjugating a verb…she asked me about me and my family…I don’t remember what spring break held for our family that year so my answer was a brief “no, nothing special”. I walked into her classroom on a Friday afternoon feeling very much like an average awkward 9th grade girl, but I left with a new skip and bounce in my step and a smile on my face as I walked the many blocks it took to get home. Miss Roethke saw me. She acknowledged my presence on a quiet Friday afternoon in front of a sunny window. And with one simple question she showed me that in addition to being a stickler for learning proper English and enjoying a variety of literature, she engaged outside of all those requirements assigned to her by letting me see that a teacher would be curious about life outside her classroom.

Music. Words. Reading. Writing. Those and more were and remain vital to my passions. But of greater value from lessons learned in junior high years was “being noticed”. Being acknowledged, those one-on-one moments where a need or love to learn were seen, opened with the discovery of new songs to be sung, new books to read, new words to learn and use. New simple questions to be asked. Those beloved teachers are now long gone from the rooms and halls of South Intermediate Junior High but their instruction, their discipline, their encouragement echo in my memories and spill out into my life with many beautiful memories and lessons for my life as I continue to enjoy the fruits of their labor.

Oh, did I tell you? Miss Roethke was a sister to Theodore Huebner Roethke, a famous poet. It was often that she read his writings to us, lulling us to a place of deep appreciation and relaxation, which is magical when you think of it, a classroom full of snarky 9th grade boys and girls. In those moments, listening to her, we were temporarily transported to another time and place. Thank you, Miss Roethke, for being stern, gracious, and passionate for the English language. 

A mother is the most important person to have in one’s life. After all, without a mother none of us would be here. I will admit early in the writing of this blog that my mother and I had a relationship that encompassed tension, love, grace, being misunderstood, but above all, love, especially in my adult years when I came to my senses and realized my shortcomings that led to hard conversations. Make no mistake, I loved my mom dearly and learned so much from her. I’d like to tell you about her.

Ida was the baby in her family of six children. My grandparents were German and had immigrated to America in the early 1900s. For her formative years, German was her primary language although English was learned alongside which prepared mom for her parochial education through the 8th grade at the Lutheran church the family attended. Compared to most families living in the 30s and 40s, theirs was of modest income which meant food, shelter, and needs were always met. My Grandpa Hillert worked on trains, grandma was home with the children.

I loved hearing stories about my grandparents whom  I did not have the privilege of knowing before I was born. I heard about how grandpa did all the “marketing”….that grandma spoke very little English and how mom and her sister Emma would go to a movie, come home and act out the plot to their mother, all in German, sitting in the parlour. I was told about Christmas seasons where my grandparents spoke about gifts to be purchased, using Russian or Polish to keep secrets from the children, how mom and Emma would grab hold of a few of those words, run across the street to the neighbor to have them “interpret” the words, but to no avail; they were unable to remember how to pronounce what they’d overheard.

Mom was a good 3 years younger than my dad when they met. Dad and his brother Lyle moved to Saginaw to get jobs in a plant. This was World War II time and Uncle Lyle had met his future wife, Dorothy, whose best friend was Ida. A blind date was arranged between dad and Ida. I don’t recall what the evening held, most likely a movie, but it wasn’t exactly the most exciting time for either of them. As mom explained her side she told me “I didn’t want Jack to think I was hard up for dates so I played hard to get”. When dad told Lyle about the date his version was “I’ll never go out with her again, what a sourpuss”. Well, mom told me that in reality she REALLY liked dad. The “hard to get” was a ploy, and secretly she truly hoped he’d call for a second date. On dad’s side of the failed evening, was Lyle fervently convincing dad to give Ida another chance. And he did.

In 1999 my mother was diagnosed with a second cancer that took her life in March that year. I made the trip home to be with her and I can remember sitting in their living room with my dad. The TV was on but we weren’t really watching it. We had cups of tea, each of us in a cozy chair, and I listened while my dad reminisced 50 plus years of being married to “his Ida”. My favorite thing he told me was “I can still remember what she was wearing the first time I met her. She had on a dark green jumper with a white blouse. She was beautiful, and I thought to myself ‘what did I ever do to deserve such a beautiful woman as this!?’ It was her senior year of high school. As the school year progressed they were steadily dating but no firm commitment had been made so mom made a date for commencement night. His name was Larry. Dad was to work his usual shift at the gun plant in Saginaw, but he had other plans. He skipped work, showed up at Saginaw High School and waited for mom to come outside. Of course, she did, and now faced with two dates she had to choose. She chose dad and whenever she told this story she always emphasized “I felt bad for Larry but I REALLY liked your dad….”

Compared to my dad, mom was more stoic. She was a stay at home mom but as we kids entered grade school she made herself available to be a driver for field trips. She found out at a parent teacher conference for me one year that when my teacher asked “whose mother could possibly be a driver for our trip?” that my little hand went up immediately with the proclamation “mine will, she doesn’t do anything”. No, nothing….if you don’t count keeping a home clean, laundry and ironing, fresh meals three times a day every day, scheduling to have the car for hair or dentist appointments, reffing arguments among siblings or childhood playmates.

In addition to all those hats she wore, was her most treasured one, her unfailing prayer life that was deep yet very private. God was in the right place in her life and we were taught reverence for His Name and the importance of obeying His Word. While I didn’t always appreciate the lessons I had to learn along the way of growing up, later in my life they became a treasure to hold onto and help mold my own faith journey. 

Other small lessons included: “Don’t argue in front of your children. Have those conversations in private”.

“Don’t embarrass your husband in public”

“Never call a child a brat…”

“When you’re making pie crust use VERY cold water and get all your utensils room temperature”

“Don’t worry about having an argument; making up is fun”

“Don’t say OH MY GOD!”

I’m sure there were other lessons but these are the ones that readily come to mind when I think about my mom. Other than church on Sunday, there was no other place she’d rather have been than that of her home. She was proud that she and dad bought the lot, built a house with a salary of $4,000 in the early 50s. The house went through several makeovers but remained her pride and joy. Many family and friends were entertained in the living room that spanned just over 50 years on Arthur Street. It’s where she was most comfortable, it’s where she chose to be during his last days. Facing the harshness of cancer and the treatments that accompanied it, she decided to forego final chemotherapy and declared to her doctor “I want to go home”. After some conversation to do otherwise, true to mom, she stuck to her guns and was discharged from the hospital on a Thursday. We got hospice set up, complete with a bed situated in the living room echoing 50 years of memories for her. She was home and on Sunday of that first weekend, she went “Home”.

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.

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.