Life's Little Ironies

Life is ironic, for sure.  You just have to be cognizant enough to recognize the brilliant little (and sometimes naughty) tricks and twists that life throws at you.  One of my favorite literary devices is irony.  It has fueled great works such as "Romeo and Juliet" as well as memorable short stories such as Shirley Jackson's "The Gift." But it can also be found in the mundane occurrences of our daily lives.  Let me me give you a couple examples from my own recent experiences:


No. 1:  C'est WHAT?
We have a friend that does a lot of traveling and likes his children to study foreign languages.  He is preparing them for world travels, no doubt, but sometimes they have a hard time seeing the big picture and frankly just want to be kids and throw a ball around instead of conjugating verbs.  Apparently his persistence is paying off because his son recently shared some of his knowledge (although not completely technically correct) with my daughter.
Natalie:  "Mom, do you know what caca de toro means?"
Me: "No, I sure don't.  What does it mean?"
Natalie:  "It means bullshit in Spanish."
C'est WHAT?
Me (calmly, of course):  "Uh, who taught you that?"
Natalie:  "Jeremy." [name changed to protect the relatively innocent]
I'm not so sure that this is what our friend had in mind, but at least the kid is thinking in a foreign language, right?


No. 2:  Cinderella Went to the Ball....Eventually
My sister Julie works very hard in a thankless job.  In fact, many would consider her job to be a real-life version of "The Office," although not as fun.  She works as a pricing manager for paper company.  I know.  But it pays very well......well enough that she can afford to go to France with my brother and sister-in-law this week.  I was so happy for her when she told me that she was going - it was something really nice for her to look forward to.  She left on Friday and called me from the airport.
Me:  "Hey, what are you doing?"
Julie:  "I just got through security in Lexington and am about to board my flight to Charlotte.  What are YOU doing?"
Me:  "I'm on my hands and knees scrubbing my kitchen floor."
Julie:  "Oh. So I'm meeting Dave and Cat at their hotel when I arrive in Paris and then we're taking the train to Provence.  I think we are going to have a private tour of one of the vineyards and lunch with the owner next week."
Me:  "That's great!  I'm scrubbing my baseboards. "
Yes, I am playing Cinderella, literally on my hands and now slightly-bruised knees, armed with a smelly rag, scrubbing the baseboards in my kitchen.  C'est ironique, mes amis.

I Went Back to Ohio...

....and my city was....GONE, to quote Akron native Chrissie Hynde.  These two things I know about myself:  I am sentimental and change is difficult for me (unless I am the one initiating it) because I am so sentimental.  Yes, I know that change is good and that stagnancy is bad, that change is an indicator of growth, blah blah blah, yadda yadda yadda.  You can change the menu at my favorite restaurant, the exhibits at my favorite art museum, and Brad Pitt's hairdo, but do NOT mess with my college town.


That's right....Kent, Ohio, whose downtown area has remained relatively unchanged since its hippie days is suddenly changing.  Being the wife of a real estate broker, I realize that tearing down old buildings and replacing them with shiny, new strip malls is a sign of a healthy economy (although it is the aesthete's worst enemy).  Northeast Ohio's economy has been anything but healthy during the past decade and every town wants to see new businesses come in and liven things up, that's true.  The city of Kent and the University have been making efforts to be partners rather than separate entities.  That's good, too, but my college town is changing and I don't like it!


Jerry's Diner was one of my favorite after hours haunts in Kent.  My fellow punks and I would commune there after a long night of partying in the bars and music clubs of Kent.  (Old college partying stories to be addressed in future posts....after all, I am nothing if not sentimental, as previously stated.) My friends and I used to scrounge up enough leftover beer money to share a plate of greasy fries and cups of black coffee at Jerry's.  One could only hope for a grimy stool at the equally grimy lunch counter.  Now, the corner on which it once sat is vacant.  This was probably the most heartbreaking change for me (other than my favorite coffee house selling out to Starbucks).  Here is a photo of Jerry's during demolition a couple of years ago:

The Sunrise Apartments were recently demolished to make way for new student apartments. I never lived here, but had friends that did:

The Robin Hood was a fine dining establishment when my dad went to Kent State University.  It was a bar that attracted a lot of jocks and frat boys when I was in college.  I hung out here occasionally until I discovered my inner punk and then began to frequent more respectable punk hangouts like JB's and Mother's (which was renovated into a "nice" restaurant in the 1990s with no remnants of it's Saturday night reggae band past):

Before:

After:

The maddening thing about this demolition is that the owner had no re-purposing plans in mind when she had it demolished.  This is one of the most prevalent corners in Kent, as it is right across the street from campus as well as Kent's most popular coffee house, otherwise known as Captain Brady's to my dad, Brady's to me, and Starbucks to its current unfortunate patrons that didn't know it when it was still owned by a person and not a corporation.  This corner will remain lonely and vacant until the owner (who has remained silent on the issue) decides what to do with it. One can only hope that whatever it is, it will be inexpensive enough for the college students to enjoy and frequent.

Sadder still are the elderly and disabled residents of Silver Oaks retirement village on the other side of campus.  Their home has been sold to a developer, who plans to build student housing.  The residents weren't given more than a couple of month's notice to vacate and five residents have died, presumably from the trauma of being forced out of their homes, since the announcement was made.  A local non-profit agency that assists the elderly let on that they were trying to raise the funds to purchase the complex from the developer, but the chances of that happening seem slim to none.  Most recently, another developer (what else?) has come forward with potential plans to build new retirement housing in Kent.  Gotta strike while the iron is hot, right?  At least the surviving residents might have a place to go.

Kent's pride and joy is Acorn Alley.  Yes, it is in the heart of downtown, aesthetically pleasing, and offers various places to hang out, but it seems a bit gentrified (and expensive) compared to the Kent I knew.  Acorn Alley II is under construction, complete with a street named after the developer (wince).  I wonder how many college students can actually afford flashy Acorn Alley I/II eateries such as Bricco, but I guess it is a reasonable alternative to the Schwebel Room in the Student Center for students who want to "take" their visiting parents out for dinner.  

Thank goodness that independently owned, long-term businesses and hangouts like Spin More Records, The Loft, Ray's, the Venice, and Franklin Square Deli are still there or I would be completely disoriented when I visit.  Here's a fun article about some of the bars and clubs that I frequented in the 80s.

Of course, it is the people that make a town and I am lucky enough to still have enough family and friends in the area to help re-create Kent's independent spirit and hippie vibe.  I really want to see Kent do well in these tough economic times, so change if it must.  I'll adjust....somehow.

(To give credit where credit is due, the Record Pub and Kent Patch websites get total and complete credit for these awesome photos.)

Old Friends

Everyone has a past.  There are parts of one's past that are best forgotten, parts that are hard to release, and parts that bring back warm, happy memories.....but the best part is when the past pleasantly intermingles with the present.  Sometimes this can't happen until much time has elapsed and old wounds have healed, but when it does happen, there's nothing in the world that can compare.

Such a thing happened to me this summer when my husband met my college boyfriend.  I'll spare you the gory details, but W was my first long-term relationship.  We met in a college bar (where else?) in Kent, Ohio at the end of the summer before my junior year in college and dated for about three years.  He was smart, creative, made me laugh, and was my friend.  We had our ups and downs and it didn't end so well.  We were young, silly, and trying to figure out who we were and what we wanted out of life. W and I didn't have much contact after we broke up and I ended up moving to Texas a few years later.  I found out before I moved that he had lymphoma and he went on to endure several rounds of chemotherapy throughout the following years.  I felt horrible that he was so sick, but I knew that we weren't right for each other.  Our relationship served a purpose and it was great when it was great, but it wasn't meant to last forever.

I thought about W every now and then throughout the years, not knowing if he was even alive.  I met my wonderful husband, Lance in 1996 and we had two children within the next four years.  I was busy with my job and taking care of  my family, but still thought about W every now and then, hoping that he was doing well and was as happy as I was.  And then there was Facebook.


W and I reconnected when I became a Facebook newbie three years ago.  He apologized for the things that weren't so great about our relationship and told me about how he had had one too many brushes with death.  I explained to Lance what W had been through during the past 10 or 12 years and told him that we had reconnected through Facebook.  I'm so lucky to have a confident and understanding husband that is secure in our relationship because it didn't bother Lance that W and I had reconnected.  I made it clear that there had not been any romantic feelings between us for many, many years, but that I hoped we could be friends because we had been very good friends and had shared a lot of fun experiences in college (like the time we got lost in Cleveland driving the lead singer from Gene Loves Jezebel back to his hotel).


Facebook also allowed W and I both to reconnect with J, a beloved college friend of ours.  J was a campus security guard at Kent State while I was an RA in the dorms, and we would visit while we were both on duty. J and W also got to know each other during this time.  I talked to J on the phone the summer after we reconnected on Facebook when I was in Ohio, but we weren't able to coordinate a visit.  I knew the following summer that we all had to get together......it had been almost 20 years since we had all seen each other.  I approached Lance and asked him if he would like to go with me to meet up with W and J, but he felt that it would be a bit awkward for him, but told me that he didn't mind if I spent one evening with them.


We met up at one of our old college haunts in Kent and I got to meet J's beautiful wife and children as well as J and W's mutual friend, comic book illustrator P. Craig Russell.  You can by our smiles how wonderful it was to see each other after so many years had passed:

I talked to Lance before our trip to Ohio this past summer, and he felt more comfortable meeting W, who had since met a great woman that we all hope he will marry (hint, hint).  My brother and sister-in-law offered to throw a little cocktail/dessert party and we invited W and his girlfriend, Joe and his family, and Craig.  This was a big step for everyone, my brothers included.  The only words to describe that night was magical.  There was something intangible in the air that night (at least for me).  It was the reunion of family and friends and also the making of new friends.  There were no awkward moments and it was as if we had all just seen each other the previous week.  It was a get-together of Good People who realize that life is short and that nothing in the world is as important as relationships, old and new.


Three old friends:

New friends:

The meeting that I never dreamed would happen:

Up to no good, I tell you:

Isn't this what life is all about?  Forgetting, forgiving, and forging new and improved relationships.

Now THAT'S a Great Idea

I love creative people, especially creative people whose work benefits a struggling community.  I read this article about Chris Toepfer's work on cleveland.com.  He is a contractor from Chicago who uses his creativity to lessen the blight that vacant or abandoned homes can bring to a neighborhood, such as the neighborhoods I visited in Cleveland this summer.  I reached back into my memory banks when I read this article and it struck me that I had actually seen his work in Slavic Village last month; I just didn't know it at the time.


In a nutshell, Toepfer places decorative boards over the existing boards/HardiPlank on houses that have become eyesores, like this:





I would have loved to have seen a "before" photo, but this guy covers up busted-out windows and holes in the siding with colorful boards.  This lessens the negative visual impact that such houses have on the neighborhood, thus increasing the marketability of nearby houses that are for sale.  It also discourages squatters and further vandalism to the properties.  Toepfer even puts faux stained windows in churches that have been closed - I'm sure that his contract in Cleveland will be secure if he chooses to also work on the area's closed churches.  The best part is that this only costs around $1,000 per house.  I love this guy!  I have particular interest in this as the wife of a real estate broker, but also as someone who appreciates creativity and hates to see once-thriving neighborhoods destroyed by homeowners and landlords that couldn't care less about the impact their properties have on their neighbors.


I don't know the ultimate fate of these homes, but I would venture to say that at least some of them that are too far gone will be slated for demolition.  In the meantime, maybe this will encourage people to invest in these areas (every big city has them) and rehab older homes inside and out in hopes that they will once again become viable neighborhoods.


Here's another article on this guy's work in Minneapolis.

Hello, Cleveland Part 7 (last one, baby)

That was it.  The walk down memory lane with my parents was over.  I felt as if I had just grazed the tip of the iceberg at breakneck speed.  I still had a lot of questions for my parents and wished that we would have taken it a little slower.  I guess it wasn't completely practical to actually get out of the car and walk the old neighborhoods due to my dad's knee problem, the heat, and potential safety issues, but I longed for something more.  I felt that we just whizzed by all of the old haunts without giving them their due respect.  I guess I had built up this trip in my mind so elaborately that nothing short of a two-day walking tour of the neighborhoods accompanied by polka background music and sausage street vendors would have satisfied me.


My parents' past had always seemed so glamorous, unattainable, and out of focus.  My dad's parents died when he was a teenager and his older brothers and sisters had taken all of the old family photos except for one very small, dog-eared photograph of my grandmother in which her face is barely visible.  I grew up with no tangible images of my grandparents and had only my imagination to rely on.  The past always seems more appealing because (1) we didn't have to live through it and (2) we have the luxury of romanticizing it and making it what we want it to be.  I had a more realistic view of my mom's family, however, because she had several photos of her family and also because I actually knew my grandmother and had a relationship with her until she died in 1978.


Oh, well.  Maybe it was best to live in my fantasy world with an idealized view of my parents' pasts.  I can't help but think that even though the times were tougher, the values were simpler and more ideal.  It was a slower and more focused way of life.  I have accepted the fact that technology is here to stay, but can't help but think that it has made our lives more complicated and impersonal in some respects.


We headed south on Warner Road and turned west on Granger Road.  I was a little concerned when Dad missed his turn onto I-77.


                              "I think I'll take 21 home.  It's a prettier drive."
                              "Sure, Dad."


Route 21 was beyond the scope of my handy-dandy Mapquest printouts, so Dad was on his own with this one.  I realized that he was right as we drove through Independence, a Western Reserve-style city with its white wooden street signs and Colonial-style buildings.  It was a refreshing respite from the highway, plus the speed limit was slower, thusly minimizing the risk of a potentially serious accident (see Part 2 of this series).  For some reason, we started talking about Mark, our youngest brother.  Julie asked me if I remembered where he worked.  I couldn't for the life of me remember the name of the company, but knew that he worked for a financial services company.  We were so proud of him because he returned to college after nearly 10 years and completed his finance degree.  He had attended the University of Akron (yes, I still talk to him even though our alma maters are arch enemies) after high school and left to play saxophone on a Carnival cruise ship.  He interned at a financial services company and was hired on a full-time basis after graduation.


My other sister, Mary, called me to hash out the plans for that evening as we entered the city of Richfield, which I remembered as the home of the Coliseum, where I had seen many concerts when I lived in Ohio.  Julie asked if Whitey's, where my brother moonlights as a bartender, was on this road.  I told her that I didn't know because I had never been there.  Suddenly, we passed a beautiful teal historic home that had been converted into a business on the right.  I quickly glanced at the white sign in front of the building.


                                "Hey, Julie.  Doesn't Mark work at Hammer Financial Services?"
                                "Yeah, why?"
                                "Uh, because I think we just passed it."
                                "Dad, turn around!  We have to stop and see him!"


I wasn't sure about popping in on him because he was pretty new at the company and I didn't want to get him in trouble.  I thought that we could at least stick a note on his car, so I urged Dad to turn the car around, which he did.  He pulled into a neighboring parking lot while I scribbled something on a yellow sticky note.   Julie and I climbed the hill next to the house and found Mark's car in the parking lot.  I stuck the note on his windshield and started to walk back to Dad's car.


                                "Amy, he'll kill us if we don't stop in and say hi."
                                "I know, but I don't want to get him in trouble."
                                "We HAVE to at least go in and say hi."
                                "You're right.  Let's go."


We walked up the manicured path at the back of the house, which was apparently the main entrance.  We walked into a beautifully decorated sitting room.  It looked like the owner had preserved the original fireplace and decorate it in period-appropriate furniture.  We saw a reception window and voila!

                                  "What the....??!!"


I think it was safe to assume that Mark was surprised.  He came around the desk and took us back to the inner sanctum of Hammer Financial Services.  The owner wasn't in, but we met the office manager and a couple of younger Alex P. Keaton types.  Of course, Julie and I had to embarrass Mark with comments like, "So you really DO have a job..." and "We apologize for him.  We're sorry that you have to put up with him,"   and, "We're the NORMAL members of the Sterle family."                        


                                  "Are Mom and Dad in the car?"
                                  "Yep."
                                  "Tell them to come in!"


Mark walked outside with us and we got Mom and Dad out of the car for a couple photo opps:

"Mom, it's okay.  You can come in. The boss isn't here."

"Howdy!  I'm Flat Markus!"

"I'm trying to act happy, but I really want to split and have a beer with my sisters."

"It's only leaning a little."

Mark took all of us back inside the office so we could check out his digs.  The house was built in the 1800s and had been very well-maintained.  Mark introduced Mom and Dad to his co-workers and showed us the conference room:

....and did a presentation for us:

....and misspelled Sterles Rule....

He couldn't resist playing boss in the owner's office (I'm only posting this because I'm sure that his boss doesn't read this blog):

Not wanting to disrupt his work day any further, Julie asked him if Whitey's was nearby.  Mark said that it was just down the road and that we should stop in for a drink.  I'm in!


Mark paid homage to Lauren, his fiancee, as we were leaving:

We said our goodbyes, chattering about how happy we were that Julie had the guts to suggest popping in on Mark.  We got back in the car and headed south on 21.  Sure enough, less than a mile down the road we saw:

Whitey's Booze 'N Burgers.  Simple, catchy, and perhaps a little too honest.  I liked it.  Mark has worked two stints at Whitey's over the past several years.  My parents have always raved about their ribs and it seemed that I was the only family member (except for Mary) that had never been there.  Julie insisted on taking my picture outside the entrance:

I know you can't see it, but I have a very big smile on my face (in anticipation of a nice, cold brewski).  We walked in and took a seat at the bar.  Julie asked the bartender if he knew Mark Sterle and he grinned and said that Mark just called and told him that we were on our way.  (Julie and I later talked about all of the things we could have said, like, "Well, you tell that SOB that I'm having his child" or "That mother owes me child support," but we weren't quick-witted enough at the time, and we were also with our parents.)  I ordered a Labatt's while Julie and my parents ordered Coronas.

                      
It was nice to relax and review the day's adventures as we observed the other patrons' antics.  My mom was shocked when the bartender said the word "asshole."  I gently reminded her that we were in a bar.  We finished our drinks and headed toward Ashland.  I didn't want to leave.....I wanted more....more stories, more family history sites, and yes.....more beer.








                      

Hello, Cleveland Part 6

We sped south on East 55th toward Broadway Avenue and my mom's old stomping grounds as I tried to pull together my Mapquest printouts, notes, camera, and list of my mom's old addresses in some semblance of order.  Julie and I were very excited about taking my parents to their old date night hangout, The Cozy Inn.  Even though it did not have an official website, I was able to find some information about the restaurant, including hours of operation and diner comments.


I was a little anxious because my dad was depending on me to navigate, and I had only been to the Union-Harvard neighborhood once as an adult (and I wasn't driving).  My mom never drove while she lived in Cleveland because she, like many other downtown commuters, rode the bus everywhere.  She worked for Halles department on Playhouse Square while she was in high school:





It was quite the fashionable department store at the time and was compared to Marshall Fields and Lord & Taylor.  My mom remembers having to share a bed with her older and infirm sister, Helen, until she was in high school.  She saved the money she earned at Halles and her first major purchase was a full-sized bed, which is still in our family and is somewhat of a symbol (to me, at least) of independence, hard work, and determination.  My brother, David, used this bed while we were growing up and then my mom gave it to me when I got my first apartment on South Water Street in Kent after I graduated from college.  I slept in this bed (although not always alone) during my single years and then bequeathed it to my stepson, Baylor, when Lance and I got married.  My daughter, Natalie, is its most recent occupant as I gave it to her when we built the house we're in now and bought matching beds for Baylor and Connor.  I must admit that I defiled its shiny maple finish (and the matching dresser) by painting it off-white to match Natalie's room.  I know.


My mom graduated from Marymount High School, a private, all-girls Catholic school.  She attended secretarial training and eventually landed the gig that would enable her to meet her future husband, my dad.  She went to work for the Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers and Trainmen and was in the steno pool until she was promoted to an executive secretary position.  My dad's brother-in-law, Bill, was one of the union's head honchos and introduced my mom to his wife's brother, my dad.  My mom got to travel with the executives and even conned her way in to President Kennedy's speech when he came to Cleveland by fabricating a press pass (go, Mom!).  Her dad died of lung cancer when she was 21 years old and she remained at home to selflessly support her mother and sister.  Her brothers did little to help them as they had moved on and started their own families.


My parents didn't get married until my mom was 33 and my dad was 32 years old, which was quite against the norm at the time.  Ironically, my brother, David, and I followed in their footsteps (and Mark as well when he gets married next year) by marrying in our 30s.  My grandmother and aunt weren't too fond of my dad because he robbed them of their sole means of support, but it was time for my mom to start her own life.  Even though she had a very successful secretarial career, and was making more money than my dad when they met, her main ambition in life was to be a mother.


Julie and I had planned this trip especially for Mom.  Julie had never been to her neighborhood and I had only been there once before, but my mom didn't have the correct addresses at the time.  I had gone through some of my grandmother's old papers when I was home last summer and taken a few pieces of correspondence such as utility bills and letters, to document my mom's former addresses.  I wrote these addresses down on a small piece of paper (I hadn't thought about entering them into my Blackberry), which I scrambled to find in my purse as my dad neared my mom's first house.  We turned onto Broadway and then Union, both streets war zones due to all the road construction.  We were looking for East 82nd Street, where my mom was born.  Not all of the numbered streets went through all the way to Union Avenue, so I relied on instinct and led my dad through many sharp twists and turns as we wormed our way to East 82nd Street.


To our delight, Mom recognized her house, which was one of the better-kept houses on the street, immediately:

She started talking about how her mother always kept a garden in the back yard.  Miraculously, the current homeowner is also on the same page and I felt like I was stepping back in time, peeking at my grandmother's garden:

My mom lived here with her parents, brothers, sister, maternal grandmother, and a whopping assortment of aunts, uncles, and cousins totaling 19 people.  I admonished myself for ever thinking that my four bedroom 2500 square foot home was too small for my family of five.  Times were hard during the Great Depression and families were happy to just to be in the United States, regardless of how much living space they had.  I felt duly humbled.  My mother is the last person alive in her family that has knowledge of the house's true provenance.  My grandfather moved his family out of the house after his mother died and his brother and family remained in the house.  My mom's cousins still do not know how their parents ended up with the house since my grandfather was the oldest son and the house should have gone to him.  I can't divulge the secret of how this came to be out of respect for my mom's cousins, but I can say that a priest was somehow involved.


Encouraged, I directed my dad to the next stop, St. Lawrence Catholic Church, where my parents were married 45 years ago:

My parents wedding was epic.....not that I was there or anything, but I've heard the stories.  They broke up for a while after my Uncle Bill first introduced them.  My dad wasn't ready to settle down yet, which my mom sensed.  They went on to date other people and several  years later, in a Providence-fueled coincidence, my mom's sister saw Dad's photo in the newspaper and at the same time, my dad's friend just happened to ask my dad whatever happened to Rose...you made a great couple....why don't you call her?  My dad took his friend's advice and, needless to say, the call was well-received.  They were engaged within months and a full-fledged Slovenian wedding was planned.  Over 200 people attended the wedding, which included a Catholic Mass, champagne brunch, a sit down dinner with a full bar, and a polka band.  The reception was held across the street at the Slovenian Home (one of many in Cleveland) on East 80th.  My grandmother's friends from the "old country" offered to cater the dinner for somewhere around $150.  Some of my cousins remember the wedding and still talk about it to this day.


As I mentioned in a previous blog, the Cleveland Catholic Diocese recently closed tens of parishes this year.  St. Lawrence had just celebrated their last Mass just a couple of weeks before this picture was taken.  I was grateful that the church hadn't already been boarded up.  It was built in 1939, over 40 years after my dad's parish, St. Vitus, which still stands and was fortunately not one of the churches the Diocese closed.

My mom attended St. Lawrence Catholic School, which has been boarded up for years:

I couldn't help but think of my mom playing on the playground as a child or walking across the parking lot to the church for weekly Mass.  We sensed the stares of the neighborhood residents and we got back in the car, not wanting to be intrusive (or piss them off and get shot).  We headed toward Union Avenue, where my grandfather moved his family after his mother died.  I just found out recently that my grandfather never owned a house in his lifetime because he was too afraid to accept the risk of owning a home.


We passed a boarded-up building that used to be a candy shop:

....and then the Union Avenue bridge that my mom walked over many, many times on her way to school and church:

I reflected about how most neighborhoods, particularly in the suburbs, are so pedestrian-unfriendly.  I miss the culture of a walking neighborhood, where you actually have to work to get somewhere, but don't mind because you notice all of the little shops and nooks and crannies that you wouldn't notice if you were in a car. If you really want to get to know an area, get out of your car and walk it.  You will have a completely different and refreshing point of view.


We crested the hill on the bridge and saw my mom's next house on the right:

The front of the house was a bar before my mom's family moved in around 1939 and they lived here until my grandfather passed away in the early 1950s.  My mom had a disapproving look on her face as we approached the house.


                            "I never liked that house."
                            "Why, Mom?"
                            "I just never liked it.  The front of the house used to be a bar and the entrance was on the side of the house.  You went in through that door and were right in the kitchen.  I was always embarrassed about that house and never wanted dates to see where I lived."


It sounded like there was more to the story than just an inconvenient entrance, but I didn't press her for details.  Perhaps she recalled the fights with my grandmother that my grandfather would initiate when he came home drunk.  Perhaps this is where she was abused.  I knew that my mom had experienced some forms of abuse when was young and that the memories still haunted her.  We didn't linger and I quickly snapped this photo as we drove by:

....and this one of that unsavory side door entrance:

We backtracked on Union Avenue and turned south on Broadway, passing Holy Name Catholic Church in Slavic Village, where my parents used to attend Mass while they were dating:

The traffic became congested due to the construction as we headed toward Warner Road and the house that my mom purchased for herself, her mother, and sister while she was working for the Brotherhood.  My sense of direction became muddled, as did my mother's memory of the more recent houses.  She did, however, remember a market she used to frequent:

The last three houses were in the same neighborhood:  the house that my mom purchased on New York Avenue, the house that my grandmother lived in briefly after the New York Avenue house sold (Vineyard) and the house where I remember visiting my grandmother (Rosewood).  My mom didn't recognize the streets, let alone the houses, and the addresses I had culled mostly from utility bills didn't match any of the house numbers on the street.


We drove up and down New York Avenue and couldn't find house number 7878.  It baffled me, since I had gotten the address off an old gas bill.  I didn't think that a city would re-assign addresses, so maybe I had the wrong address.  This appeared to be the case with all of the houses in this part of Cleveland.  We think that this was the New York Avenue house that my mom purchased and where she lived until she and my dad got married:

Vineyard was our next stop (how appropriate a name, for I was certainly ready for a glass of wine at this point).  Warner Road was a mess and the buildings that had once housed restaurants, beer joints, markets, butcher shops, and clothing stores were decrepit and dilapidated:

The residential streets directly off Warner Road were surprisingly quiet and peaceful.  Here's a shot of Vineyard Street:

It seemed that I had another incorrect address and my mom had no earthly idea of where her mom had lived. It could have been this house:

....or this one....

...or this one:

I was pleasantly surprised to see how well-kept the houses were, considering that the average price of a home in that area is around $50,000.  There are even homes that are selling for $20,000 on this street.  I would love to snatch one of these homes and whisk it to Fort Worth.  They really don't make houses like these anymore.                


                           "Let's go to the East 82nd house now!"
                           "Mom, we just went there.  We're going to Rosewood now."
                           "Where are we?"
                           "Mom, do you know what city we're in?"


Sadly, Mom had many Aunt Bethenny moments during our trip.  Julie and I hoped that she would remember the last house my grandmother lived in, where we used to visit her when we were kids.  I remember my dad parking the car in the driveway; walking to the back entrance; and climbing up a narrow, steep stairway to an old, mahogany-stained door with a crystal door knob that led to my grandmother's kitchen.  The door would open and there would stand my grandmother in all of her 5 foot glory, coke-bottle glasses, and an ear-to-ear grin on her face.  Looking back, I don't think that I understood much of what my grandmother said due to her broken English, but I recall that she rolled her "r"s a lot and was always smiling.  I knew that she loved us more than anything and I was very sad when we lost her to a heart attack and subsequent stroke in the summer of 1978.


Rosewood splits off to the east and west of Warner Road.  We turned onto the bricked section of Rosewood that I swore I remembered as a kid, but did not look familiar to either of my parents:

We backtracked and tried the other portion of Rosewood, which looked more familiar to my dad, who had made the trip to my grandmother's house many times.  We saw a line of houses, any of which could have been my grandmother's house:

I remembered that my grandmother occupied the upstairs of a typical, Cleveland double-styled house.  My brothers, sisters, and I would open the door that was off her living room and stand on the porch, surveying the neighborhood.  I recently had a flashback memory of a heated conversation between a lackadaisical teenager and his loud, raven-haired mother that involved him going to the market to buy some RC Cola.  My mom was surprised that I remembered that and confirmed that a very vocal Italian lady lived next door.


We think that this was my grandmother's house but again, the address I had didn't match any of the house numbers:

Now, onto the Cozy Inn for a cold brew!  Julie had pointed it out to me before we turned onto Rosewood and our conversation turned into a Abbott and Costello-type moment.


                            "Amy, there it is!"
                            "What?!"
                            "The Cozy Inn!"
                            "Where?"
                            "Right there!"
                            "Huh?"
                            "Right there!"
                            "Where?!"
                            "Right THERE," Julie uttered through clenched teeth as her index finger and forearm brushed the side of my head as she reached between and my dad and pointed.
                            "Ohhhh.  Right."


I still didn't see it, but aimed my camera in the general direction she was pointing.  I gathered my papers and tucked them inside my purse, happy that my navigation responsibilities were over. We were all anxious to sit down and relax over a pitcher of beer at my mom and dad's Friday fish fry, date night hangout.


                            "Do you see it NOW, Amy?"


I was never one to pull one over on my sister.


                             "Yes, I see it now," I said as we pulled into the parking lot.  We noticed that the parking lot was empty, with the exception of one car where a guy was sitting and talking on his cell phone.

It didn't look very open to me, but it WAS the middle of the day on a weekday.  I tried to maintain an optimistic outlook as Julie and I asked Mom and Dad to stand under the sign.

I was a little teary-eyed as I thought about how much time had passed between their first date and this day, and how special it was that at least the building was still standing and wasn't boarded up.  I don't know how my parents felt about it, but they really made our day by going along with our excursion.  I know that they don't like to look back very much, but am touched that they did it for our sake.


We walked around to the front of the bar and saw that the lights were off and no one was home.  It was still fully furnished and the chairs had been stacked on the tables.  It WAS cozy, with a small bar to the left and no more than six or seven tables.  I don't know how long it had been closed, but it looked like time had stood still inside.  I imagined men in steel-toed boots at the bar, gregariously conversing and laughing off a tough week at work.  I imagined couples like my parents, dressed in their date night finery, sitting head to head and maybe even holding hands as they perused the menu.  Blinds were on the windows and the glare made it impossible for me to take a photo of the interior, but I did snap this photo of Julie and Mom (I wonder what she was thinking):

If the "Genny on Tap" sign is any indication, I'd say that this place has been closed for quite some time.  We resigned ourselves to the fact that a beer just wasn't in our immediate future....or was it?  Dad decided to take the scenic route home Route 21, which led to a perfectly delightful surprise...


Stay tuned for Part 7, the final blog in this series....

Hello, Cleveland Part 5

Having completely satisfied our Sterle's cravings, we maneuvered our bloated bodies back down the restaurant's dark hallway.  We stumbled out into the parking lot and piled back in Dad's CRV.  We turned south on E. 55th at breakneck speed as I fumbled in my purse in an attempt to retrieve my Mapquest maps and camera.


"There's one of the bars my father used to go to," said Dad as he sped by a small, boarded up structure that was representative of a typical old beer joint, as they were called in Cleveland.  My dad's father, John Sterle, was pretty well-off in Slovenia.  His parents managed (or owned...I can't remember now) a country inn and he grew up with a governess.  He came to the United States to avoid being drafted in the Austrian army.  My dad sent me a correction after reading Part 1 of this blog.  His father didn't come here to avoid fighting for the Communists, as I previously stated, but rather for the Austrian government, which was actually a monarchy at the time.  The Communists would, however, take over until Slovenia became an independent nation in 1991.


At any rate, my dad sped by the old bar so fast that neither Julie nor I were able to whip out our cameras quickly enough.  Dagnabit.  I am fascinated my grandfather, who died when my father was in high school.  I never met him and never even saw a photograph of him until four years ago, when my aunt gave my parents a copy of his and my grandmother's wedding photograph.  He was a very handsome and regal man.  I sent my dad a copy of "Cleveland:  Then and Now" when he was recovering from hip surgery four years ago and he actually identified his father in one of the photos.  My dad never talked about his father, but I knew that he hated him, apparently for good reason.


John Sterle came to this country with the same hopes and dreams as many other European immigrants, only to lose everything he had in the great Stock Market Crash in 1929.  He had already gotten my grandmother pregnant out of wedlock (quite the family scandal given the times) and had several children to support by this time.  He worked in the steel mills, as did my maternal grandfather, and lived with my grandmother and eventually eight children in the upstairs portion of his in-laws' house.  My grandmother's father built this house on land that was once a fruit orchard.  The original farmhouse still stands:

I don't know much about my grandfather other than he became an alcoholic after the Stock Market Crash.  He drank at many of the neighborhood taverns and the Slovenian National Home on St. Clair Avenue, but also managed to hold down a full-time job at the steel mill and lead a Slovenian folk group at the Home.  He was a very talented musician, singer, and composer, but also a very abusive man who often went on benders that lasted several days, leaving my poor grandmother (whom my dad adored) to care for eight children.  My dad has only related bits and pieces of his childhood to us, for good reason, I'm sure.  He told us about the time that he and his brothers and sisters sat on the porch and watched their father eat an entire carton of ice cream by himself, only to offer to let them lick the cardboard after he was done.  My dad also told us about the time that he smarted off to his father at the dinner table and his father slapped him so hard that he fell off his chair, his glasses flying onto the floor and breaking.  He also remembers hearing his father raping his mother after he returned from his carousing.  She died of a stroke while she was in her early 40s.  She had high blood pressure and should have been on medication, but my grandfather drank all of the money away and she never received the medical care she needed and deserved.

My dad was number six out of eight kids and his three oldest brothers went off to fight in World War II.  He was very sensitive and creative, and related far better to his younger sisters than to his macho older brothers.  He said that they came back from the war very hardened and tough, further dividing them.  One of his brothers, Leonard, was shot down by the Nazis and spent 18 months in a German prisoner of war camp.  How could you NOT be changed by that?  I saw his daughter, my cousin Marian, last summer and she was kind enough to share his memoir and and war memorabilia with us.  Uncle Lenny was a true hero in our family and sadly passed away a few years ago. 

But I'm getting ahead of myself.  My dad was driving through his old stomping grounds quite quickly, as if to outrun the bad memories.  I was sitting in the front seat, my Mapquest printouts flying every which way as I tried to take photographs and notes on what I was photographing.  I don't remember seeing much of Dad's old neighborhood except through the lens of my camera.  He pointed out several spots as he sped through St. Clair-Superior.

This was an old neighborhood grocery store on the corner of Bonna and E. 60th, just down the street from Sterle's:

We didn't encounter many cars or pedestrians as we drove through the neighborhood, which made me sad.  I couldn't help but think of how vibrant this neighborhood must have been during the 1920s and 1930s.  I imagined women bartering with the grocer while their children longingly eyed the candy jars.  I'm sure there was busy foot traffic outside the shop as well as the smell of the north wind off the lake.  I'm sure that the grocer lived above the store with his immediate and extended family, and possibly a few young lads that just arrived here from the old country.  Now, the entire building is boarded up and vacant, even though the external structure appears to be intact and in great shape.


This was a candy store called Happy's:

Again, I'm sure that the owner and his family lived above the shop, and that he was truly invested in the neighborhood and church, St. Vitus.  He or members of his family most likely constructed this building, which is also now boarded up and vacant.  It would be interesting to know how long he or his descendants remained in the neighborhood; whether they held out during the "white flight" period in the 1960s, and when (if they were even still open then) they most likely lost the majority of their customers.  I would love to know if any stalwart holdouts remain, any descendants of the neighborhood's original inhabitants.  I want to think that there are some people that still believe in the neighborhood, but I all I could see were ghosts of a part of Cleveland's history that is long past.  There is a Slovenian retirement/nursing home nearby, within view of the neighborhood church, St. Vitus.  Oh, the stories that those residents could tell.


I literally felt that I was transported to "A Christmas Story," which is one of my dad's favorite Christmas movies.  He was around Ralphie's age during the time period portrayed in the movie and can relate to it in a very special way.  He remembers yearning for a Red Rider BB gun, which he never received because his family was too poor.  Portions of the movie were filmed in Tremont, a neighborhood on Cleveland's west side, as were portions of "The Deer Hunter."  The "Christmas Story house" has been restored and is now a fun, kitschy museum.  Tremont also boasts a beautiful Russian Orthodox Church, St. Theodisius.  I remember seeing its soaring spires from the highway when we used to visit my maternal grandmother when I was a kid.  I want to think that Cleveland proper can still attract residents from richly diverse backgrounds, but I'm not sure if it can.  The city is shrinking while the suburbs are relatively going strong.


Onward.  My dad told us that he used to play in this field, which belonged to St. George, a Lithuanian Catholic church:

I live in a rapidly-growing area of Fort Worth where new construction pops up virtually every day, so  it is almost unfathomable to me that a field that was vacant in the 1930s and 1940s remains vacant today.  This is but one illustration of how the Cleveland economy has stalled, to kindly put it.  

This used to be an old funeral home.  I have a hard time wrapping my brain around a Hell's Angel's chapter located in a predominantly African-American neighborhood, but what do I know (really)?

I complained about my dad's sun/rain visor that he has on his CRV, which is visible in the photos.  I've never seen anything like it before, but he swears that it deflects the rain and sun.  Even so, it screwed up a lot of my photos.  

Finally.....we turned onto Edna Avenue, where my great-grandfather built the house that my dad lived in until his parents died in the mid- to late-1940s.  

To my amazement, it hasn't changed since I saw it in 2006.  It is in remarkable condition considering that it was built in the late 1890s.  My great-grandparents lived on the bottom floor while my dad and his family lived on the top floor.  It is almost incomprehensible to me that a family of 10 could occupy the upstairs of a house that is no more than 2400 square feet.  My dad recalls having to share a bed with two or three of his siblings for many, many years.  It would get so hot in the summer that he sometimes had to sleep with his face propped on the window sill.  His mother died when he was 11 or 12 years old and his father "offered" to let my dad's oldest sister share his bed.  My dad sensed his father's intent and offered to share a bed with his father, a man that terrified him, in order to save his sister from being molested; the same wonderful, kind-hearted sister that acted as a surrogate mother to him when his father died just a few years later.

No wonder my dad never wanted to talk about his childhood.  Looking at the house, I can't even begin to imagine the horrors that occurred inside its walls.  I feel very thankful that my dad had the courage to put his fears and adverse memories aside for our sake, for family history's sake.  I felt more than just a little selfish asking him to relive these memories.  I often wondered how he could be happy in Ashland, a small, backward town one an hour south of Cleveland, but now I understand.  

We continued on and saw an old market, which is incredibly still a market, across the street from the old farmhouse:

According to my dad , it used to be called Stumpf's Market and Mr. Stumpf was known to cheat his customers.  

This empty lot once accomodated Toedman's Drug Store:

This building on the corner of Superior and East 55th was a dance hall and bar that my dad frequented:

Two of my aunts worked at Richman Brothers on East 55th, which has been long since boarded up:

My dad went to junior high school here:

As you can tell from the photos, we were whirring by these sites and I barely had a chance to photograph them while keeping my running list of what I was actually photographing.  It was a whirlwind trip, but I am so glad that I had the chance to speed down my dad's memory lane.....while he still remembers.  

Traveling to my mom's neighborhood was an entirely different story.