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.

Hello, Cleveland Part 4

Sterle's Slovenian Country House, on the corner of East 55th and Bonna, is one of our family's favorite dining destinations.  I don't know how or if my family is related to Frank Sterle, the original owner, but I suspect there is some relation since I don't know of too many Slovenians out there with French last names.  Family legend has it that my great-, great-, great-, great-, great-grandfather on my father's side was Jacques Sterle, a soldier in Napoleon's army.  Napoleon occupied the area of the Austrian Empire now known as Slovenia and named Ljubljana as the capital of his Illyrian Provinces, an area that Austria ceded to the French.  Jacques Sterle met a village girl during the French occupation and stayed behind and married her after Napoleon and his army moved on; hence, the beginning of our family's Slovenian heritage on my dad's side.


The restaurant is styled in the tradition of an Alpine chalet and hasn't changed one bit (at least that I've noticed) since I was a kid.  You walk in a side door off the parking lot and find yourself at the end of a long, dark hallway.

The walls to the right are decorated with pastoral murals of mountains, farms, and girls in traditional Slovenian dresses (I swear they're holding beer steins).  To the left is what I like to call the "Polka Wall of Fame" on which photos of Cleveland-style polka kings (and queens) are displayed.  There used to be a cigarette machine that was rumored to be Mob-owned as most of the cigarette machines in Cleveland's bars and restaurants, but I'm not sure if it's still there.  A party room is to the right followed by a short hallway where the restrooms are located.  I had to stop in the restroom to swoon for a moment, having been overcome by Slovenian sensory overload (yes, Julie and I were laughing hysterically as she took this photo).

Swooning aside, directly across the hallway from the restrooms is the restaurant, bar, and dance floor.  You enter the dining room and are immediately greeted by Margo, the owner/manager, who has some sort of Eastern European accent (my brothers know her and could tell you where she is from).  The bar is beyond Margo's little reception cubicle where you can usually find an assortment of older European-looking men, some of whom are just too darn cute (in a grandpa kind of way) for words.  The bar takes up most of the wall that contains the only windows in the restaurant.  I hate to admit it, but my kids have sat at the bar, albeit briefly.  Don't ask.  The dining room is pretty big and tables are set on the dance floor, except for weekends when there are live polka bands and you can spot many a senior cutting a rug.  There is nothing remotely cool or hip about Sterle's decor, but it exudes such an old world ambiance that you don't really care.


The first group of dishes featured on the menu are veal dishes such as wienerschnitzel, Sterle schnitzel (the latter topped with mushrooms and sour cream), and Naravni Sterle (veal au jus with fresh mushrooms).  It's followed by pork specialties (my personal favorite) such as roast pork and breaded pork chops.  I've never made it past the breaded pork chops, so I can't tell you if any of the remaining menu items such as liver and onions, kidney stew, and klobase and zelje (sauerkraut) are any good.

Julie and I ordered the breaded pork chops with home fries and a Lasko to wash it down.  She ordered the salad, which is just plain iceberg lettuce and shredded carrots and red cabbage with a simple Slovenian vinegar and oil dressing.  If you're lucky, you might get a stray cherry tomato or two.  As you can tell, I'm not overly impressed with their salad.  I, on the other hand, ordered my son's favorite - homemade chicken broth and noodles.

My mom had a hard time finding something on the menu that she could eat and I hate to admit that I can't remember what she ended up ordering.  My dad ordered the kidney stew, but I doubt it was as good his version that he cooked for us countless times while we were growing up.  Our server was brisk and terribly efficient, reminiscent of a German prison guard.  Julie and I, in a Slovenia-phile moment, plotted how we could sneak our empty Lasko beer bottles out of the restaurant.  Julie kept a lookout for our eagle-eyed server while I nonchalantly slid both bottles into my purse.


Our food arrived not-so-surprisingly quickly after our soup and salad and did not disappoint.

We discussed our course of travel as I unabashedly gnawed on my pork chop bone.  I think they're so good because Sterle's fries them in real lard instead of vegetable oil.  We ordered apple strudel to go while I lamented the fact that we wouldn't be polka-dancing our meal off.  My parents used to be world-class polka dancers before my dad's hip surgery and I used to be so proud watching them glide across the floor.  My sisters and I always fought over dancing with him.  Always the teacher, he was patient with us while we stomped on his feet (me especially).  I don't know if there are any more father-daughter polkas in our future, but one can always hope.


I sighed, rose from my chair, nabbed my precious apple strudel, paid the bill, and took one last look around.  I hoped that the next time I came to Sterle's it would be with Lance (who could in turn step on MY toes while I taught him to polka) and the kids.  Sterle's has been around almost as long as I have.  I hope that it will outlive me.


http://www.sterlescountryhouse.com/index.htm


Next stop, Dad's old stomping grounds.

Hello, Cleveland Part 3

It was past noon and we had decided to have lunch at Sterle’s, a Slovenian/Eastern European restaurant where we have attended many family polka parties and enjoyed sinfully rich and fattening meals of fried pork chops, Slovenian sausage and home fries, and sauerkraut washed down with Lasko beer.  Depending on how strong our death wish was that day, we would top off the meal with coffee and a generous slice of apple strudel.  Sterle’s was a given for lunch, but we hadn’t quite worked up an appetite for their “diet….what diet?” fare.

 We talked about how Raddell’s was close by, just a few exits down the highway in Collinwood.  Raddell’s is a butcher shop that sells our beloved traditional Slovenian sausages that we serve at Easter and Christmas.  Lucky for me, they ship to Texas and I have turned many a friend on to this tasty, tubular treat.  I usually place my orders with Eddie or Tom, the owner.  Julie suggested that we swing by Raddell’s since she had never been there, either.  What the heck?  Why not go to Raddell’s and meet my sausage princes in person?  I was beside myself with joy.  Not only was I going to partake of my first Sterle’s meal in four years, but I was going to purchase FRESH sausages and possibly even zelodec, a Slovenian-style lunch meat, similar to Italian Genoa salami. 

We pulled off the highway and Julie shouted, “There it is!”

“Where?”

“Right there!”

Raddell’s website boasts that it sits on Frankie Yankovic Square in the historic Waterloo Road area of Collinwood.  I had pictured a quaint town square, with Raddell’s at one end in an old, framed structure, and possibly an old record store (stocked with polka music, of course), and maybe a café.  Instead, all I saw was a fairly new brick building sitting on what was Cleveland’s equivalent to an access road, which I guessed was the famed Waterloo Road. Across the street was an auto parts store and there may have even been a Chinese restaurant next door.  I didn’t see any signs (other than the sign below) designating this area as the polka king’s old stomping grounds.

 Not to be discouraged, I eagerly hopped out of the car and Julie shouted, “Let me get a picture of you!”  I grabbed my parents and posed in front of the shop.  I know, how many people can say that they've posed for a photo in front of a sausage shop?  We were the subject of curious stares, but we didn’t care.  This was a red-letter day and we were not about to let anything ruin our exuberant mood.

We walked into the shop, which seemed a lot smaller inside than it did from the outside, probably due to the fact that Raddell’s makes its own sausages on site, which I’m sure requires a lot of space.  To my right were shelves of Eastern European dry goods such as spices, noodles, coffees, teas, cookies, and chocolates.  Immediately in front of me was the cold cuts counter, where they also serve fresh sausage sandwiches.  Standing in line for their sandwiches were two men that appeared to most certainly be of Eastern European descent and reminded me of how my uncles looked when I was a kid.  Julie was equally happy to be there:

To my immediate left was a display of towels embroidered with “Slovenian Kitchen” (yes, Julie and I each have one), “Hungarian Kitchen,” “Polish Kitchen,” etc.  

Beyond that….

My, I mean OUR, sausages!  I browsed through the rack of dry goods while Mom, Dad, and Julie made their purchases. 

I wanted to savor the moment, but the tiny shop was beginning to fill up fast, so felt somewhat pressured to make my selections.  I chose one pound of sliced zelodec, which I hadn’t smelled, let alone tasted, since I was in high school.  The smell brought back memories of taking our food to church to be blessed at Easter.  My dad would buy a big chunk of it at Malencek’s and we’d have fat slices of it on white bread for lunch.  Talk about a slice of heaven.  Raddell’s makes its zelodec with its sausage meat, so how could it NOT be fabulous?

I noticed that there were two “Pots and Pans” cookbooks sitting on top of the deli display, on sale for only $18.99.  This particular edition was published on December 19 (which is also Lance’s birthday), 1998, on the 72^nd anniversary of the Slovenian Women’s Union of America.  I had searched for this cookbook online, but couldn’t find one priced below $24.99 plus shipping and handling.  It includes recipes from the Union’s first cookbook, “Woman’s Glory – The Kitchen.”  (I know….feminists would have a hard time with this title, but it was first published in 1951, for Pete’s sake).  My dad, who did most of our family’s cooking while we were growing up, often used this cookbook.  I thought that it would be a perfect souvenir of my first trip to Raddell’s. 

I got back in line and eventually made it up to the sausage counter.  What to do?  Should I get the necklace of sausages or the vacuum-sealed packages?  I hadn’t snipped the string to separate sausages in years and I always loved how the butcher wrapped them in white butcher paper and put them in a paper sack.  Practicality got the best of me and I decided on the vacuum packs since I had to fly home.  I didn’t realize at the time that these little packages of perfection would cause quite a stir at the airport and prompt a thorough TSA hand search of not only my carry-on but my kids’ as well.  I also packed half a potica that Julie, Dad, and I made, which nearly created a national security scare, prompting the TSA agent to run an explosives test on it.  Maybe I should have flown into Cleveland instead of Columbus, where there was a reasonable probability that at least one agent would have an Eastern European heritage and would know a fine sausage when he saw it.

I placed my cookbook, zelodec, and sausages on top of the counter and the butcher started to ring up my purchases when my dad slyly slipped two large loaves of Orlando Italian bread in the middle of my loot (he had already checked out).  Nice one, Dad.  Very smooth.  I was so excited to actually meet my sausage sweethearts in person that I found myself babbling about how I’ve talked to them on the phone before and about how many Texans I’ve turned on to Slovenian sausages.  The guy stared at me blankly and politely thanked me for my purchases as he would any customer.  I didn’t take offense to his blasé reaction to my nervous chatter, recalling that the Raddell’s guys hadn't been all that chatty when I placed my phone orders.  Still, it didn’t dampen my spirits and I savored each of the six or seven minutes that I was in the shop.

I paid the butcher and grabbed my treasures, glancing around the shop one last time.  I pondered purchasing some coffee or tea from Slovenia, but the line was getting longer, so I decided against it.  My parents were already out the door (my dad isn’t one to linger), so I bid adieu to the sausages, pledging to visit them again next year.  We boarded the Sterle-mobile once again and headed to our lunch destination.

  

Hello, Cleveland Part 2

Once we convinced Mom to go, we tried to convince Dad to let us drive.  He may not admit it, but he has had a few close calls and one minor accident within the past few years.  He enjoys picking us up at the airport every summer, but each year the trip becomes more precarious as he veers into the next lane, changes lanes suddenly or cuts someone off.  Julie and I had already worked it out:  she would take the highway driving and I would do the city driving.  Dad insisted on driving, boasting that Cleveland was his city.  I reluctantly slid into the front seat of his Honda CRV with my Mapquest printouts while Julie hopped in the back seat with Mom, who was snuggled in with her water bottle, sweater, and pillows.  We were off!  I tried to enjoy the scenic drive up I-71 in an attempt to calm my nerves before we reached the city.  We mapped out our route and discussed which neighborhood we would hit first.

                  We were excitedly chatting when I noticed my Dad fiddling with the steering wheel.  I forgot that he is completely addicted to his cruise control and instead of hitting his brakes to slow down, he hits the decelerate button on the steering column.  I am a self-professed control freak and have NEVER used my cruise control.  Let’s just say that my control issues multiply when a 78-year-old man is behind the wheel, ankles crossed and tucked underneath the brake pedal because heck, why does he need his FEET when he has the decelerate and accelerate buttons on his cruise control?

                His feet were in this position as we passed Cleveland Hopkins International Airport and whizzed by Cleveland’s southwestern suburbs. 

“Dad, did you know that it’s best to only use cruise control when you’re driving on long stretches of highway with little or no traffic?”

                “Hmmm.  Well, I don’t use it in the city.”

                  I saw the Terminal Tower and Key Bank looming up ahead of us and felt the energy of the traffic speeding by us.  My dad and his trusty cruise-controlled vehicle remained in the left-hand lane right up against the concrete barrier, occasionally passing over the solid white line as the highway twisted and turned.  I leaned up against the passenger-side door with such force that my cheek had become glued to the window.  Yes, we were in the city and the cruise control was still on.  I comforted myself with the knowledge that his right foot was only inches away from the brake pedal, albeit under his left foot.

               “Oh, look!  There’s the Q; there’s the Terminal Tower, Amy!”

I muttered through clenched teeth, “That’s nice, Dad. Now please watch the road!”

I felt Julie’s hand on my shoulder and looked back and saw her eyeing his crossed feet on the floorboard , his fingers deftly thumbing the cruise control buttons.  I shot her a knowing glance.  We approached Dead Man’s Curve (a sign of things to come?), where I-71 merges into I-90 and runs along Lake Erie’s shore.  Thankfully, Dad applied his brakes and slowed down as we approached the 90-degree turn.  Who the heck would design a highway with a 90-degree turn right by the Lake, on a road that is most certainly frozen six months out of the year?

We made it through Dead Man’s Curve uneventfully and I started to uncross my legs, which was not an easy feat considering how tightly I had been clenching them, until I realized that Dad was still in the left-hand lane. 

“Dad, did you know that in Texas, the left-hand lane is used mostly for passing?”

 “Hmmm.  That’s interesting.”

I could see that being subtle wasn’t going to work and I hated to hurt his feelings seeing that he was in “his” city, so I kept my mouth shut and silently prayed that God would allow me to tuck my kids in bed that night. 

Hello, Cleveland, Part 1

"I'm not going."
"What?!  Mom, you have to!  We planned this trip just for you!"
"No, I'm not feeling well today."
My sister and I give each other a "what the heck are we going to do now" look.  Our mom suffers from chronic diverticulitis and had several attacks in the weeks preceding our trip to Ohio.  She doesn't feel comfortable traveling because she doesn't know when she'll have another attack.
"Mom, we can take our time and make as many pit stops as you need."
"Well.......okay."


My sister Julie and I had been planning to take my parents back to their old neighborhoods in Cleveland for months.  My mom's memory is failing and we hoped to trigger some memories so we could start chronicling her and my dad's family histories.


Our parents are first generation Americans and were raised in the culturally-rich neighborhoods of Cleveland in its heyday.  Their parents came to the United States from Slovenia, which was part of Austria at the time, during World War I.  They fled their Communist country for various reasons:  my dad's father came here to escape being drafted to fight for the Austrian army during WWI and my mom's mother came to the U.S. to escape an abusive father.  They traveled to this country on a ship that left from Trieste, Italy and docked at Ellis Island.  They settled in Cleveland, where family awaited them.  They were required to show proof of support before they were allowed to come over.  My dad's family lived in the St. Clair-Superior neighborhood of Cleveland, near the Lake Erie shore.  My mother's family lived further south in Newburgh (it was a village just outside Cleveland proper at the time).


Neighborhood life centered around the Catholic church: my dad's grandfather helped build St. Vitus, which is still the largest Catholic church in Cleveland, although there are very few, if any, Slovenians left in the neighborhood.  My mom attended and my parents were married in St. Lawrence Catholic Church.  The Diocese recently closed St. Lawrence along with scores of other Catholic churches in the city, in an effort to consolidate parishes due to declining membership in many previously vibrant parishes.  In fact, St. Lawrence had just celebrated its last Mass 11 days before our visit.





Immigrants in Cleveland found comfort and camaraderie in the churches as well as in the National Homes, which provided cultural offerings such as singing groups and, of course, opportunities to partake of food and wine.  My grandfather led a singing group at the Slovenian National Home on St. Clair Avenue, which still hosts Slovenian dignitaries and cultural programs.


Cleveland a vibrant city, you say?  The same Cleveland that is currently the 33rd largest city yet ranks as the 7th most dangerous in the country?  The city whose river burned and was dubbed "Mistake on the Lake?"  The city whose sports team can't seem to win a championship and whose stars flee to winning teams?  Believe it or not, Cleveland was the 5th largest city in the United States in 1920 and boasted the largest Slovenian population in the country.  It was a busy shipping hub due to its location on Lake Erie as a midpoint between Chicago and New York.  The steel industry thrived and provided jobs to many immigrants like my grandfathers.


Unfortunately, "white flight" occurred after the Hough Riots, which took place when I was less than three weeks old and living in East Cleveland with my parents.  The ethnic neighborhood inhabitants fled to suburbs such as Euclid and Shaker Heights following the riots.  Cleveland made its last appearance in the top 10 largest U.S. cities in 1970.  Residents left behind homes, neighborhoods, and churches that their fathers and grandfathers built in an attempt to raise their children in the shelter of the suburbs.  Bars, grocers, and butcher shops were boarded up, never to re-open, such as Malencek's butcher shop, below, where my family bought our Easter Slovenian smoked sausages and zelodec.





Houses would be neglected and condemned and the east side of Cleveland would fall victim to violent crime. These were the neighborhoods my sister and I were about to enter with my parents....and their memories of a Cleveland long past.