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....