Every non-native St. Louisan, that I have ever spoken with, in speaking of St. Louis, usually says: “Yes, I've been there, I had a layover at the airport”, or words to that effect. Hence they feel they have some understanding of St. Louis.
After leaving Clayton for College at the age of 18, never to return there again, except for a visit in the early 1990s, I find myself fond of my hometown. Maybe more than fond. Sometimes, tears well in my eyes when I recall the people and times I spent there. And while this sentiment must seem indistinct from all other folks who have moved from their birthplace, the only reason for writing this abridged history was to try to portray why that is not true. Yes, I'm sure others may miss their hometowns. Yes, I'm sure it isn't the same thing. Yes, we all think that “things were 'better' back then”. This isn't about that. Although surely “things” have changed. The argument about objectivity and sentiment will be dealt with following.
So, I had posted this lengthy history of my childhood in St. Louis, trying to express, what the thesis of this autobiography is about as suggested by the above paragraph. I had published in 2002 or '03, at a now defunct website http://www.stlouist.com. Now replaced by: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/stlouist and My Childhood Home of St. Louis, is now located at: http://mychildhoodhomeofstlouis.blogspot.com
I was most surprised when the first website was taken off the 'net without any notice. Fortunately, I had saved a copy, which is below. However, I warn the reader that it doesn't conform to the original purpose in writing it, which was to draw from my mind, what it is about St. Louis that makes it unique in all the world. An obviously difficult task for St. Louis has McDonalds' Coca-Cola, and Budweiser. An art museum and a symphony orchestra. Swimming pools and gardens. Streets and alleys.
And as I wrote this autobiography I somewhat understood my shortcomings as both a writer and as someone trying to put forth a profound idea. That is, words can convey ideas, but can they convey the ineffable?
Some years later, from two entirely different sources and from vast distances in time, I have somehow achieved what I wanted to do. The first source is from the prize winning poet: T.S. Eliot. His works follow:
"Many other memories have invaded my mind, since I received the invitation to speak to you today; but I think there are enough to serve as a token of my thoughts and feelings. I am very well satisfied with having been born in St. Louis: in fact I think I was fortunate to have been born here, rather then in Boston, or New York, or London."
T.S. Eliot, "American Literature and the American Language," address delivered at Washington University, June 9, 1953, published in Washington University Studies, New Series: Literature and Language, no. 23 (St. Louis : Washington University Press, 1953), p. 6.
". . . it is self-evident that St. Louis affected me more deeply than any other environment has ever done.
I left St. Louis in 1905, to go to Milton Academy in Massachusetts; and apart from a few Christmas holidays, I have never seen St. Louis again. . . . And I feel that there is something in having passed one's childhood beside the big river, which is incommunicable to those people who have not."
T.S. Eliot, letter to Marquis Childs quoted in St. Louis Post Dispatch, October 15, 1930;
and from: http://www.builtstlouis.net/faq.html#7 which is a website put up by: Rob Powers
“Who the hell are you, anyway?
From a St. Louis perspective, I'm a former Washington University student who graduated in May of 1996, and moved to the East coast (Philadelphia) a year later. After three years there, I moved to Milwaukee to begin graduate school in architecture, at the University of Wisconsin - Milwaukee. I graduated from UWM in December 2003, but I'm sticking around Milwaukee for the foreseeable future. Before Wash U, I grew up in Shreveport, Louisiana.
Why do you maintain this site?
Because the architecture of St. Louis simply blew me away when I first saw it and continued to do so for as long as I lived there. There's nothing like it where I came from, and even after travelling to many other cities, I have to say that St. Louis's architecture and urban landscape still beats out that of almost any American city of similar size. . . . “
Mr. Powers addresses St. Louis as a non-native, but the sentiment I get from his devotion to the place suggests to me something more profound and in-line with what our poet had to say.
So below starts verbatim what I had written before ever reading T.S. Eliot's words or seeing the BuiltStLouis.net webpages.
My Childhood Home of St. Louis
St. Louis for me, is the best place on earth. Well, come to think of it Clayton. Paris is nice, London, too. I love San Francisco. But home will forever be home. Having now lived in and around Los Angeles and Santa Barbara for 30 plus years, I think I can safely say St. Louis is nicer in many ways.
I was born in Richmond Heights in 1948. In Winter.
My parents took me home to somewhere in Brentwood. My first memories are of living on Alanson Avenue in University City. There I met my first childhood friend, Alan. His dad's name was Lester. He had a sister, she was named: Vivian.
I can't recall a lot about living there, except my first day separated from my mother by being taken to kindergarten. I cried like a baby, which I was at the time being about 4 to 5 years of age. There was a tree, may maple, growing in the backyard. It dwarfed me then and when I drove by in the '90s it dwarfed me then, too.
The neighborhood, in 1954 had no other structures west of our home, until McKnight Road. On McKnight where the same buildings now, as then. From Old Bonhomme south all along Alanson, were recently built homes.
After a heavy rain Alan and I went wandering off. As we stood on muddy ground, we kept sinking higher and higher. Pretty soon we were nearly up to our necks and yelling for help from anybody. Luckily, (honest to God) a Boy Scout came along. He tried to pull us out of the mud, but we were in too deep. So he ran off to get our parents. They all came running out of the house and before long we were saved. Next thing I remember was being bathed in the basement wash tub, with all my clothes on. I never saw that Boy Scout again, but I owe him my life.
About the time I turned 6 years, we moved to (what was then called) Olive Street Road. We lived so far from other's at that time, that we had only electricity and telephone. The water came from a well. The sewer was a septic tank and we had propane delivered once a month. Twenty-six acres. The farm house that had been the owner's home had been moved and we put our household help in it. The barn housed my dad's Allis Chalmers tractor, yet we had a separate garage for the cars. An architect was hired to design a home to please my mother's taste and I remember the people from Better Homes and Gardens came, took pictures and told us we would be in some issue. We weren't. I guess we're not "photogenic". I lived there until I was 12. Let me tell you a little about my life there. The neighbors are still there and there farm is still there. John Prestien, did the farming for us as my father, a gentleman farmer, had his work near downtown St. Louis. For some years we had a number of dogs. A pair of Schnauzers. I could have cared less, a poodle, I've forgotten the name, a German Shepard, who in consequence of biting my mom, was returned to the breeder the next day: and Buffy. Short for Buffet. As my mother was at that time running a tea-room for a ladies luncheon, called La Cage D'Ore, I gave the dog the name after a style of food service. She came to us a a baby. As was I. Yet she grew at a much accelerated pace to me. So I would leave the house on a warm summer night to play with the dog before dark, and in her excitement to see me, she would jump up, her front paws reaching my shoulders, causing me to be knocked down, often hitting my head on the bricks of the patio. Next, that would start me crying my eyes out, I would rush into my parents who would remind me that the dog was only playing. Next I would rush out and play as my tears dried. At night, the smell of honeysuckle would waft into my window. Even now the fragrant memories make my heart redolent with joy.
I attended Rossman School during those years, except for a year or two at Fernridge Elementary. Well catty-cornered, exactly. Fernridge Elementary, I think that's the name. There I learned of Engineer's Boots (for kids) and playing marbles. Strange, nobody had steelies back then. Oh! I also kissed my first girl there. I convinced her to hurry back to the classroom after lunch. Next we hid and kissed until the teacher came into the room and asked us what we were doing. Neither of us got in any trouble, though. That must have been before First Grade, which I attended at Rossman. Sadly, I've forgotten that chic's name.
Rossman was on Delmar Boulevard in the 1950s. There was an electric trolley line on the street. I remember riding the trolley. How exciting it was. Rossman was at 5438 Delmar Boulevard. De Baliviere and Delmar had an electric power station, just for the trolley. Big windows, you could see the generators turning. Sometimes, smoke came from the smokestacks. Down De Baliviere was the Winter Garden. It was an private, indoor, ice skating rink. There my mother took me and there I learned to skate. I still have a passion for ice skating.
Rossman! What a privilege to attend that school! My fellow students were the best and brightest of the town. Joe Pulitzer and I were playmates. I would love to reconnect with any of those folks. Just to see what they were up to. Rossman had a school directory. The booklet was printed on nice paper, had a cover and names, addresses and phones. I can remember but a few. Libby Stein, Timothy P. Mitchell, Teddy Walker, Ginger Honig and a few others, I won't boor you with more names. Ah! Mitchell's middle name is Papin. That name figures prominently in early St. Louis history, as Maria Papin married into the Chouteaus. I have a tiny little bit of Papin blood in me. I went to Rossman through 1960. I remember particularly a Halowe'en Party at Ginger Honig's house on Lindell Blvd. We all bobbed for apples. I almost won. Two years later, I found myself at the Honig home again. I was trying to put the "make" on Ginger. I think she might have let me, too. But I was probably all of 12 at the time.
First Grade at Rossman. I fell on the playground, tore a new pair of pants and was upset, because I thought my Mother would be disgusted they were torn. She wasn't. I read a book from the time we were on the school bus until I was dropped off at home. I was the last for we lived "out of town" back then.
First Grade at Rossman. I had a "trick" fountain pen. It was like a cap pistol. No ink. Mrs. Guernsey, first grade teacher, would threaten the bad children with being sent back to kinder-garden if they misbehaved. I'm pretty sure you can guess how I ended up there. When the thing went off with a bang, I felt a tug on my hand and before you could say 'Jack Robinson', I was sent down to Kindergarten.
Ohhh! Rossman School food. My first bowl of Chile con Carne came from the Silver Haired lady cooks in the Rossman kitchen. I wish I had the recipe.
First Grade at Rossman. I had the honor of kicking the winning goal in a game of kick-ball and being hoisted on the other players' shoulders. Also this, I learned my first dirty words. Some guy told me what "jack-off" meant. And I found a Three Stooges playing card on the school playground. On the back was the following:
Q. Why is a Fire Engine Red? A. Because two times two is four. And three times four is twelve. and there are twelve inches in a ruler. And Queen Elizabeth is a ruler and Queen Elizabeth is a boat. And boats sail in the ocean and there are fishes in the ocean. And fishes have fins. And the Finns fought the Russians and the Russians are Red and Fire Engines are Rushin' all over.
In first grade we learned how to read and write. See Jane. See Dick. That was how it went. As I am a southpaw, I had to learn to write, but my handwriting was never as good as those were right-handed. We used the Palmer hand-writing method.
Every Christmas, all the kids had to join the Chorus and learn to sing Christmas Carols. We sang Adeste Fideles in both Latin and English.
My parents lived way way out of town, back in the 1950s. Our home was on Olive Street Road. Yet we had no street number and no mail, either. We had to go the the little town of Chesterfield to get the mail. So that meant a trip on Saturdays over there. Dad would sometimes give me a dime for a soda. Now in St. Louis, soda is soda, but for other parts of the country that "pop". Either way it tastes good. The first soda I ever remember drinking is in Chesterfield. Oh, I probably had some Whistle, or IBC Root Beer or Coca-Cola before; but I don't remember it. There was a saloon in Chesterfield. It had swinging doors. I, a boy of 7 or 8 years walked through the swinging doors. I walked up to the bar. I sat at a barstool. The bartender came over and asked me what I wanted to drink. I asked him what he had. He recited a list of his soda, smiling. Maybe he thought I was trying to buy hard liquor. I wasn't. I had to ask him to repeat the list. And then, like being in an action movie, when the hero is struggling to save the lives of others: time stopped. Slowly I heard him recite his softdrinks. Yet I realized immediately which to have: "Black Cherry" I responded. To this day that's my favorite flavor of soda-pop.
I was always the last kid on the schoolbus and just before me was Gil Alfring. Sometimes I stopped at his house to play and Gil remembers how happy the busdriver was when he didn't have to drive the remainder of the way to my house. The Alfring's lived in Creve Couer off Geyer Road. I think his dad was a big-shot with Granite City Steel. It's strange that after graduating Rossman that I lost track of all those kids, or most of them. Gil went on to CODASCO. I believe he had a fantastic stamp collection. It would be worth “real” money, now-a-days. Sadly, whatever else we may have done together, I've forgotten.
Jumping forward 10 years. Mike Coffee, Frank Camarata and I went to the Tivoli Theater in U. City. Playing at the Tivoli was "Blue Hawaii" with Elvis Presley and Joan Blackman. At 14 I wasn't exactly the "stud" with women. [Defensively -- woman 'back then' weren't 'easy'. -- hahah], but Mike Coffee was. Frank was 3rd to my second and so off to a Friday nite showing at the theater. Our parents dropped us off at Westroads Shopping Center and we took the bus to U.City for the film.
Once there, Mike selected three seats for us near the front. The three of us sitting together and two (yikes! only two) women to our right. After the movie started Mike got up and with a leering wink to us. He had picked up a real beauty and was off to the concession stand to buy her a wild cherry soda. Frank and I looked at each other in disbelief; and thought "How did Mike do it?" Anyway, he came back a few minutes later, drink in hand and led the chick off to the balcony. That left Frank and me competing for this last girl. Somehow, we got her to sit in between us. Time went by and neither Frank nor I had "dibs" on the girl. I knew I had to make a move, so I stretched my right arm out behind her on the chair. Perchance, Frank did the same at the same moment. And back then, touching a guy in that manner was a sign of being a homo or something weird, so when Frank saw my arm was there, we both knew I had won. Finally, I got the babe up to the balcony. I pretended to watch the movie for a while. Then, still not having a clue as to what I was doing, I put my fingers on her cheek, turned her head to mine and started to kiss her. Just as our lips met, the loudest BANG I have ever heard in my life happened. I practically jumped two feet in the air I was so scared. Meanwhile, the ushers and manager were rushing to the scene of the explosion. Someone had set off an M-80 with a cigarette for a time delay fuse. I was too shaken to try to kiss the girl any longer and sadly went home, a virgin.
As I promised above, I'll return to my childhood home along what was then called Olive Street Road and is now (at least on Yahoo!s map: called: Olive Boulevard). Our home, again named: Chesterfield, sat on 26 acres of land. Next door was the Prestien's farm. They had chickens and cows and hogs. Hay and corn. And a peach orchard. They had a barn and a horse and a wagon. I got to ride in the wagon. They made their own soap. They made their own sausage and would share some with us. They didn't eat lunch. They ate dinner. But the breakfasts were what I remember best. They had cows milk, in a cooler, on the back porch. The cream had to be stirred back into the milk. It was too rich for my child's tongue. Anyway, they had a real farm. Mrs. Prestien would slop the pigs, calling: "sue-WE". The smell was rank. One summer, I walked through the peach orchard. A golden ripe peach hung from the bough and I, knowing that it was not my peach, plucked it anyway. The flavor remains on my tongue to this day.
On my 10th birthday my parents gave me a big birthday party. All my schoolmates from Rossman were there. But, the Saturday before my birthday, my dad gave me a vintage electric car. It had two batteries, seated two and had an ahooga horn. He helped me paint it fire engine red. Then I had to wait, overnight, while the batteries charged. Oh! how painful the wait. Next day, I was driving it all over. And by the time of the birthday party, the kids were crazy for it. It would be remiss of me if I didn't CREVE COEUR CREEK. Back then, I never knew that name, we just called it the creek. And I wasn't allowed to play down by it, for there were cottonmouth snakes living around it. I guess they lived on the frogs. Needless to say, I never walked down to Creve Coeur Creek. But I did get a scare one day. As I walked out the patio door, I saw what I thought was a really cool looking stick. Yes, you are ahead of me dear reader. It turned out to be a black snake and when I reached to pick it up, it slithered out of my hands. I was so scared, I was probably about 8 years old at the time and I haven't had a stick in my hand pretty much ever since.
In surfing around the 'net I see that Fernridge Elementary is a goner and it's now a high school. Back then, there was nothing but farm-land for miles in every direction. When I re-visited St. Louis in the mid-1990s, there was a strip mall where once had been a field of alfalfa.
The day the photographer and reporter from "Better Homes and Gardens" came to photograph Chesterfield for their magazine, it was: 1) Summertime; 2) I was wearing blue jeans with a 2 inch cuff and 3) the photographer replaced all the bulbs in our living room fixtures with flashbulbs that looked exactly like light bulbs. How he got them to flash in sync with the camera was a great mystery to me that day. I remember leaning against a Crabapple tree with my right leg crossing my left leg. My right foot sneaker was pointed towards the ground and my legs made a figure "4". The photographer got down nice and low and got a picture of the house with mostly my legs showing in the foreground.
Eventually, Dad sold the Chesterfield House and we moved into Davis Place in Clayton. I had two years to go at Rossman. My parents did some of the moving of small, delicate objects that my mother wouldn't have dreamed of letting a mover's hands touch. And as we drove back and forth between Chesterfield House and Davis Place, we stopped at the same restaurant, now long gone, three times in one day. I had a hamburger for both lunch and dinner. At the time I think I felt a little uncouth for eating without variety, but that isn't a problem now. I'm a published author of cookery books. As we got settled in Davis Place, on Mohawk Drive or Mohawk Place, it depends on whether you are looking at the street sign on the east or west end of Mohawk. Drive is nearer the east end, so I always used Drive on my addresses. Soon after arriving there, I learned to ride a bike. Donny from the end of Mohawk became my best friend. And the Armistead Brothers were childhood pals as well. I was Andy's age, but palled around with Dick. The two older brothers were too old even for Andy and Dick mostly. If I remember right, Dick, who went to Clayton High, was part of the "dirty-thirty". The Dirty-Thirty and it's sub-cult the “filthy-five” were the schools “in-crowd”. But, as I didn't go to Clayton High, they were mostly people I saw in passing. But I do miss one fellow named: Pebble Poole. I'm told he lives in Texas and is an attorney or in the law business, but I haven't found a way to contact him.
Living in Davis Place.
At first, I had only friends from Rossman. Teddy and Bobby and Patty. Teddy lived in Carswold. A very big and really nice house. Probably in Carswold Place off Wydown Boulevard. Speaking of Wydown, I attended Wydown for 8th grade. The summer before school started, I read a book about algebra and by the time school started, I was way ahead. But the stupid publisher didn't finish publishing the books in time and I never really learned polynomial theory. I only had three friends at Wydown, because we were the only Gentiles. Andy A., Bill S. and myself. There was one other Gentile, but for some reason he wasn't in our select group.
Wednesday's at Wydown we had chile con carne and bologna sandwiches. What a Treat! Andy A's older brother Dicky, told me that they (some of the Filthy Five) had skipped a day of school. Stupid child that I was, I decided to do likewise. Needless to say I got caught. Principal Lemon had my mother and me conference with him before I was allowed to return to Wydown. He must have gone overboard with the criticism, because while my Mom was not happy with what I did, she wasn't buying into his theory that I would end up a failure. Two things I never got: How Dicky got away with it, and why anybody would want to. All I could to was wander around Davis Place, Tropicana Bowling Alley and the like. All the kids my age were in school, I didn't have a thing to do. I was bored on top of being stupid! Top that you all!
I remember well Nan K., who is now living in Los Angeles and is married to a judge. Randy F., Rene S. So I Googled some of the names and surprise, surprise, one popped up. I found an email address and dropped a line and now, maybe, I'll actually have someone who might like to read this weblog. It might help them get to sleep!
About 18 months after it had been posted I received an email from my Freshman High School Prom Date. I put this all in capital letters because, if she ever reads this autobiography again, I want her to know it was an important moment in my life. I knew this girl as Laura Mahon. She has since been married, divorced and taken another name, other than Mahon or the ex-husband's.
We both went to the same church. In fact, I remember seeing here sitting at an adjoining table in Sunday School and deciding to join that table instead of the “older” kids at my assigned table. She was blond, and handsome and I was a teenager with enraged hormones. We had a date at the Prom, but as we were living far apart at that time, I mostly wrote her letters. I had promised to write “always” but eventually stopped. I honestly don't recall that part, but she does. She found me through this Internet-posted autobiography, and I'm glad she did. She works as an book editor and lives in San Francisco. She is the only living person who has a photograph of me from high school. We have been emailing pretty regularly, back-and-forth, for we both like to write. I've tried this with a few other former classmates and had sad results. Mostly former friends and schoolmates might talk on the phone, but writing is for most of them, a chore. And we all know how much we like chores.
So, all this time (nearly 40 years) living in Santa Barbara, Santa Monica, and Hollywood California and never having any feeling of “home”, I, through the good work of Mr. Powers and others come to understand a little of what it means to be a native of StL.
When I started this weblog, I knew what I wanted to talk about. I knew I was skipping some events and memories that probably could be included, but I have chosen to present just what you see. I make no claim for balance or “realism”, only honesty.
I started with my birth and end just before Freshman year in High School. To me that is Childhood. I write no further because, even though there is more (much more –maybe too much more) Childhood must end somewhere. I wanted to convey the beauty, elegance, grace, charm, joy, fun childhood I had. But more, I wanted my reader to feel at home the way I felt at home.
