The Cost of Living

Things took a turn for the better when on June 19, 1956, dad was accepted into the apprentice program of the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employes and Moving Picture Machine Operators of the United States of America, Local 5, Cincinnati.

The work for an apprentice was spotty but it paid well depending on the assignment, and with dad working at Coney Island in the summer (the low season for live shows) we were finally solvent—and that meant we could move back to the East End again.

Living at “the Camp” hadn’t been all bad. We got to watch the Ohio flood to about a foot or so from our yard. Saw a wind storm strong enough to flip a barge end over end UPstream rather than down, I got a BB gun for Christmas and set out to kill all the birds in the woods and with which my sister shot Chatzie in the butt. It was fun.

In my fondest memory, I recall the mini bacon-lettuce and tomato sandwiches. It is a story I have to tell because it says a lot about mom.

Wonder Bread (“Builds strong bodies 10 ways”) used to give away mini-loaves of from time to time to promote the brand. Whenever dad brought them home, weather permitting, mom would set up the card table and chairs outside and throw us a picnic by making BLTs out of these tiny loaves. It had to have been a lot of work because she had to cut everything into tiny pieces before assembling the sandwich—Imagine making BLTs on dinner rolls and you’ll get the picture. She would bring out a plate piled high with our sandwiches and we would feast. This was typical of how much she would go out of her way to give us a treat.

We kids, whatever “hardships” we endured, loved and had fun at the camp. It was, so far as I can find from my pictures, the place where our last family picture was taken not long before we moved. Here it is.

I’ve always thought of this one as the McCalester version of Grant Wood’s “American Gothic.” Look by the stairs at right and you can just see one of the stilts the house stood on.

Mom and dad’s excitement of returning to the East End (we kids didn’t care—we were having a ball) was tempered by a couple of problems. First, an apartment suitable to mom wasn’t immediately available, and, we wouldn’t be able to take Blondie.

My mom shed thousands of tears over giving her up. Dad had to take her to see where Blondie would be living and get her approval before she let the new owners come to pick her up on the day we moved.

While we waited for the right apartment to become available dad found a house about two doors west of 4102. Things got dramatically worse. First, on the day we moved in mom discovered bed bugs in the upstairs bedrooms. Of course Dad took the heat for them because he had, a) found the house, and, b) given her dog away. Dad accepted this in good grace as his due and dug in to get things cleaned up. But WAIT!, as they say in the late night infomercials, That’s not ALL.

On the third or fourth day in the new house Blondie showed up at the door, dirty and much bedraggled. She had traveled 8 or 10 miles from her new owners in country and through city and found mom, and this, even though she had never been to our new house! Mom kept her overnight and cleaned her up, and then, with all of us in tears, dad set off to take her away again.

Between all the work of cleaning and prepping the new house, battling bed bugs and Blondie’s return she told dad, “I should have kept the dog and got rid of you.” Dad, being an exceptionally savvy man, didn’t argue. He just wanted to get it over with. He wasn’t so fortunate.

Four days later Blondie was back, and it was the same thing over again except that it was worse for all of us. Once again dad took her to her new owners. Blondie must have gotten the hint as she never came again.

In just a couple of months an apartment became available one block away from 4102, at 4000 Eastern Avenue and we left the bed bug and Blondie house post haste.

4000 Eastern as it is today. Once again we located on the second floor at left. Willie's bakery was on the ground floor at right.

It was a small but nicely kept second floor apartment in a building owned by a German baker, Willie; I never knew his last name. From front to back there was a good sized living room, a dining room, kitchen, bath and bedroom. Mom and dad made the dining room their bedroom and we three kids piled into the bedroom; the girls in bunk beds and I in a single.

Mom was happy with the apartment and dad was happy that mom was happy. Also, Lindy’s was across the street. Dad and mom rigged a signal; if dad was at Lindy's and mom needed him, she would lower the blinds on the right side window. Then  one of the  regulars would say, "Mac, Helen wants you," and home he'd go. 

To complete a description of the neighborhood, we had Willie’s bakery downstairs, Vern’s grocery next door to our left and Doc Clouder’s about a block away. Lindy’s and Walt’s deli were across Eastern Ave. The theater and hardware store were on that same side.

Looking across the alley to the west were Mr. Moseley’s variety store, Johnny’s barber shop, and across Eastern to the west was the five and dime and McKinley grade school were I would spend 3^rd through 6^th grade.

As I was eight now I could go places on my own since mom or dad could watch from the window upstairs. Mr. Moseley liked to sit on the steps of his shop when there were no customers. Many a time mom or dad would open a side window and shout to him that they were sending me over for a pair of gym shoes, or a shirt or pants. Mr. Moseley would take care of me and then next time mom or dad were out and about they would pay him. Imagine that happening today!

It worked the same way everywhere. Need groceries? Go to Vern’s tell him what mom wanted and he’d run a tab until dad stopped by to pay. Have a list? Someone, maybe even Vern himself, would do the shopping. He’d even give you a cold wiener from the meat case to munch on while you waited. It was the same good treatment at Johnny’s, Walt’s or Clouder’s. It was an extended family and everyone watched out for everyone else. The only real exceptions were the Kroger store, the theater and the five and dime which were all chain stores and therefore not “neighborhood” people.

I entered McKinley in Mrs. Stewart’s third grade. She was older and sometimes grumpy, but all in all not a bad teacher. She was especially nice to me because I got good grades and behaved. The grades I could take some credit for but the good behavior was all dad’s doing. He had made it very clear: “Get in trouble in school and it will be worse when you get home.” He meant it and I knew it. ‘Nuff said.

McKinley as it looked in 1960. The gym was in front and the classrooms in the building behind.

When fourth grade came around everything was kicked up a notch; we got to “pass classes" and have different teachers for each subject. I had a crush on my home room teacher, Mrs. Young who taught music. Mr. Darpel taught arithmetic, Mr. Grove, history, Mr. Sharp, Gym, Mr. Terleski (I think) taught Shop and Mr. Wilhoit, English. Mr. Wilhoit, for what reason I do not know, didn’t like me—no, that's wrong--he hated me.

More than once I had to stay after school and write “I will not (fill in the blank) again" one hundred times. The what varied according to his mood, and only once did I have it coming. Sherry Stratman, who was considered to be the co-best student along with me, did get her pigtails pulled once after she beat me by one point on a test and stuck out her tongue at me. Otherwise I was innocent. Of course dad’s rules applied. Bad at school, worse at home, and Mr. Wilhoit caused me more than one tanning.

One time he made the class a wager. He said that there was no word in the English language four or more letters long that did not contain either a, e, i, o, or u, and if anyone could name one he would give them a pack of Spearmint gum. My hand was up in a flash. “Spry”,” I said and started to get out of my seat and claim my prize. “That’s not a word,” he said, and handed me the smallest pocket sized dictionary I had ever seen. “Find it in there and I’ll give you the gum.”

Well it wasn’t in there. And he ridiculed me for being foolish—but this wasn’t over. On recess I went to Mrs. Young’s room and asked to borrow her dictionary. She gave it to me without asking why. After recess I marched into Mr. Wilhoit’s room, pointed to spry in the dictionary (and this in front of the 5^th graders, no less) and demanded the gum. He nearly threw it at me and I left triumphant, though late for arithmetic.

Each quarter Mrs. Young would read through our report cards in front of the class before handing them out and find something good to say about each kid along the way. She went out of her way to make even the poorest students feel proud about something.

In the next quarter when she read through mine she looked shocked. Then she said, “Wray how did you get an F in English?” I started crying, completely stunned. Then I got angry—really angry. She handed out the cards and I went through my desk and grabbed all my English papers. All were A’s except for one or two B’s. I took them home and gave them to dad along with my report card. I certainly didn’t want the spanking that would come with that F.

As a rule Dad was a pretty mellow man with no enemies and a world full of friends. When I showed him the tests and the grade he was livid—but not at me. All he said was, “Don’t worry about it,” but he was beet red.

When I was leaving my last class the next day I saw dad standing outside Mr. Wilhoit’s door with my report card and tests in hand, and as red as he had been at home the previous day. I beat feet. I didn’t want to see whatever was going to happen. When dad came home the grade had been corrected to an A and signed by the school’s principal, Mr. Parker. When I went into English the next day there was a pack of Spearmint on my desk. Spry and dad had netted me a “twofer” I never had trouble with Mr. Wilhoit again. Even when he was my home room teacher the next year.

Sadly, when I returned in the summer of ’67 to work at Coney, one of my old school mates told me Mr. Wilhoit had committed suicide the year before. He must have been a deeply troubled man.

On that unpleasant note I’ll pause. Things were about to change in big, good, and bad ways.