Elementary School

My family moved to Mt. Pleasant in 1946 before I was born. Both of my sisters attended George Peabody Elementary School in Oak Cliff. My oldest sister Patsy began first grade there in 1946, and she remembers the basement of the school was dungeon-like with an unpleasant odor. I think she even used the word “creepy” to describe it. I started first grade in 1956. The school had been renovated by then, and my memory of it is much more pleasant than my sister Patsy’s. However, for those readers who have had bad dreams of being naked in public, this is the setting for my naked-in-public dreams.

Mother was most certainly delighted when I started school in 1956. Before that, I must have spent a lot of boring hours driving her crazy. Wearing a pair of “stilts” that looked like a couple of Spam cans with string handles tied to them, I clanked around the house whining, “When do I get to go to school?” Mother always answered, “Soon, very soon.”

Peabody was about one-half mile from our home, but it seemed a lot farther the many times that I walked to and from school. As I headed out for school, my first hurdle was the dreaded walk down Sheldon, where I had to pass by a house with a couple of fierce barking Boxers. After conquering my fear of these dogs, I passed the fire station at the bottom of the big hill on Sheldon, which Google Maps shows still stands but looks vacant. I then negotiated my second hurdle, namely the big and very busy intersection of Jefferson and Westmoreland, both divided avenues. Thank goodness for the crossing guard at that intersection, although she yelled at me once for jaywalking with some older kids across Westmoreland in front of the fire station. This intersection has changed very little since my Oak Cliff days. It still looks treacherous, and I wonder if school children are allowed to cross this busy intersection today, with or without a crossing guard. My deepest gratitude goes out to my crossing guard for traumatizing me that day with her indelible crosswalk safety lesson. Jefferson/Westmoreland intersection

On warm spring days, as I approached home on foot after school, I was met by the lilting and ever-so-inviting sound of piano music wafting down the street through our open windows. Often the music was accompanied by the inviting aroma of fresh-baked cookies. An oven-fresh chocolate chip cookie paired with a cold Pepsi in a tall frosty metal glass was the best after-school snack – or any kind of snack.

My first grade teacher was tall, young, and pretty. Sometimes she allowed us students, one at a time, to take turns standing behind her and rubbing her shoulders while she sat in a lone chair in front of the class and read us a story. My classmates (especially the boys) all clamored over who got to do this, because often it was possible to see right down the front of her blouse. It was quite the first grade education, which I actually witnessed myself once. She seemed to have no idea what was going on.

 

Mother made my lunch every day for school, and I carried it in a brown paper sack left over from the grocery store. I’m not talking about small lunch-size brown bags. I’m talking brown paper grocery sacks, some of which were full-size. My favorite sandwich (believe it or not) was liverwurst with sliced dill pickles. I also liked tuna salad, chicken salad, egg salad, and bologna sandwiches. I did not like peanut butter and jelly. Mother often included a pickle spear and a boiled egg with a small cellophane-wrapped dash of salt to dip the egg in; and she always put some kind of dessert in the bag, too: a homemade chocolate chip cookies, a brownie, or a piece of chocolate or angel food cake. I always bought a carton of milk for lunch, which I recall cost seven cents. In twelve years, the only other food I remember purchasing from the school cafeteria was hot cloverleaf rolls with butter and rice with gravy, which are still at the top of my list of favorites.

My first kiss took place in first grade at George Peabody in a class held regularly in the auditorium. My friend Mike and I sneaked on stage behind the plush red velvet curtain to kiss in the dark. He was my first boyfriend and my last, until I met my husband-to-be in college in 1968.

I attended George Peabody Elementary School from first through sixth grades. Seventh grade was still elementary school for me, but during sixth grade in 1962 we moved farther south in Oak Cliff to our new house on Ovid Ave. I finished sixth grade at Peabody and attended John W. Carpenter Elementary School on Tosca Lane in seventh grade. It was just a short block from our house and a much easier walk to school than Peabody was.

John W. Carpenter Elementary School was a fairly new school at the time in a fairly new neighborhood and was a much nicer facility than Peabody was. Having only spent one year there, I don’t have a lot of memories of it; however, I do remember my seventh grade graduation dance in the gym. Mother took me to the “beauty parlor” at Sanger Harris to have my hair cut and styled into a “bubble” and to shop for a dress for the graduation party. As the “beauty operator” was finishing up my “do,” she asked me, “Do you have a bow?” I thought she meant did I have a beau, and I was embarrassed to tell her that I did not. I must have elaborated a bit too much about not having a beau, because she stopped me and laughed and explained that she just wanted to know if I had a bow for my hair. As for the dress, I fell in love with a dreamy chiffon dress with pink flowers, and when I arrived at the party in my beautiful new dress, I discovered several other girls had fallen in love with the same dress. The dance was hosted by a DJ from the popular AM radio station KLIF 1190. His name was Irving Harrigan, a.k.a. Ron Chapman, who, as most Dallasites know, became a famous personality/celebrity in the Dallas area, if not the entire country. National Radio Hall of Fame, Ron Chapman. I had an opportunity to meet Ron Chapman at a party on Swiss Avenue in the late 1970s or early 80s. I mentioned the seventh grade graduation party to him, but I don’t think he remembered – not that I would have expected him to. I enjoy telling this story of my “beau,” the popular graduation dress, and the legendary DJ.

 

1950-62 Early Childhood on Mt. Pleasant

My parents were both 37 years old when I was born. They were older than any of my friends’ parents, but I didn’t think much about it. I was about 50 years old when I asked my parents if having me was an accident. Answering in unison, Mother said “yes,” and Daddy said “no.” After giggling quietly to each other, they quickly went on to explain that after my sister Nancy was born, they tried unsuccessfully to conceive again for five years. They finally gave up, which is when Mother became pregnant with me. That’s their story.

Daddy was tall, thin, and, of course, handsome. He had very straight fine hair, and I fondly recall sitting on the living room floor with him while he let me comb his thin oiled black hair with a fine toothed comb. When I was little, we often played a game where we rubbed noses and repeated, “Buddy, Buddy, Buddy, Buddy, Buddy…”  I believed Daddy when he told me and my sisters that his real name was “Timothy Titus Obadiah William Henry Walter Simm Ruben Rufus Solomon Jim Simon Timon Wallace Pat Christopher Dick Jehoshaphat!” He always repeated it at a quick rhythmic pace, and it always sounded like it ended with an exclamation mark. I only recently discovered the background of this rhyme when I searched the Internet and found an early more accurate version of the entire ditty. The Longest Name Song

At about the age of five, I went with the family to a public swimming pool somewhere near Ft. Worth, I jumped into the very crowded wading pool, slipped and fell on the sloped sides, and split my head open. My big sister Patsy was watching after me, and she ran to get our parents. They rushed me to an emergency room where a doctor stitched up the back of my head. All I remember about the hospital treatment room is staring up at the bright ceiling lights from a narrow table that looked like an ironing board.

My playground was the great outdoors, where I played unsupervised with neighborhood kids for hours at a time. We played catch, hide-n-seek, chase, jacks on the front porch, and the now politically incorrect cowboys and Indians, where I galloped around on my stick horse, wore a holster, and waved my cap gun. I also liked to kick or throw a football around with Daddy in the front yard.

It was always fun drawing hopscotch squares on the sidewalk with chalk rocks that I found in the dirt. Sometimes I got creative, and once (around five years old) I embarrassed my sister Nancy when I chalked “TT + BM” in big letters on the sidewalk in front of our house. (The boy next door was “BM.”) I had no idea why Nancy was so completely appalled about this, especially since I was so proud of knowing my alphabet. Speaking of BM, I once walked into his house without knocking. Their screen door was shut but not locked, which said, “Come on in!” to me. I walked in the front door, around the corner through the hallway, and into the bedroom near the front. There I stood, dumbfounded and face-to-face with Mr. and Mrs. M.  Mr. M also stood dumbfounded – in his underwear. Mrs. M was still in bed with the sheet only half covering her naked body. I had never even seen my own parents in this state of undress!

When Dallas received a good snow, which did happen more frequently in the 1950s and 60s, I bundled up in my overcoat, mittens, and toboggan, and I dragged my toboggan down the street. (I wore a toboggan, and I rode a toboggan.) Mother often made me wear layers of socks over my mittens and shoes to help keep warm. Around the corner on Frances Street there was a big steep hill perfect for sledding. No one (not kids, not parents) ever worried about getting hurt flying down that steep hill in the snow. It was thrilling. I came home frozen to the bone with a bright red nose; and my face, hands, and feet hurt from the cold. Mother peeled off the layers of icy clothing and set me down by the ceramic heater to thaw.

I was in first grade when Mother signed me up for ballet and tap dance lessons. She picked me up from school in the car and drove me to my lesson somewhere on Jefferson Ave. It was a typical dance studio for the time with tile floors, mirrors, and ballet barres. I watched myself in the mirror, thinking I wasn‘t very good. I must not have taken dance lessons very long, or I would remember more about it. I also took ballroom dance a few years later; and when the twist dance craze erupted around 1960, I went to a party where everyone learned to twist non-stop for a couple of hours to Chubby Checker’s “The Twist.”

Daddy and Mother were very close to their three girls, but they were not involved in school. Mother did belong to my PTA, although she was not a very active member. She once apologized to me, saying if she had been more involved in my school activities, I would have had an easier time in school. She said this when I didn’t make the first list of girls who made the high school drill team, but I was brought into the drill team before the first season began. I was surprised and puzzled by her remark, because I never felt slighted in any way. My parents did not attend football games when I was performing with the drill team in junior high school or high school. They did, however, come to the high school musical productions I was involved in.

I was happy not to be a Brownie or a Girl Scout. I think I went to one Brownie meeting. I was not interested in joining any group or activity that would require me to go away to camp or spend any time away from home. I was spoiled. I often watched a black and white TV in my room late in the afternoon and fell asleep in a chair watching cartoons while Mother fixed supper. She woke me up when dinner was ready.

No wonder I didn’t want to be away from home – nothing but fond memories of growing up on Mt. Pleasant.

 

Rotary Dial Telephone

At the top of the stairs in our house on Ovid in Oak Cliff in the 1960s, Mother placed an antique wooden accent table with a small antique mirror, both of which are family heirlooms. This is where she placed the upstairs telephone, which was on a long cord that could reach into any of the three upstairs bedrooms, bathroom, and even a closet or three. The phone I remember best on that table was a Princess phone; however, the phone I have more nostalgic memories of is the heavy old black rotary phone, which is what I remember using when we lived on Mt. Pleasant.

I have the table and mirror; and when my husband Gene and I recently moved, I decided to place them together in the hallway. On top of the table I placed a replica of the old black phone I remember. I looked on-line at authentic vintage phones, but most of the ones I saw looked too worn and dirty, and the restored phones cost too much for this purpose; so I decided to buy a replica instead. It is a working phone, but I do not have it plugged in.

old telephone replica w mirror.png
Heirloom table and mirror with replica of old rotary dial phone

My son Chris, his wife Heather, and their two children Blake and Reagan were here after Christmas for a visit. Ten-year-old Reagan immediately asked about that odd-looking thing in the hallway, and when her mother and I explained to her what it was, she was even more curious. She wanted to know if it worked and how. I told her it was supposed to work but that I had not actually plugged it in to try it yet. I said we could test it while she was here, and the next thing I knew, we were doing just that. This demonstration of how to use a rotary phone was going to be a very interesting and fun exercise, and it would be so simple.

First, I found the cord that came with it and plugged it into the wall jack. One end fit perfectly into the wall jack, but the other end did not fit into the phone jack. After struggling with this for a while, Reagan said, “T-ma, maybe if we unplug the cord from here [handset], it will fit into this one [line].” At first I thought, “Well, that’s not going to work,” but I looked at the labels on the underside of the phone (which I had apparently not done when I unpacked the phone), and it turns out that I had plugged the handset cord into the line plug, and Reagan and I had been trying to plug the line cord into the empty handset plug. So, after Reagan fixed that problem, we moved on to the next step.

Reagan wanted to dial her cousin in California, my granddaughter Ashlee (age 12). They were already on their iPads FaceTiming each other at that very moment, and Reagan’s iPad was sitting right next to the rotary phone, which was only one of the missed photo ops of this demonstration. A few inches away but fifteen hundred miles away, Ashlee sat and waited for Reagan’s call. I wrote down Ashlee’s telephone number on a piece of paper for Reagan, who put the handset to her ear and started dialing. This is a general recap of how this simple exercise went:

Me:  Listen for the dial tone. Dial 1 first. Then the area code. Then the number…Ok, go…Put your finger in the finger hole for each number and slide your finger around the dial until your finger hits the stop….No, wait. Don’t take your finger out of the hole until it hits the stop…You’ll have to hang up and start over. Hang up means set the handset back on the cradle, which depresses the buttons and disconnects…Be sure to dial all the way to where the finger-stop is…Good…Oops. Let the rotary dial go back by itself. Don’t keep your finger in it…Ok, do it again…Well, you waited too long between numbers…You’ll have to start over again …Your finger slipped…Do it again…Oh, the phone moved and your finger slipped again…Keep the phone still while you dial…Oh, me. You’ll have to start over…

We were all three giggling very hard very soon, which also made it difficult for Reagan to complete the task; and poor Ashlee could hear but not see our struggles and was still patiently waiting for her phone to ring. I’m sure she was wondering what the problem was.

This whole demonstration went on for about 30 minutes. Reagan kept having to start over for various reasons. I didn’t remember there were so many things that could go wrong dialing a rotary phone. One problem was that the phone replica isn’t as heavy as the real thing, and it kept sliding and throwing her off. Reagan’s mom Heather was sitting nearby listening to our dialing frustrations. I am certain I heard her giggling more than once, usually after she heard one of my repeated exclamations, “This is my nightmare come true!” (Seriously, I have had many “frustration dreams” about trying to dial a number on a rotary phone in an emergency but misdialing and having to start over again and again.)

“OK,” I said, “Let me see if I can do it” and I started dialing it myself. I couldn’t do it either. I’m not sure why, but it turns out this simple phone would not allow us to dial a long distance number, even if we did it right – a problem that careful dialing would not solve.

So, I told Reagan and Ashlee that Ashlee would have to call us. Reagan gave Ashlee our number, she called, and Reagan answered. That worked like a charm. The cousins talked for a few seconds, then Reagan hung up and happily resumed talking with Ashlee on her iPad.

Besides not having the weight that the original phone had, the replica is not an exact replica. It looks very similar, but the center of the dial is a button that activates a speaker; there are two volume switches on the underside of the phone – one for the ringer and one for the speaker; and there are also two extra holes past Zero/Operator on the finger dial for * and #.

We had fun, but Reagan and Ashlee must be a bit mystified by the so-called simplicity of the rotary dial phone. I am pretty sure that my demonstration did not convince them how easy the original was to use, and they both think their T-ma is funny.

I  hope I never have to make an emergency call on my rotary phone – only in my dreams.

 

The Towner Family Christmases

The Towner Christmases were always special. One of my favorite stories is from about 1955. It was Christmas Eve, we were living on Mt. Pleasant, and Mother asked my sister Nancy (six years older than I) to take me into another room and entertain me for a while. (Mother had some last-minute gifts to wrap which she did not want me to know about.) Nancy and I disappeared into the bedroom and closed the door. She took out a deck of cards, and we sat on the floor where she dealt herself a hand of solitaire. I’m on the floor in front of her, looking her in the eyes and probably jabbering away. She looks down at her cards and nonchalantly says something along the line of “You know there’s no Santa Clause, don’t you? Mother’s out there right now wrapping your gifts from Santa Clause. Look under the door.” I did look under the door, and I could see Mother’s hands wrapping a box with Christmas paper…and that’s how I learned about Santa Clause. Please don’t misunderstand how I feel about this or how I feel about my sweet sister Nancy. I remember this vividly, but I wasn’t shocked, sad, or surprised. I just remember it today as a funny anecdote, which I love to tell.

Towner tradition was: every year the family would go pick out a tree. Each year we went to a different place. Sometimes it was a local grocery store which brought in trees for the season. In the ’60s, I believe there was a nursery in the area that had trees, too. It seems like we usually bought green trees, but every now and then we took home a flocked tree, which I loved. At least once after we moved to our house on Ovid Avenue in 1962, Mom and Dad put one of those fake silver tinsel trees in the front window with a rainbow strobe spotlight on it – trendy. We opened presents Christmas morning and enjoyed a big traditional Christmas meal on Christmas Day.

Our house on Ovid had two huge picture windows with window seats on the front. The living room window was a perfect place for a Christmas tree! I liked to see how long I could stand without moving next to the tree in the front window, so people driving by would think I was a big doll. It’s odd that with all of the photos Daddy took, especially in the 1960s and ‘70s, I don’t seem to have any photographs of Christmases at our home on Ovid.

Meanwhile, back on Mt. Pleasant…

Unlike the house on Ovid, our small house on Mt. Pleasant actually did not have a perfect place for a Christmas tree, but Mother made one. My favorite thing to do was set up my Lionel train set under the tree. I can still smell the odor of that transformer mingling with the scent of the tree. I don’t remember when we got the trainset. I don’t even know if it was really mine or not, but it always felt like mine. During the year, Daddy stored the trainset in an antique wooden box which Daddy’s Uncle Jim handmade for him when he was living in Dwight, Kansas. (I am happy to say that I still have the box.) Decorating our Christmas tree was always a family affair, with glass Christmas balls, the ever-stubborn strings of lights, and usually silver tinsel icicles.

Christmas morning was a thrill for me, and we always had a lot of gifts under the tree. I specifically remember only a few of the gifts from my youngest years: a Patti Playpal doll, a white rabbit stole with hat, and a wooden highway set. In my pre-teens or teens Mom and Dad gave me at least one Beatles album; a green portable stereo for the Beatles album; a set of Lincoln Logs, and a spotted rabbit parka with hood, which I loved and wore way into my adulthood, even though the sleeves were slightly too short.

My most meaningful Christmases of the 1950s and 1960s involved my three years with the Westminster Youth Choir of Oak Cliff Presbyterian Church. In 1966, at the invitation of a childhood neighbor friend Andy, I reluctantly joined the choir. It was difficult for me to step out of my comfort zone of sticking close to Mom and Dad, but I never regretted it. Besides all of the other choir activities and fellowship, every year the large youth choir presented Handel’s Messiah on Christmas Eve. We rehearsed for months before the concert and performed for congregation, friends, and family. Our concert began at just the right time so that it ended at midnight with our singing the Hallelujah Chorus. Being a member of the choir in general was a very moving experience for me, and performing Handel’s Messiah with the choir, even more so. My parents were always there, and I think my sisters were probably able to come at least once. This made for a very late Christmas Eve for us but was something I looked forward to every year. I miss it.

This brings my childhood Christmas musings to an abrupt close, and I want to take this opportunity to wish everyone a very Blessed Christmas.

Peace on Earth.

Our House on Mt. Pleasant

 

I get such warm feelings when I look at the featured image on this post. The carefree life of a child, playing with friends and roaming the neighborhood – the “be home before dark” life in the 1950s.

We Towners lived in an area of Dallas on the south side of the Trinity River known as Oak Cliff. Long before we lived there, Oak Cliff was a prestigious place to live; however, the depression took its toll on the area, and eventually it was annexed into the city of Dallas.

In 1946, four years before I was born, Mother, Father, and my two sisters Patsy and Nancy moved into a new house in a new neighborhood on Mt. Pleasant Street. I am the youngest of three girls. My oldest sister Patsy was born in Odessa, Texas, and my sister Nancy was born in Orlando, Florida. I am the caboose, born in 1950 at Methodist Hospital in Dallas. The hospital was located near the Trinity River in what I recall was/is the Kessler Park area of Oak Cliff on Colorado Blvd. The only times we ever drove through Kessler Park was when we were going to the hospital for something. Our house was on Mt. Pleasant in an area of Oak Cliff which an old map shows to be part of Beverly Hills; however, the original Plat of Survey for the house dated May 28, 1946, identifies the area as Westridge Park #7. I had never heard of Westridge Park before I recently found this Plat of Survey. Growing up, I don’t recall ever hearing anyone refer to Mt. Pleasant as Mt. Pleasant Street. It was always just Mt. Pleasant.

Originally, our brick home was a small two bedroom\one bath\one car garage. When I came along, my parents must have decided they needed more space, and in 1954 Daddy enlarged it to three bedrooms, which is how I remember it. He converted the garage into the master bedroom and enlarged the kitchen to take in the front porch, which increased the total square footage to about 1,100 square feet. The remodeling also included building an 8 X 10 foot shed in the backyard.

The 1954 remodeling project also converted the kitchen from a small rectangular room into a u-shaped room with a partial wall down the middle, which was originally an exterior wall. The front door opened into the kitchen. All of the windows in the house, except the new one in the kitchen addition, opened vertically like a door by turning a crank at the bottom of each window. It was difficult for me to turn the sticky handles. The outer portion of the expanded kitchen area held a washing machine, a sewing machine, and Sunny our yellow parakeet. The old oak dining table (already getting on in years in the 1950s) sat at the end of the wall divider and extended into both sides of the expanded kitchen. When I was a baby, Mother bathed me in the extra-large kitchen sink in the corner of the original kitchen underneath a rather large window.

The front of the living room faced the street to the north. There were three doors to the rectangular living room: one from the kitchen at the front, another near the back from the new master bedroom, the third from the hallway which connected the two bedrooms with the bathroom and the kitchen. The back wall of our living room was covered in some memorable wallpaper: schooners, pilgrims, stagecoaches, churches. The telephone connection was in the hallway, and the phone had a long cord so we could drag it into one of the rooms. Our couch was a curved brown modern style Davis couch, covered with a very nubby and rough fabric. It must have been stylish, but it was uncomfortably scratchy, although no one complained about it then. In front of the couch was a bookcase/coffee table which held a set of encyclopedias and a set of storybooks. I liked looking at the Human Anatomy section of the encyclopedias that had a set of detailed transparent overlays showing the skeleton, muscles, circulatory system, and organs. We used the encyclopedias often. They were our “search engine,” and that set of storybooks introduced me to Dr. Seuss and McGilligot’s Pool.

A large painting of the ocean hung over the couch. I’m not sure what happened to that painting; nor do I know what happened to a ceramic figurine about eight to ten inches tall. The family story goes that Daddy brought home to Mother the art deco ceramic nude of exotic dancer Sally Rand (so out of character for the Daddy I knew). At one time this glossy black nude figurine of the famous fan dancer was given a prominent place in our living room, but I have found only one family photograph (see gallery) with Sally in it – sitting on top of the piano, her torso and head visible behind the sheet music. No one in the family has any idea what happened to it, but my sisters and I wonder if Mother found a “special” place for it. I never gave this art piece a second thought when I was young; but thinking back on it now, I wish I still had it. I have searched online and not found a single item resembling that figurine.

Daddy’s favorite chair was a white vinyl easy chair and ottoman which he was still using in the early 2000s after having it recovered at least once. Mother played the piano and the organ, and she had both for a while – a tight fit in our little house. She sometimes played them at church, if asked. We also had a black and white television in our living room, and every week I sat on the floor in front of it and giggled uncontrollably at Red Skelton’s Clem Kadiddlehopper.

Then there was our beautiful old oak rocking chair. Mother rocked and sang me to sleep in that rocker, accompanied by the squeak of the heavy old rocking chair. I often dreamed that I was hiding from the Sandman behind a wingback chair at my Uncle Gordon’s (Daddy’s brother) and Aunt Ruth’s house. I knew the Sandman was getting closer, as the sound of his heartbeat grew louder. I always fell asleep before ever laying eyes on the Sandman. The Sandman’s heartbeat was the sound of my mother’s heart beating in my ear as my head rested on her soft warm breast.

The only bathroom was very small. It had a small gas ceramic heater for warmth in the winter. We kept the bathroom very busy. I followed Daddy to the bathroom once when I was about four or five years old and stood in the open door so we could have a nice little chat while he stood at the sink. I grabbed the door sill with both hands and began monologue; but Daddy, seeking a little rare privacy, wasn’t enjoying the chat as much as I was. He closed the door in my face – and on my left thumb, which was caught on the hinged side of the door frame. I screamed, but he kept pushing harder. It bled profusely, and I lost my thumbnail. He just thought the sticky door was being its normal hard-to-close self, and he most certainly felt horrible about what happened. Mother must have been pretty upset, too, but she didn’t say anything to him in front of me about it.

Our house was cooled in the summer with window unit air conditioners. I can still smell and feel the cool refrigerated air in my face when I walked in the house on hot summer days. There was one air conditioner in the front living room window, and other units in the bedrooms. There must have been a constant hum from the units in the summer, because I still like a little white noise when I’m sleeping. The house was heated in the winter by one portable ceramic gas heater on the living room floor. We turned it off at night, but first thing in the morning Mother turned it on, then warmed our clothes by the heater before we got dressed.

Both of the second and third bedrooms were corner rooms. The larger one, which was originally the master bedroom, had a long wall of windows looking into the back yard. This is the room I remember as mine, but my sister Nancy and I shared it for a while before our sister Patsy got married and moved out. Then Nancy took Patsy’s room. I can even remember sleeping in a crib, but I was old enough to climb out, so when Mother put me to bed, she lowered the rail and put a chair beside it so I could climb out safely – a practice I used with my babies. Later I slept in a solid oak twin bed which was part of a bunk bed set.

The backyard was enclosed by a chain link fence, and we had a big doghouse for our blue terrier Dusty. Prior to Dusty, I have photos of a Scottish terrier puppy, but I was too young to remember him. I barely remember Dusty. The fence that ran along the west side of the house was extra tall to protect us from our next-door-neighbor’s two not-so-friendly Great Danes. The black one was Jet, and the larger blonde one was Trovadore. Trovadore had a reputation for escaping his yard and roaming the neighborhood, and he was known to bite. When he got loose, a verbal alarm went out up and down the street and everyone ran for safety. We also had a swing set and a redwood picnic table with two benches in the backyard. A gate opened to a dirt alley that ran behind the backyard for the city trucks to collect trash from the big metal trash cans kept next to the alley. Daddy and Mother planted a row of tall evergreen Cyprus trees inside the back alley fence and a mimosa tree against the back of the house. The mimosa grew quite large, and we loved to climb in it – especially my sister Nancy, who often climbed the tree onto the roof and sat in solitude until someone came looking for her. A regularly-used clothesline finishes off my description of our backyard and our little house on Mt. Pleasant.

A block or two away was a small neighborhood park with a very small swimming pool. The pool was open in the summer, and I remember the water as very cloudy. We frequented the pool though, and never got sick from it. Our favorite public pool was Weiss Park, where the family went often. It was bigger and better – and clean. My sister Patsy taught me to swim when I was very young. I don’t remember not knowing how to swim.

We lived on Mt. Pleasant until 1962, when we moved to another part of Oak Cliff a few miles south.