The house on Olds Avenue

In the summer of 1952 we were living in the back half of a house on Olds Avenue across the street from the main Oldsmobile plant. There were eight of us stuffed in a small place with two bedrooms, a living room, kitchen and bath. My folks slept on a bed in the living room; my three sisters shared one small bedroom; and my two brothers and I shared the other. We had recently moved there from a house on Division Street that was torn down to make way for Oldsmobile’s new parking lot. We still had our milk delivered by a milkman with a horse drawn milk wagon and yes, the horse knew every stop on the route.

Now we needed a block of ice delivered because in the kitchen was a wooden ice box instead of the refrigerator we had on Division. My grandparents on my mother’s side lived on Division Street, so we saw them all of the time.  It was nice since my grandma had the first TV in the neighborhood. My grandpa was a short man and came from a big family. When he was younger he used to race trotting horses. He worked at Oldsmobile on the third shift, and he always slept during the day so we didn’t see much of him until late afternoon. My grandma ran a restaurant during the thirties and was a great cook. She always liked to boil her potatoes a little before frying them. Whenever I went over there she was generally sitting at the dining room table smoking Raleigh cigarettes. Those cigarettes came with a coupon on the back redeemable for gifts. When they finished a pack, they took the coupon and threw it into a basket on the table. They had a lot of coupons.

My grandpa used to beat up my grandma, I guess because she was taller than him. I didn’t think it could happen. I was reminded about the beatings years later by my brothers.

My father was a Millwright at Olds and made good money, but he also liked to drink. The Regent Tavern was located on Olds Avenue across the street from the main employees' gate; so for my dad, it was out of work and into the bar. He spent a lot of time there, probably trying to escape whatever people who go there want to get away from.

I don’t imagine having six kids was a picnic either. On the weekends he’d come home late and fall asleep in the chair. Sometimes I went downstairs and tried to wake him, but he wouldn’t wake up. I think it was the basis for the reoccurring nightmare I had at that age, finding him asleep in the chair and being drawn toward the basement door knowing something bad was going to happen to me. When I opened the door there were monsters standing there.  I hollered for my Dad to help but he wouldn’t wake up, and the monsters dragged me downstairs. Maybe it was a premonition, and the monsters behind the basement door were really social workers. My dad not waking up meant he wasn’t going to change.

My dad usually drank beer, but I did see him drink whiskey one Christmas Eve when he got mad at my mom and threw the Christmas tree out of the house. My parents got into fights, and sometimes they would get physical. Once my mother threw a goldfish bowl at my father. It missed him completely and shattered on the floor. We were lucky though because the goldfish survived. My grandma told my mother "Put a pinch of salt in the water". My mother did and it worked; the goldfish’s wounds healed.

My friend Butch H. and his family used to live in the front half of this house. I was over there playing one day, and his mother was waiting for her husband to get home. Butch’s dad was at the bar getting drunk; and when he got home, Mrs. H. met him at the back door of the kitchen and hit him over the head with a cast iron frying pan. To us kids playing in the living room it sounded like the Liberty Bell being struck. We ran into the kitchen; and there laid Mr. H. on the floor, knocked out cold. Mr. H. survived and probably woke up the next morning with a huge headache. When I went over to Butch’s house that Sunday, his mom and dad were on the living room floor fighting again; only this time it was Mr. H.’s turn to win. Mrs. H.’s mother was there and tried to stop the fight, and that’s when Mr. H. hit her in the mouth with the TV rabbit ears. A week later they acted as if nothing happened, and Mr. H. was particularly nice to his mother-in-law.

My dad had a reputation for being a bar room fighter, and one day it finally caught up with him. Or maybe I should say, with us. He got in an argument with another guy, probably over money; and the guy followed him home that afternoon. During the confrontation on our side porch the guy threw a punch and hit my dad, knocking him over the porch railing and into the alley. I was down the street at the time and walking home when I saw my oldest sister running down Division St. and right on past me yelling "Daddy got bit, Daddy got bit! I thought a dog bit my dad. She was traumatized by what she saw and was unable to say "Daddy got hit!" I don’t know how far she ran after she went by me. When I got home, my dad had a washrag on his mouth and was trying to talk to a police officer. I don’t think he was knocked out by the punch, but he sure had a fat lip from it.

There must have been police reports about the cramped and messy conditions we were living in. There were probably court appearances of which I was unaware. Following that incident a decision made by somebody I didn’t know.   They decided to take us away from our parents.

Soon she came for us, the woman from Social Services. Packing us six kids in her car, she drove off. I don’t remember what kind of good-bye we had with our parents or what they said to us.

This is an important description to remember; we were taken to a large two story brick house in Lansing  with a children’s swing in the back yard. The woman in charge of the place was elderly, widowed and very stern. She made us a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a glass of milk. My younger brother and I were told to go out and play on the swing in a yard that was completely fenced in. Later we were shown our bedroom which had about 10 single beds all lined up against one wall. There were bars on the window, and I thought it was odd. What did we do wrong?

The next morning the Matron was upset with us about something and threatened to take a broom to us. My oldest brother wrestled the broom away from her; and for a few minutes they were yelling at each other, but nothing came of it.

One by one my brothers and sisters were farmed out to boarding homes around Ingham County. My oldest brother went to live on a farm. I don’t know where my three sisters went;  they were just gone. My youngest brother was sent to stay with somebody in Lansing, and I ended up with another family.

I didn’t know it at the time, but the women of these two households were sisters. I sat in a chair in their living room looking out the window, and tears were running down my face. They were getting ready to sit down to supper. They tried to get me to come in and eat, but I wasn’t hungry. I don’t remember too much about that place, only that they had other small kids there.

Within a few days the mother of the house asked me if I would like to go live at her sister’s place where my younger brother was staying. That made me very happy. It was a nice home, and the people were good to us. The father worked at Oldsmobile, but I don’t think he knew my dad. We slept upstairs, and in the morning we could hear voices coming through the register from downstairs.

They always had donuts or rolls on Saturday morning, and they would call up for us to come down and eat. I learned to do the dishes while staying there. I didn’t mind that at all. I used to get up in the morning at home, go into the kitchen and fix scrambled eggs, and just leave the mess. Once I fixed about six eggs and couldn’t eat it all, so I gave it to our dog. My mother caught me and made me finish eating them even after the dog started licking the plate. I never did that again.

My parents came one time to see us, but they didn’t come in the house. My mother sat in the black car they borrowed; my dad got out and walked up to me. He asked me how I was doing, and I think I said "Fine." He wanted to know where my brother was, but I didn’t know other then he was around here someplace. They didn’t get to see my brother, nor did they stay very long because I don’t think the visit was authorized. This was the middle of summer and I didn’t see them again until just before Christmas.

I think they kept the visits from the parents down to a minimum because it was upsetting for the kids to see them and not be able to go home. I think we stayed there for about a month; and then the woman, the one from Social Services, came for us again. We were packed up and heading for a farm somewhere around Lansing. I’d never been on a farm, but can remember reading about them in school books. I was always fascinated by the sight of a tractor or a bunch of cows out grazing in the field.

Next week: Pine Tree Road

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