On The Road

Today is a travel day. We are on our way to St. Louis for a quick weekend with family and

friends if time allows. We have rented a mini-van and making record time. Can't wait for

St. Louis to get a glimpse of "babies."

Spiritual Bouquets

When I was in Kindergarten at St. Margarets the teacher, Miss Alice, taught us how to make

Spiritual Bouquets. We drew a picture of Mary, and then drew flowers around her. We colored them all with crayons. Then beside each flower, Miss Alice would fill in what we wanted each one to be. A rose might equal one Hail Mary, a daisy would stand for an Our Father, and tulip could be a Glory Be. We made these in October for Holy Rosary month, and for Mother's day in May. At home, I made my own Spiritual Bouquets for any special occasion that happened to come up. I made them for both Mom and Dad. I loved Spiritual Bouquets.

One day, not only did we make a Spiritual Bouquet, we also made a construction-paper altar.

The altar was folded and pasted to hold our Spiritual Bouquet in position. On that day, after Kindergarten, I was scheduled to go to a friend's house. Her name was, I think, Bitsy

McCally. She was a little skinny girl with fair skin and long reddish hair. She lived on Shaw Place, a circular, private drive off of Shaw Avenue. When we got to her house, she gave her mom our papers from that day's class.

It was a beautiful autumn day and we played on her swing set and had snacks under a big tree in her back yard. Then we went into play in her room. It was upstairs. It was hard for me to imagine a house that big. Grandma Santa's house was large, but Bitsy's was huge. Another thing that was hard for me to comprehend was she had three bathrooms, maybe even more! There were at least two downstairs and a least one upstairs. During this period in my life,

I enjoyed spending a lot of time in bathrooms. In bathrooms that were new to me, I went

often and long. Restaurants were a joy.

We played with her dollhouse and eventually it was time to go home. Her mom put us in the

back seat of the car and off we went. We just made it to the end of the circular street and I

realized I had forgotten my Spiritual Bouquet and Altar. I couldn't get the words our fast

enough. Neither Bitsy or her mother could understand what I was saying. Finally, I made my

self clear and we went back to get them.

Bitsy ran up to the door with me and my Mom let us in. I waved good bye to Bitsy and ran

up the steps. I was talking a mile- a- minute, telling Mom about the swing set, the big tree,

the big house, the doll house. I completed my description by telling her, "They've got three

bathrooms!" My Mom responded, "I bet you used all three." With utter delight, I answered,

"I Did."

Sunlight on the Wabash

If you went down the street from 7071 Winona, you'd find yourself on Wabash Avenue. Today,

I think, it has four lanes divided by a median. In the early fifties, Wabash was a two-lane,

bumpy road, the outpost of civilization. The expansion of Wabash Avenue took place one

summer when the Hohlfelds lived at 7071.

In summers past, four of the neighborhood girls had a lemonade stand. The four entrepernuers were JoAnn who lived on the corne, Diane and I lived nearer the top of the hill, and Linda's house was between the other two.

We did our best, but you can yell "Get Your Lemonade Here" only so many times.

The mailman was always a pushover, as were parents, and we were not above giving each other

freebies. As we sat at our kid-sized table and sat on the steps, or lawn, we tried to entice the

Meyer kids to buy our product. The Meyers lived across the street and we really never knew exactly how many kids there were. We considered ourselves well-compensated if even half of them had enough money to buy a Dixie cup full of the homemade elixir.

Our good- ship lemonade came in when work began on Wabash. Every day, employees of

several city public works departments descended on the Wabash work- in- progress. I don't

know whose idea it was to sell lemonade at the corner of Wabash and Winona, but it was magnificent. Those workmen wanted lemonade from the minute they came on duty, until

at least 5, sometimes 6, o'clock. It was one of the hottest summers on record. As the

temperatures soared, so did our lemonade sales. If the men did not have change, they gave

us a dollar and we took 15 cents at a time off their reverse tab. Sometimes, they had their own

thermos bottles and we went back to Linda's house to fill the big orders. Mind you this was not Kool Aid or powdered-drink mix. We used frozen concentrate and Linda's mom helped us fill the large orders. Every night we would make up vast quantities for the next day.

I can't imagine that such an enterprise could take place today. Parents would not trust the

highway workers, kids would not be able to get that close to the work crews, and the

workers can get a 32-ounce drink for 49 cents.

Needless to say, the next summer lemonade sales were a real letdown. But at least that one summer we were wealthy. What did we do with our money: Put ourselves through college, buy a pony, go on a cruise? No, I think we used most of our profits to buy treats from the Ice Cream Man with whom we shared the turf.

Publish Post

Everybody To the Basement!

When we moved to Winona from Lafayette, our neighbors changed from Schenbergs to

Schelenbergs. Our new neighbors we very self-sufficient. He made furniture and they both had

the ability to grow just about anything.

He made a desk for our sunroom which forever after was called, of course, Mr. Schelenberg's

desk. Their backyard was large, just as ours was, but almost every available space was filled

with fruit trees, vegetables and flowers. They had a shed in their yard, and as eary as March,

they would start their seeds in a hot house frame attached to the shed.

They persuaded my Dad to try his luck with tomatoes and he had a huge quantity every

summer we were there. We relied upon the Schelenbergs for green beans, corn, cucumbers,

carrots, and just about anything else you can think of. Mrs. Schelenberg "put up" all the

bounty we could not handle during the summer. She also made jams and preserves from

the strawberries she grew and from the apple and peach trees. Until Mrs. Schelenberg told us,

I don't think any of the Hohlfelds knew the difference between or among preserves,

jams, and jellies. I remember preserves contain chunks of the fruit, jelly has no chunks, and

I'm not sure what Jam consists of. (It must be jelly cause jam don't shake like that.)

In addition to their growing ability, the Schelenbergs had something else we didn't have: a

basement. This meant we spent many a spring afternoon or evening sitting in their basement

waiting for tornados that never came. After the exchange of opening pleasantries, there was

little the old couple, the young couple, and their kids had in common. After my Dad and

Mr. Shelenberg exhausted the subject of baseball, we all just hung out until Mom thought it

was safe enough to head back to our own house. I think if she found it too boring the all-

clear came a little sooner than later.

My mother never overcame her concern about tornados. For some reason, when there was

the threat of funnel clouds during the school year, my Mom and Aunt Rita would pile their

toddlers into Rita's car, pick up her kids from school, head to Epiphany to get Diane and me and head for Grandma Santa's house. I still don't understand the thinking that went into

this but I guess if you don't have a basement you are apt to do questionable things to get

into one.

Of course, once we were at Grandma's house, word would go out to Rita's husband, Don,

and to my Dad, to meet us there for dinner. Toddlers had to be amused, diapers changed,

people fed. My sister and I would often sit under the huge dining room table and watch

the lower legs of the participants in this hodgepodge.

Grandpa Joe's favorite question for any and all grandkids was, "What did you eat today?

What did they feed you?" At least during tornado season, Grandpa knew what we were

eating on a regular basis.

After we moved to Tholozan, we had a huge basement and were lucky to be corralled on our

own property. When Mom said, "Everybody, into the basement!" we went. Sometimes

reluctantly, but we went. We would have a transistor radio, homework, reading, laundry,

many things to keep us occupied. Our dog, Fang, loved tornado season because it meant we

spent more time with him on his own turf. Poor Fang was pretty much an outdoor-basement

kind of a cur, because he couldn't learn to live with real people. My Dad read that terriers

loved to chase and bite things. So Dad would wrap his arm in old sweaters or jackets

and run around the yard so the Fang could chase and bite him. My Dad was a regular

St.Francis.

One Sunday afternoon, it started to look a little questionable, and Mom gave her "everybody

to the basement" directive. However, most of us just didn't see the point. Dad was used to it,

he just took the Sports Page and sat down in his desk chair. Mom did some laundry. The

four of us found today's imprisonment a little hard to take, especially since it looked

pretty good out the back door. Neil was standing by the back basement window and observed

the activity in the house behinds us. "They're drinking and barbecuing!" With that, we

decided to take our chances with nature's wrath. As we were traipsing up the stairs, Mom

emphatically said, "Well, we don't know what it looks out the front window." Also, it must

be added that the people behind us hardly let anything keep them from drinking and

barbecuing.

Mimosa Trees

My sister and I were talking last year about Mimosa trees. When we lived on Winona, her

friend Linda had a Mimosa tree in her back yard. She also had a big galvanized pool. I think

we would "swim" almost every day. There was Linda, another neighbor girl, and my sister and

myself. The Mimosa tree would drop it's pink and green fuzzies into the pool and it was our job

to take them out. Also, a dishwashing pan was placed next to the pool, so we could wash leaves

and cut grass off our feet before we got into the pool. This was a first-class operation.

Linda's dad was a fireman in St. Louis Hills. While we lived on Winona, he worked his way up

to a Chief. We got to go with him to the firehouse many times. One time we went, it was to see

Denise Darcell, a fifties-style starlet. I don't remember what movie she was promoting, but we

thought she was pretty cool. One time I asked Mr. Nagle, what does the chief do and he

replied, "Well, the chief never asks a man to go into a place he wouldn't go in himself."

I didn't have a clue what that meant at that time, but after a while I began to get it.

On some summer evenings, Mr. Nagle drove us up to a back road near the railroad track

on Fyler Avenue. We would stand on a hill, and wait for the Super Chief. When it came by

we jumped and waved. There were still cabooses at that time, even at the

back of the Super Chief and we would go kiddie crazy if someone was there to wave back.

Getting back to the Mimosa, there are very few around Blue Springs, but my sister said they

are quite plentiful in St. Louis City and County. Bradford Pear is the tree of choice in Eastern

Jackson County. In the seventies, every new house received a maple tree and a Bradford Pear.

It is well-liked, I think, because it has something going for it in three of the four seasons. In

Spring the trees have beautiful white blossoms, in the Summer they have dense glossy

green leaves. Their most spectacular display is in the fall when they change from green to

gold to red. Alas, 24th street was built when only a maple tree was planted in each new

yard. However, we do have 2 hard maples the original owners planted and a sky line

locust (no pesky cigar-like pods).

Back to Winona, The people next door to us had a walnut tree in the back yard. My sister

and I had never been around one and the neighbors egged us into gathering some. Of course,

we ended up with stained hands and clothes. On the plus side, they had a large lilac bush in

the front, side, yard. It produced copious lavender flowers in the spring. The bush was so old

that some of the growth toward the center had been compromised. I'm not sure if it was

nature or children that had caused the inner portion of the bush to become hollowed out.

Which ever it was, we had tea parties in the empty center. Mainly the tea party consisted of

my sister and myself. The girl next door was apt to be playing "cowboys and indians," with

her cousins. Within a few summers, the Hohlfeld girls were playing with toy guns, too.

There were three families of Neithes who lived next door: two brothers and one sister.

The two brothers lived in a two story building. Bill and his wife, Marie, lived upstairs and had two boys and a girl. Carl and his wife, Mary, had two sons. And their sister, Marie, lived in a little house at the back of the vast yard. She and her husband, George, had one son.

My mother was very storm-conscious, shall we say, and so was George. Some nights, they

would see each other storm-watching out the screen doors, him from his front door, and my mom from our back door. We didn''t have sirens in those days to warn about an impending

tornado. But we all slept a little easier knowing mom and George were on storm patrol.

Little League

My Dad coached Brian's summer baseball team a few years in a row. Dad was kind of new to the coaching business. Other Dads, who had been coaching longer, made sure he had the youngest, most inexperienced players in the league. My Dad had been working with Brian's baseball moves for a long time so by his first year in little league, he was the "anchor" of the team. Wait, that doesn't sound right. He was the anchor, as in holding down the fort, not as in bringing down the fort.

Two of the most pitiful boys, Learch and Zell, were in need of constant care. Dad made sure each of them got to play at least one inning and when he did send them back to bench, you could hear them breathe a sign of relief.

One year for Father's Day, my Mom bought the book, "Baseball is a Funny Game," by Joe

Garagiola. She asked his brother to autograph it. "You mean I should get Joe to sign it?"

Mom said no, she wanted him, Mickey, to sign it. Well, Mr. Garagiola went along with the

plan and wrote right above the title: "To Russ. After watching you coach, I can honestly say,"

and then the title, "Baseball is a Funny Game."

Italian Family

Our cousin, Steve Veile, just started a family group, "My Big Fat Italian Family," on

Facebook. It will be a lot of fun to "regroup and remember" things we have forgotten

or never knew. The group will hopefully include: Musolinos, Simeones, Kroners, Hohlfelds, Gralikes, Pigeons, Veiles, Kicklers, Pucketts, Whitakers, and many other children of the original four Musolinos.

Lee, Katie, Santa, Mary and Louis were all descended from Francesco and Giovanna Musolino, who were originally from Torre Faro, Sicily. They lived in Quincy, Illinois, after arriving in America.

I hope cousin Steve will be able to supply a lot of information about one of the most colorful members, of the family, Ernest Velliamina, who married Aunt Katie. (I know the spelling is not correct!)

Monsignor Sullivan

Monsignor Lloyd Sullivan was the pastor at Epiphany of Our Lord. This also made him head

of the parochial school for the parish. Monsignor called all children "kiddo" and had a grand

flair about him. If he visited your classroom it was a cause for celebration, especially for the

kiddos because it meant sister would have less time to deal with the subject that was up next.

I recently heard from an alumna of Epiphany, and she recalled Monsignor taking all the

kiddos to the circus every year. I didn't remember that, but I do recall all students being led to the parking lot where Monsignor was with "Mr. Switzer." Each of them told us what a

great job we were doing and to always strive to do better. Then, Mr. Switzer would open the

boxes he brought with him. We knew what was coming because these men had done this before. Licorice was plentiful at Switzer's Licorice, and we were about to eat some of the profits. As you walked passed them, Mr. Switzer gave you a large bag of licorice and Monsignor tousled your hair and said, "Here you go, Kiddo."

Although he had many fine qualities, Monsignor Sullivan was quite pompous in many ways.

He made grand gestures with flowing robes and spoke a slightly different kind of Latin,

which I heard one nun tell another his pronunciation was "Vatican Latin." Monsignor

Sullivan was prone to deliver long sermons. One time he was going on about having to do

his best for us because he would be held accountable for our souls when he got to heaven.

"When I meet the Lord Jesus Christ, he's going to ask, 'Monsignor, how many souls have

you delivered to me?" It took another 20 minutes to describe his reply would be.

After Mass, my Dad was standing in a little area between the stove and the sink. He was

eating a fold-over sandwich, and in his usual concise manner simply said, "Jesus is not going

to call him Monsignor." End of story.

The Choir

I've been thinking about Epiphany School today and remembered the time I auditioned for the

school choir. Sister Judith was the head of the choir. When you were in sixth grade you could

try out. My mother was over-joyed. She had been in several church choirs and evidently

envisioned her first born in following in her notes.

The big day arrived. I gave it my best shot. I failed. Failing was bad enough, but I had to go

home and tell my mother. I knew she would be devastated. She couldn't understand what had

happened. The next morning, mom called and spoke to Sister Judith. She made sure the nun

realized she was not calling to complain, but only to find out the things I got wrong. The nun

assured her that I was a wonderful child and there had been only one mistake: I sang the

scale backwards, not once but three times. I guess she was allowing for a freak accident.

Alas, there was none.

It was about this same time that I thought my future should take on a new direction.

So, I began to write.

Barbeque

Practically every Saturday or Sunday, if the weather cooperated, my Dad would barbeque. This tradition started when we moved to Winona. There was a nifty barbeque pit in our huge backyard. I don't know if my Dad had previous experience with outdoor cooking, but he became the best in my opinion. (The second best was my brother, Neil. I can only hope that Paradise includes an occasional reunion at a heavenly "pit" stop.)

The barbeque pit was built by the previous owners. It was made of big chunks of rough, dirty

white stones in a stair-step fashion. It was rectangular in shape with three sides, about four

feet wide and five feet in depth. The fourth side was open and allowed the cook to get in and work directly over the fire. The cooking surface was about three feet off the ground .

Andirons held one grate about a foot off the ground. The grate for the meat (nobody

barbequed fruit or vegetables in the fifties.) went across the very top. Dad cleaned the

grate only a few times a year, but he assured us that the heat did a good job of cleaning it

off.

Our house was tiny and our backyard gigantic. Our family went from Sunday spaghetti

dinners at my Grandma Santa's house to Sunday barbeques at our house. Guests usually

included both grandmas, Grandpa Joe, Gralikes, Simeones, and cousins by the dozens.

Sometimes Aunt Rita or Aunt Barbara would bring boyfriends or girlfriends with them.

A running joke between my Mom, Dad and Aunt Rita included an imitation of Grandma

Santa's sister, Aunt Lee, making a sheriff-like gesture and shouting, "Come on everybody, let's go to the Hohlfeld's for a barbeque." I can't remember the exact occasion when these words

were actually uttered, but it always made us laugh.

"Cores"

Grandma Hilda had strong feelings about Alice, the daughter of old Gussie Busch. First, as

usual, a little background is needed. Evidently, there was a custom in her neighborhood, if

you had an apple, and were eating among friends, one of them could call "cores" and that person would be entitled to have what was left on the core. Talk about hard times.

It was the custom to leave a nice chunk on the apple for whoever called "cores." Grandma complained about one girl who ate the apple right down to core and it was common

knowledge not to call "cores" on this girl.

This is where Alice Busch, comes into the picture. Every time Hilda saw one of us eating an apple, she would tell this story. "That Busch girl never came to play with us. She would stay in her front yard, all dressed up, and swing back and forth on the gate. She would stick her tongue out at us tell us how rich she was and how poor we were. One day she was eating an apple when we walked by. She said, 'doesn't anyone want to call cores?' One girl said okay, I'll call cores. So we waited for Alice to give it to this gal. Instead of saving her a little, that Busch girl stood there and ate that whole apple, the entire core and the seeds."

Personally, I can't tell the difference between Busch and Cores.

Toast & Butter

Grandma Hilda never forgot a snub. A simple thing like buttering a piece of toast brought to

mind an incident that happened long ago; so long ago that it took place around the time

people were first able to buy electric toasters.

If you were buttering your toast, she would inevitably begin by saying, "My neighbor had me

over for coffee one morning. We sat down and her dish of butter was on the table. As she

poured the coffee, she said, 'You'll have to excuse my butter. We had toast this morning

and I guess some of the toast got onto the butter.' (While quoting the neighbor, Grandma

imitated her by using a snooty, nasal voice.) After a few moments, Hilda said, in her own

voice, "So, I told her, I had toast this morning, too, but I didn't get any on my butter."

Streaks

My Mom was from the "only your hairdresser knows for sure" era. Only getting your hair

"dyed" at the hairdresser was an expensive and extensive undertaking. For the most part,

she could color her own hair. However, streaking (now referred to as highlighting, I think)

was a problem. The kit consisted of the solution, a close fitting shower cap with little holes

and a crochet-hook like instrument for pulling strands of hair through the head-cap holes.

Since this procedure would be difficult to do to yourself using a mirror, our friend, Martina,

and I magnanimously offered to do it for her one hot and humid summer day. Martina lived a few doors up the street from us on Tholozan, and we called her "Little Ray," not after Ray Charles but because she called herself our "Little Ray of Sunshine."

The beginning of the streaking went well. Mom sat down on a kitchen chair we had put in

the middle of the room so we could have a 360-degree access to her. From that point on

we gradually began to lose control of the situation. We put the cap on Mom and tied it

under her chin as directed. This was when she had her original nose, referred to as her Roman

nose on many occasions. This caused a little giggle from her two pseudo hairdressers. Then

there was a slight difference of opinion as to what to consider a "strand," the recommended

amount to pull through the holes. Also, how many of the holes should be used, surely not

all of them. While Martina and I discussed these finer points, my Mother kept asking, "What's

going on?" "What are you doing now?" "Don't do anything until I look in the mirror."

We kept reminding her she was savings oodles of money and we knew exactly what we are

doing. Half of that statement was correct: it was a lot cheaper to do these treatments at

home. Our demeanor went from mirth to giggles, to tears-in-the-eyes, clutching- your-

sides, bend-over laughing. We couldn't get the strands of hair through the tiny holes. The

more we tried, the more stress it put on the cheap cap. Then the cap started to tear apart

in several places. Martina and I were having a great time and my Mother kept saying, "Don't

do anything until I see it."

Finally, we were able to pull a decent amount of hair through several of the tiny holes. At

that time, we agreed she could look in the bathroom mirror to see our progress. Once she

saw herself in the mirror with the head-hugging cap, strands of hair standing straight up

and around her head, and her Roman nose, she lost it too.

We had to calm down because we still had a long way to go. The instructions called for the

solution to be brushed onto each strand of stand-up strand. This was easier said then done.

Wearing the plastic gloves (we each had one from the kit) we began to apply the dye to as many

strands as we could. But each time we tried to saturate a strand with the dye it would

pop back up. This project was taking a lot longer than we had anticipated. We worked

meticulously and finally completed coloring every available strand. Now, we had to wait

thirty minutes and follow up by rinsing the excess dye off under the kitchen faucet. We used the spray attachment to cover a greater area and a gentle approach to the tiny strands. Of course, whenever a spray attachment is used in any capacity, it inevitably results in dousing the

people who are using it. We followed in this hallowed tradition.

Finally, we toweled her hair dry and looked at our masterpiece. Her hair looked exactly

how it did before we began working on it, three hours ago. The three of us assured ourselves

that once it was completely dry we would see better results. So, we went outside, on the back

porch, and waited. Eventually, her hair did dry. And it was all still the same color it was

before we began the treatment. As I recalled, this didn't seem to upset any of us and in

fact caused another fit of laughter.

The next day, Mom made an appointment to have her hair streaked professionally. If I

recall correctly, the salon (aka: beauty shop) charged about $10 to $20. Why didn't she

do that in the first place? Well, back then, the home kit cost only a few dollars.

My Sister

You may think, "why doesn't she write about her sister, Diane?" I've yet to write about her

because her memory, especially about herself, is better than mine. I have decided to go with

a Diane and SEA story and hope I remember it correctly.

St. Elizabeth Academy was located on Arsenal, about 1/2 mile east of Grand Boulevard. There was a diner at the corner of Arsenal and Grand, Tilman's where you could go and buy a coke for about 25 cents. Big spenders and thin girls would sometimes get an order of French Fries. Of course, you could also smoke because at Tilman's it was still a free country. However, the nuns

from SEA told us we could not go there and of course not to "smoke in your uniform."

In addition to Tilman's there was another no fly zone up the street from SEA. If was "the

bakery." I never knew what it's official name was. If you arrived at school a little early,

you could go to the bakery and get three chocolate cookies for 25 cents. Then you could go

through the alley behind the bakery and arrive at the side door of SEA. As long as you were

eating cookies you might as well light up a cigarette. Some girls tried to hide their true

identity by taking off the little red tie on their blouse, pulling their shirt tails out, rolling

up the navy blue skirt at the waist to make it shorter, and of course, not wear your uniform

shoes until you were on the school premises.

All of this information will serve as a primer for the sister story. My sister, not a nun.

Diane was taking chemistry and there was a very strict rule about always wearing your

heavy apron during lab sessions in case you spilled something that might eat away at your skin.

One day, my sister was observed by the instructor, with a small but noticeable hole in her navy

blue gaberdine skirt. The teacher lectured her about not wearing her apron at the time of the

accident and assured her it would be reflected in her lab scores.

You will clearly see my sister's dilemma if I add that this hole was made by a cigarette ash and

not a ferocious chemical substance. Should she tell her it was not chemically induced and

risk being convicted of smoking in her uniform, or should she accept the lower lab score and

keep her mouth shut?

Thousands of readers have demanded, "What did she do?" To the best of my memory, I

think she took the low lab score. You can always bring those up later in the semester.

There would have far too many ramifications if she owned up to smoking in uniform.

Grandma Hilda

My dad's mother, Grandma Hilda, was one of a kind. She had stories about a life I could not

even imagine: World War I, outdoor movie theaters (not drive-ins), and silent movies. She

was born in 1900, and my dad, Russell, was born on her birthday, March 23, 1918. By Christmas at least six of her relatives had died from the influenza "the boys brought back." I believe a lot of her friends died too. Those relatives who died included her brother, Otto, and his wife; her sisters, Olivia and Helen; another brother also died, but I don't recall his name. Helen was my

Grandma's favorite sister and had been married only a few weeks.

Helen's husband went to Hilda's home every night after work for many years after her death.

Grandma said he just couldn't adjust to losing her. Finally, he married again but never

stopped visiting Helen's family occasionally.

I asked Grandma Hilda how their family could go on after all these relatives died. "We had

Russell to take care of and that kept us going," she said. Hilda recalled at that time, my Dad was still young enough to be in a high chair. Before her death, when it was time for Helen to come home from work, my Dad would strain to look for her until he saw her come in the

back door. She would feed him dinner and play little games with him. Grandma said for weeks after she died, my Dad still looked for Helen to come home about the same time every night while he was sitting in his high chair in the kitchen, having dinner. Sadly, as an adult, my Father did not remember Helen directly, but only from stories he heard from Grandma.

Another brother, Freddie, died at the age of about 8. He and some friends were exploring an alley after a severe storm. The boys were walking in a single line, pushing away branches and debris. In a tragic accident, one boy pushed away a limb and it caught a live wire and flung it back on Freddie's little body. When Grandma told me the story, she would always add, " that damn Union Electric. They think they can give you a little money and that makes up for my brother."

There are two coincidences about this story. One is the fact that Hilda's husband's name was

Ferd . The other one is my father worked for Union Electric for most of his life.

The Old Rocking Chair

My brother, Brian, was born while we still lived on Winona Avenue. He was fourth in the long

line of Hohlfelds. I think I was in sixth or seventh grade when he came along. I considered him

my own little play thing. The fact that I was the only one who could rock him to sleep was also

a feather in my cap. The house had a large sun room that looked out into the back yard. The

furnishings were sparse. A toy box, a desk built by Mr. Shellenberg, and the televison. The only place to sit was an old rocking chair that had belonged to my Grandma Hilda. I can't remember why there wasn't any other chairs in the room.

At nap time or bed time, I would rock Brian to sleep singing "Love Letters In the Sand."

He was too young to realize I couldn't carry a tune. The more I rocked, the farther I scooted

across the tile floor. We would start out near one door, and by the time he was asleep,

we were at the opposite side of the room.

I loved that song. Sometimes, even after Brian had fallen asleep, I would keep belting it out.

Some times other family members would ask, "Isn't he asleep yet?" "Can you sing a little

softer?" " Do you know another song?" I was not deterred. I sang my heart out.

One Year

Still mourning.

Lawn Care

I previously wrote about Neil leaving for the Muny late in the afternoon. One day around

4 p.m. my mom was sitting down on the concrete path that led to our house. She was trimming the edge where the lawn met the path (by hand, no weed eaters then) and was perspiring profusely. On his way from the porch to the path, Neil said, "You shouldn't be out here doing this hard work now." My mother shaded her eyes from the sun, looked up at him and smiled, thinking he was going to volunteer to do the edging for her. In the next beat, he said, "You should wait

until later, when the sun starts to go down a little."

Knights of Concession

When my brother, Neil, was about 14 years old, he began working at the Municipal Opera.

I'm not sure in what capacity he started. I do know there was a time he sold lemonade

exclusively. He would go to work in the late afternoon and stay until after the performance.

He worked with some pals from Epiphany and with them formed the Knights of

Concession. They held "meetings" and even had very official looking membership cards.

None of the Knights were old enough to drive, and if you asked Neil how he was going to

get to work that night, he usually replied, "Pickin' 'em up and layin' em down."

Because of his background at the Muny, he could sing practically any song from practically

any musical comedy. His rendition of "Everything's Coming Up Roses" as Ethel Merman

was especially well-received by his many fans.

Old News: More Baby Sitting

Once I was in high school, for some reason, I was considered to be quite reliable. One summer,

a family that lived across Jamieson Park asked me to stay with their five kids for about four

days while they went on vacation. The two older boys were fairly self-sufficient so I really only

had two girls and a boy to worry about.

The only things the older boys wanted was breakfast and a late night snack. For breakfast,

both boys wanted toast with grape jelly with crisp bacon on top of it. At first it seemed to

be gross, but I tried it and loved it. I still eat at least once or twice a year.

The family had a huge freezer in the basement and every night they went down to get their

own half gallon of vanilla ice cream. They each had their own bottle of chocolate syrup and

would pour the syrup right into the ice cream carton. This I was not brave enough to even

try.

Every day I stayed with the kids, my mom would walk my brother down to Jamieson Park and I would bring the three kids up to the park. The four of them would play while I got some advice from my mom on any particular problems I was having. Usually, I complained about changing

diapers and having to make dinner every night.

I think it was at this time I began to assemble my thoughts about marriage and procreation --

I didn't want to do either. But if I did happen to, by some huge mistake, have any kids, I

would cut the cord, put them in a bedroom closet and who ever came out 21 years later would

be allowed to stay. Fifteen years later, I was wondering how much time I had left on the old

biological alarm clock to put in for a few kids of my own.

Old News: Baby Sitting

My aunts were in the business of making babies and I was in the business of baby sitting. One aunt had four boys and the other had two girls and a boy. I was pressed into service when I was about 12 years-old and was paid a lavish amount of money for that time. Most babysitters were raking in only 25 cents an hour. I, on the other hand, had a very lucrative arrangement with my aunts. I would go to their house, watch the kids that night, stay over and play with them the next morning. By noon, I was back home and five dollars richer.

Of course, as the kids grew older, I had to work a little harder for my money. Sometimes I

worked on Saturday nights and of course we went to church Sunday morning. Going to church

with my Aunt Rita, Uncle Don, and the four boys was an exceptional experience. The twins

and baby had to be dressed. I constantly mistook one twin for another, dressing one twice and

ignoring the other. Their older brother finally had to send one in at a time. Four heads

of hair had to be combed, eight little hands had to be washed, and four pairs of socks and

shoes had to be put on. Aunt Rita and I worked side by side but she had the added job of

feeding all four of them so they wouldn't fuss in church. I often wondered how she managed

by herself.

Once all were dressed and ready, Uncle Don would begin to corral us into the car. Inevitably,

as we headed for the car port, one of the twins would cry, "I don't have my Jesus Book. I

need my Jesus Book." And the other would join in and realize he didn't have his Jesus Book

either. Soon all four were decrying the fact that no one had their Jesus Book. It was at this

point that Uncle Don resolved the problem. "Rita get those boys their !#@$%^& Jesus

Books." The rest of the morning was all down hill.

Old News: 39th Street

Until I was about five years old, the corner of 39th Street and Lafayette Avenue was my

Crossroads. Shenberg's Grocery Store was on the northwest corner. We lived in the flat

next door to the store, second story east. My Grandpa and Grandma lived 1/2 block east

of the corner. On the southwest corner was the 39th Street Drug Store.

My Grandma worked behind the fountain at the drug store. Various family members took

me with them when the were running errands. If we went to the drug store and Grandma

Santa was working, I got a treat. In an effort to help me drink responsibly, she usually gave me

a kiddy-sized Coke and not the huge malt I desired. Even if I didn't get to drink malts on a regular basis, I could watch them being made. The noise was awful, but I loved seeing the silver

containers on the mixing contraption. The real payoff was when the silver cup would get

all frosted over.

Another contraption that mesmerized me was the glass container that held the straws.

Paper, not plastic, straws. To me, at that time, stainless steel was just plain silver. The

glass had a silver, domed lid on it and a silver knob on the top of the lid. When you pulled

the knob up, all the straws appeared at attention and waited for you to take your pick.

My relatives told me it was magic, and for a long time I believed it. By the time I went

to high school, I had figured out that a spike ran from the knob to the bottom of the glass

and was attached to a little rimmed plate at the bottom that fit nicely into the glass jar.

My Aunt Barbara taught me how to fold the paper straws at right angles until you had

an accordion-type thing-a-ma-jig. I still do it with the paper that plastic straws are

wrapped in.

About a half-block down the street on 39th Street was the Paragon Shop, where we bought

my outfits, including a stunning little hat that tied under the chin. My sister got to wear

it after I out grew it.

Also, up the street about a half block was a tavern, Mascara's. When my Dad and

his friend had me in the evening, I would go with them, sit at the bar and drink Coke.

I used to think it was hilarious when they would call each other by their highschool

nicknames: Zeke and Sid.

Another store on 39th Street was a radio store where I had my first television experience. Of

course, the first time has to be with Disney. It was Cinderella's Fairy Godmother waving her wand and singing " Bibbitey Bobbity Boo." Ten years later I'd rush home from eighth

grade to see American Bandstand.

Old News: MU

Here is a starter item about MU. As part of the course in radio and television news, we worked

at the Columbia tv station, KOMU. We worked in pairs and had to get to the station at 5:30 a.m. in order to give a three-minute local newscast during the Today show. I believe our news

went on the air at 7:30 a.m. In the two hours before the newscast, we would rip all the news

stories that had been on the teletype overnight. We kept what we wanted and put the unusable stories on the director's desk. He was also our boss and our instructor. He was very droll and smoked a pipe, always. He had a funny way of laughing and if he started he went on forever, wheezing, coughing and generally turning red.

The students were the only ones at the station at that hour, except for an engineer in the

control room. After the ten o'clock news the night before, the camera man would roll the huge camera over to the area where the morning newscast would be given. He then made sure the lens cap was off and technically at the precise moment, the Today show announcer would say something like now for your local news and "through the magic of television" the technician would switch the camera on and a student would give precisely three minutes of news and then he would say "Now, back to the Today show." It usually went so very smoothly.

We also had the option of using film from the day before, if it was still viable. Of course, we

would have to edit and splice it because some of the film ran at least three minutes on its

own. So, this one particular cold January morning, my partner and I arrived and started to size things up. I didn't think any of the film was important enough to use, but my pal thought there was some footage worth using. I can't even remember what the story was about, but I agreed to splice it because he felt his fingers didn't work right. I didn't mind because I thought

using the reel winder and the the cement was cool.

I put my little white gloves on and began to search for a section we could use. It was going

fine. John worked rewriting the other stories. Rewriting was just a fact of life. If we had

ripped the stories off the the machine and read them as is, we would have big points taken off our semester score And these guys, unlike Sister Marie Michael, really did keep records.

For some reason, I began to have trouble with the splicing. I told John the cement wasn't

working like it usually did. That was my first mistake. He had to see for himself and

the result was the portion of the film we wanted to use was ruined. The film had to be

cut apart and the unused portion had to be hung up and the other two sections had to

be glued together. If the splice took, it would be an almost invincible reattachment. That was

our problem; the splice was not taking. If we were going to use just the film and talk over

it, that was also fairly easy. If the subject on the film was talking you had to make sure

you spliced it at the end of his sentence. So, we had cut away so much of the original it

was becoming more difficult to find a portion to use.

I glanced at the clock. We had been working for almost an hour. I said we should

probably forget the film and he could just read what the man had said. But oh no, that

would have been way to easy. I told him I'd rewrite the overnight stuff and put a written

story on top to replace the film if necessary. While I was rewriting, I could see John at

the film editing table. His face usually turned red when he was frustrated. At this moment

he looked like Mr. Tomato Head with glasses and white gloves. Periodically, I'd call out

to see if he needed help. Eventually, I called out that he would have to give up and not

use the film. He assured me that the cement had taken. He gave it a try on the movieola

and it immediately broke even under that slight pressure. I gave him the rewritten copies

of the stories I had chosen. He tucked the stories under his chin and put on his sport

coat and told me he was going to give the technician the first part of the tape and do a voice over. I expressed extreme relief that he had come to his senses. He had only a few minutes to get in front of the camera, but I knew he could do it; he had done it before several times.. He hustled toward the studio and attempted to open the door. It automatically locks when a camera is on so there are no disturbances. Evidently, the studio clock and the office clock were not synchronized to perfection. We just looked at each other and then looked through

the window into the barely lit studio. The red light on the camera was aglow. We looked at

the monitor. There was a quite acceptable picture of the blue material that John should

have been standing in front of.

Before either of us had a moment to talk or scream, the phone was ringing. We said together,

"Rod!" I told John I'd answer the phone; maybe he would be kinder to me. I answered

with a nonchalant hello and on the other end a mad man shouted and sputtered, "Hoag. Now."

He was yelling so loud that there was no need for a speaker phone. When John tried to tell him what had happened, Rod cut him off. "I don't want to know what happened. I want to tell you what's going to happen if it's your morning on the air and I'm eating breakfast and watching the Today show, and they break for local news, and you are not in front of that camera, you'd better pray that what I do see are flames. That's the only excuse for having three minutes of dead air."

Old News: Other Directions

It occurred to me as I looked over my entries that only the first two were about my "mission

statement" and the rest are about me. Hopefully, this narcissism will run its course and I

will eventually get back to my original goals.

Old News: SEA

After mentioning Epiphany I thought I should give some information about the high school

I attended from 1959-1963. St. Elizabeth Academy was my first choice for high school because

my Aunt Barbara went there and I wanted to follow in her Spalding oxfords. The Sisters of the

Most Precious Blood had founded the school ages before we got there. Most of them had a

quiet charm about them and a smiling continence....except for Sister Edmund.

When you entered as a Freshman you were assigned a "Big Sister," who was a Senior and

knew the score, her way around and and the score. On the first day of school, my big sister,

whose name escaped me now, took me with her to her friend's flat. Well, it was her

family's flat. Now, you'll want to know what a flat is. There are two family flats and four

family flats. The roofs flat, hence the name.

That first day of school was never to be forgotten. There were about ten seniors and four

freshmen. They played music, smoked and drank Coke out of 6 ounce bottles. I was in

heaven. It was the first time I had ever heard the Kingston Trio and the first time I heard

"The Call the Wind Moria." Every thing was beautiful until it was time to leave. I had no

idea where I was or how to get home. I couldn't ask my big sister. She would think I was

L7. So I went to the bus stop and waited for the first bus that came along. (Boys are like

buses, new ones come by every 20 minutes.) Thank goodness the first but was an

"Arsenal" which was the street St. Elizabeth was located.

Old News: Epiphany

I went to the Epiphany of Our Lord grade school but really didn't know the meaning of the

name until I was a grown woman. I'll tell you now. Epiphany means a revelation or

realization. It was a great school at the time, but oh, so politically incorrect if judged by

today's standards. The Sisters of St. Dominic were solemn, religious and, for the most part,

totally without humor.

There are so many memories of that school that it may take forever to write about those that

are just on the surface of my mind. We were in the "old" school for seven years and made

the move to the "new" school when we were in eighth grade. Why is it I remember so little

of the old building and so much of the new?

We were lucky enough to have Sister Marie Michael in sixth grade and then again in

eight grade. Her favorite learning ploy was "points." Points could be earned in a variety

of ways: answering questions correctly was the main path to points. "Extra Points" were

also up for grabs. Extra points were not as frequently dispensed. Ah, but points were of

an elusive nature and could be taken away as swiftly as they were given. You could earn

extra points by catching Sister in a mistake in a math problem on the blackboard.

"Excellent! I made that mistake on purpose to see if you would catch it. Extra points."

You could also earn extra points as a group if you walked quietly in single file from the

school to the church for Mass or Stations of the Cross. But you could loose extra points

by talking behind the baffle while hanging up your coat. "No talking back there. If you

keep talking you will all loose extra points. All right, extra points taken off!"

While we were in sixth grade we longed for points and extra points and feared they might

be washed away in one breath. By the time we were in eighth grade we began wondering

where Sister kept track of all these points because we never saw her making entries in her

notebooks. One of the boys asked about this. Sister Marie Michael gave him the "look."

Her upper lip became rigid and her eyes grew more intense. I may be wrong, but I think

you could see wisps of smoke coming out of her ears. She pointed to the side of her

forehead, "Right here, Mr. Hunter, right here."

Old News: Lafayette

I don't want you to think that life on Lafayette was all fun and games, what with shooting at

rats with Bull O'Connor. Sometimes, in the city, things can get a little desperate .

For instance, one time my mother and I were walking home from the Grady house, which was

also on Lafayette, but west of our house. My sister was in a buggy, so I guess I was 4 or so.

As we made our way toward 39th Street, I saw some of my kiddy friends in one of their back

yards. I begged to stay there while my mom went to the grocery store on the corner. She said

okay, but reminded me to stay there until she came back to get me after shopping. She went

up the street and I went into a kid's backyard to play.

For some reason, these kids were not overjoyed to see me. One immediately told me to go home. Didn't they realize what an addition I would make to the mix? Then another and another joined in, "Go home! Go home!" Even then, I suppose my short-term memory wasn't up to snuff. I went back to the sidewalk and began to make my way up the street, somewhat blinded by the tears.

Our front door was open, and I plowed my way up the stairway, letting the door slam shut

and lock behind me. By this time I was sobbing and calling for my mom. When no one answered, I realized she was at the store. When I tried to open the door, it was locked and

wouldn't budge. This make me panic a little, and I cried even more. But I had a plan. I

plowed my way up the stairs again and went to the kitchen, to the drawer where my dad

kept his extensive tool collection: one hammer, one pliers, and one screwdriver. Being

a chip off his old block, I immediately realized this was a job for the hammer, a small version

that was just my size. I dragged my little stool, the one I used to reach the sink in the bathroom, down the stairs. The top half of the door was a window with a charming sheer curtain. I put the stool in front of the door, stood on it, and broke the window with one chop. Not only did the door not open, but I cut my hand on a piece of glass. Now I was really beside my self. I plowed back up the steps and went directly to the front of the house where several

windows looked down on Lafayette. It was summer and the window was open. I looked

out and kept sobbing into the screen. Shortly, a lady saw and heard me. "What's wrong,

darling?" I sobbed, "My mother went to the store and locked me inside." She was

horrified. She asked me if she was at the store next door and I sobbed and nodded, "Yes."

Then she shouted up, "Come down stairs and I'll take you to find her." I nodded, still in

tears, and plowed my way downstairs. I looked worse than I was because I had been using

my bloody hand to wipe the tears out of my eyes. The lady reached inside the broken window

and undid the safety latch. All the time I could hear her muttering through my tears. All

I could make out was "mother," "awful," "poor child." I especially like the "poor child" part

of it. She took me by the hand and we walked to the store, Shenbergs, and she told me to

look for my mother while she still held tightly to my bloody little fingers. Still sobbing,

I pointed to my mother and said, "There she is." Then the whole place came to life. When

my mother saw the blood she assumed the lady had done something to me. When the

lady saw my mother, she started yelling at her for leaving me alone in the house by myself,

my sister started to scream on general principles, the butcher and the cashier came running

to see what was going on. So, okay, that was it. I don't remember what happened then.

Old News: Foxy

I got a note today that one person has read my blog! It was my oldest friend Kathy Fox Hunn.

Of course, she had to be called Foxy with such an obvious last name. We went to grade school

(grade, not elementary) together and then onto St. Elizabeth Academy and still later to

Meramac Community College. She went to Nursing School and I continued at University of

Missouri in Columbia.

What can I say about "Foxy?" First of all she was cool. Much cooler than the other three

girls in our "group." She had the highest pony tail, the bluest eyes and her own room.

Even though you could stand in the middle of the room, stretch out both arms and touch

the wall, it was hers, all hers, and no one could enter unless specifically cleared for entry.

Her parents, Arlene and Elmer, respected this right. Most of all, it was exceptionall

enforced against her two sisters, Maureen and Colleen. (Do you suspect they were Irish?)

I've got lots of "Foxy" stories but you'll have to wait awhile for them.

Old News: Grandpa Joe

I have a lot of memories of my Mom's dad, Grandpa Joe. One of the earliest is when I was

driving with Grandma Santa. Cars then didn't have up-and-down posts for locking the

doors. Instead, there was a slender chrome handle. If you held it and pushed backward,

the door would open and if you pushed forwrd the door would lock. One day Grandma Santa

spied me holding the door handle and she said, "Don't do that, you'll open the door by

mistake. Where did you learn that?" I told her that Grandpa Joe said he holds the door in the lock position so he doesn't fall out when you go around the corner.

Grandma drove the nuns from church wherever they needed to go, even from St. Louis to O'Fallon. According to Grandpa Joe, this is the only thing that kept her alive. In her later years, Grandma Santa had the mandatory plastic Jesus on the dashboard, but she also had several statuettes on the shelf in the back window. If you happened to catch a glimpse of a tiny lady in a maroon and white Nash Rambler and a veritable altar in the back window, that was

Grandma Santa.

Old News: Deodorant

My daughter and I just finished having a deep discussion about the difference between deodorant and antiperspirant. Of course, my mind started to wander to "the old days."

In the beginning there was "Mum" which required you to dip a few fingers into a round jar of creamy white goo and manually apply to the underarm area. New products came along gradually, and followed in Mum's formula. Then the breakthrough! No longer necessary to be so intimate with your deodorant. Along came Ban!

Now you could apply the stuff, which had mutated to a pinkish, semi-opaque sticky substance, with a gliding ball. The container was upright rather than round and about the size of a Pez container. Rather than flipping the lid, there was a regular twist - off cap that, when removed, exposed an opalescent rotating ball, about the size of a large marble. This was so cool.

Eventually, deodorants could be found in aerosol spray cans, but these gaseous disasters were gradually phased out. Besides, if you didn't aim was not exactly accurate, you'd end up with fluorocarbons in your eye.

Then finally, solid roll-ons, but for the most part, these left a cake-like residue between your skin and your clothing. Eventually at the beginning of the 21st century, you could purchase a solid roll-on that kept you dry, eliminated odor and did not leave white creases on your "little black dress." Of course, for about the last 50 or 60 years a multitude of various scents have been available -- so we won't even go down that avenue. Actually, I prefer "unscented," but Pure Oxygen is okay.

Old News: KFC

Tonight, while taking my grandson to purchase chicken, I repeatedly referred to going to

Kentucky Fried Colonel. He kept asking me what I was talking about, and I said, oh, that's

right, the real name is Kentucky Fried Chicken. This didn't seem to help him understand

where we were going. When we pulled into the lot, the light bulb went off: "Why didn't

you say we were going to KFC?" Then my light bulb went off: He'd never heard of it called

by its full, formal, title from the past!

Old News

Occasionally, I think about all the details from the past that my grandchildren will never know

about. And I think, if I don't tell them, who will?

Like ash pits. Ash pits were deep concrete receptacles that weary home owners (or rentors)

would deposit the remains of their coal after it had kept you somewhat warm through the

night. The ash pits were located in the alley. Ah, children of suburbia, allies ran behind

houses. You could keep up with your neighbors on the block behind you and didn't get the

reputation as a nosy neighbor.

We had one at my first home on Lafayette, in St. Louis. As a child, it seemed

immense. Our second house, on Winona, much newer, did not have an ash pit. By the time we moved to our third and final home we inhabited as a family, there was an alley and an

ash pit. Some how, it seemed not as huge as the first. By the time we lived in the third house

on Tholozan, there wasn't much to put in your ash pit. Some people planted tall, abundant

flowers. As I recall, my father used to put grass clippings and leaves in ours. I guess we

had a compost pile before it was cool to be green.

Our first flat on Lafayette was next to a grocery store and every so often, a rat or two would

show up in our ash pit. The man in the downstairs flat, Bull O'conor, would perform a

public service by eliminating the rats with some sort of gun.

Don't want to bore you too much with this first entry, but look later for tales of listing to

the radio, getting a bobby pin stuck between my teeth, and shattering myself out the

window in our downstairs entry.