More memories of central Reading

It was such a long time ago yet some memories are still vivid while others are so hazy I wonder if they really occurred. When writing my last blog entry I forgot to include some that have come to mind as I have reflected on my early years.

We moved from the basement apartment to a second-floor walk-up in a three story apartment building. I was only four years old at the time and do not have many memories but some still stick around with some degree of clarity.

Our apartment was on the second floor, I believe — on the right hand side. We shared a bathroom with everyone else on the floor. That arrangement was not uncommon in those days. We also shared paper-thin walls. When the neighbors argued and fought, we could enjoy every terrifying blow while listening (it was unavoidable) to every hateful word. I remember my dad yelling at the neighbors to tone it down and their responding to him.

One morning my mother called my older sister Pat and me to the kitchen. She had poured each of us a bowl of Kretschmer's wheat germ, a cereal we had never before eaten. It had a most unusual and unpleasant taste. What she did not tell us that Dad had been washing windows and had spilled the Windex into the sugar bowl. Ever thrifty, my mother did not want to throw the sugar away so Pat and I were give the pleasure of having it in our breakfast. Even though my introduction to wheat germ was a little bit sour, I enjoy eating it to this day.

Another vivid memory is that of the snow. Reading seemed to get a lot of it. Behind the apartment building was a court yard where we could play. Mom would dress us up in boots and leggings and a heavy coat with an attached hood and send us out to play in the snow. I had seen snow before, having lived in New York and on Long Island, but I do not ever recalled having been dumped in it for recreation. I remember my first playtime in the white stuff. I just stood there. I had no idea of what I should do with it.

Dad was a craftsman and believed that any job worth doing was a job worth doing well. That meant that certain tasks were never done by others. Only Dad washed the windows. Only Dad painted — except for one occasion. Dad and Mom had purchased a used crib for Bonnie. I remember them bringing it home and watching them put it together. Before Bonnie could use it, it had to be painted. Dad must have had a moment of temporary insanity because he invited me, a four-year old with no motor skills, to help him in painting the crib. I quickly tired of the effort, and I am sure Dad cleaned up my mess when I was out of sight, but it made me feel good to have helped him.

I was fascinated by an unusual man visiting someone in a neighboring building. I was not only fascinated by him, I was also afraid of him. He was unusual in two ways: he had only one arm and his apparel was strange. He was wearing a sombrero and serape and a charro suit. Mom explained that he was a Mexican and when the man waved at us and gave us a broad smile it put me at ease.

It was here and at this age that I first notice black people. Again, it wasn't that I had never seen them; I just had not paid much attention, I guess. I can remember wondering why their skin color was different than mine. One day I ventured to ask my older (my senior by one year) and wiser sister why they were so dark. She told me it was because they drank a lot of coffee or hot chocolate. That satisfied my curiosity but it did not make my mother happy when I was so bold as to ask one why they drank so much of these beverages. Mom explained to me that they were born that way and it had nothing to do with diet. I was learning, even at that young age.

Life in Central Reading

Most of my memories of living in Reading (pronounced Redding) are good. We lived there from either 1948 or 49 to 1953. I was a young child then and wasn’t aware of most of the turmoil going on at that time. Harry Truman was President, the first that I lived under. The Korean War had not yet started and the nation was doing well in its early post-WW II years. We, as a nation, were on a roll and everything seemed felicific. It certainly was for this young lad.

The first year or two we lived in central Reading. My older sister Pat went to one kindergarten and part of first grade in the nearby neighborhood school, most likely Tyson-Schoener Elementary School. I started kindergarten there, too, but sometime during the year we moved to “the projects,” a very nice housing development in Glenside, near to the airport. My mother always took us to the downtown school. One day, on the way home, I got separated from Mom. I do not know how it happened or how long it was before I realized I was alone. I did not know the route to and from school, nor did I know my address. We did not have a telephone. Few in those days did. I can remember the panic that set in. I walked up and down the block to each corner and could see no mothers, let alone mine. I decided to go to a house and ring the bell. An older woman answered the door and I told her I was lost. She must have called the police because it was not long before a patrol car came and picked me up. Somehow, my little immature mind thought it was magic, he knew where to deliver me.

That's me with my Kindergarten teacher at Tyson-Schoener

While living in central Reading we (Mom and Dad, and my sisters Pat, Margaret, and Bonnie) would go to Mt. Penn, home to Reading’s pagoda. Often we would walk up the road and visit the pagoda itself. I do not recall, however, having entered it more than once. Dad would bring peanuts and we would hold them in our hands and allow the squirrels to eat out of them. At the base of the “mountain,” which is just a glorified hill, was a large playground where we spent many happy hours. Alas, it is no longer in existence.

I liked going downtown. Mom would often allow me to accompany her there when she went shopping. I was fascinated by the oblique parking arrangement in Penn Square. On one of the corners of the square was a public water fountain named after Frances Willard, a supposed relative. I always wanted to drink from it but Mom wasn’t keen on it. She made me run the water and always admonished me to not place my lips on the spigot. Reading was also famous for its many soft pretzel vendors. No trip to Penn Square was complete without at least one pretzel - hot, moist, and covered with salt.

Even as a young child I was fascinated by the buildings in the downtown area. There were many brownstone houses in the area. Often, in the basements of these buildings, one would find businesses: a laundry, a barbershop, a milliner’s or haberdasher’s shop, even a diner or greasy spoon. I was intrigued by them all. I liked the sights and sounds of the city. All too soon we moved out to the Glenside district in Reading, where different adventures were soon to be enjoyed.

Arrival in Reading

My father must have gone on ahead of us to scout out the job prospects in Reading, Pennsylvania. He remarked many years later of sitting on his bed dripping with sweat at nine o’clock in the morning. I remember Reading as scorching hot and humid in the summer and cold with lots of snow in the winter.

I do not remember the details of our first days in Reading but it seems like we stayed in a hotel near the train station. I can remember eating at a nearby restaurant that was separated from the railroad tracks by only a sidewalk. We ate breakfast there. I was fascinated by the little boxes of cereal — Kellogg's Corn Flakes, mostly — that Mom would buy for us. The waiter always put the cereal in a bowl. I wanted to eat it out of the box, which could have been done for it was made to hold milk without leaking. When the train rumbled past the restaurant everything that was in it would shake and vibrate. That scared me, at first.

We must not have brought much with us because Margaret and Bonnie, my younger sisters, slept in dresser drawers. Where my older sister Pat and I slept I do not remember.

By and by we moved to a basement apartment in the downtown district, on South 6th Street, if my memory serves me correctly. There were a lot of those basement apartments in the 40's and 50's. Ours was a rather large apartment, or so it seemed to me, in a several stories tall apartment building. I celebrated my fourth birthday there.

I remember one summer day when my mother had gone out for something in the pouring rain. My dad was concerned for her and stood at the open door waiting for her return. I happened by and could see the pelting rain hitting the sidewalk several feet above my head. That also scared me. I thought we would flood. I was glad when she arrived home and Dad shut the door.

As my birthday approached my parents gathered up all my broken toys — many of which I had deliberately broken — and threw them away. They lectured me on how wrong it was to always be breaking stuff and told me they were getting me a special birthday gift. If I broke it, they told me, I would get nothing for Christmas but if I took care of it they would get me something special that I would truly enjoy.

When my birthday arrived early that November I was presented a Marx gas station with the Texaco logo. It came with a couple of cars which you could drive onto an elevator and lift to the second floor. I was thrilled with it and treated it with great care. At Christmas, in keeping with their word, I got an American Flyer electric train set. I had both gifts for several years and only parted with them when we left Reading for Rochester, NY several years later.

One incident that occurred shortly after my fourth birthday made an indelible impression on me. A plumber came one day to repair some item in our apartment. I saw him take out a brown bar and take a bite of it. As was my habit, I asked him for some. I thought it was candy. He told me that I would not like what he had and that if I did eat it I would get very sick. Not believing him, I persisted in pestering him for a bite. My dad finally had enough and persuaded the plumber to give me a bite of his chewing tobacco. It really tasted good but that sensation only lasted until I swallowed the juice. Then, almost as fast as it went down it came back up again. It went down brown. It came up green. I left a trail from the front door to the bedroom. Needless to say, it broke me of the habit of begging.

The Original Hippie?

Last November I wrote "Earliest Memories," in which I mentioned my first haircut. I came across a pre-haircut picture and thought I'd share it with you. Yep! That's me. Now you know why I needed a haircut. In those days my hair was platinum blond. As I grew older I became a brunet, then shortly before turning grey my hair became black. Now I am back to the platinum blond — or is that white?

Infancy

That's me in the perambulator. I am guessing this photo as well as the other two, were taken after we had moved from Brooklyn out to Long Island. It's funny how you start out fat and bald and end up the same way.

This picture is me being held by my mother's youngest sister, Betty. Mom had told me that Aunt Betty had declared me the ugliest baby she had ever seen. I imagine the yellow jaundice had something to do with that. This infant wouldn't win any beauty contests, but he's a long way from being ugly. I guess that's what fresh air and sunshine does for you.


This last photograph is of my mother and myself. It was taken in Virginia at her family home, as was the one above with my Aunt Betty.

Earliest Memories

I was born about 7:30 on Friday, the second day of November, 1945. I entered the world at Mary Margaret Hospital in Jamaica, New York with a severe case of yellow jaundice (is there any other kind?). So poor was my condition that I was baptized by the Catholic sisters there. My mother's sister Betty supposedly remarked that I was the ugliest baby she ever saw. What a way to start.

My parents and my sister Pat, who is a year older, were living in Brooklyn at the time. Dad and Mom were managing an apartment house where we had a basement apartment. I developed a bad case of pneumonia and the doctor told the folks the best thing for me would be to get me out of that hot apartment and out into the cool air of the country. As a result we moved to Seldon, Long Island where Dad and Mom had bought a couple of acres and raised Toggenberg goats.

I remember a little of life on that plot of land. It's hard to tell how much I actually remember and how much I recall because of the stories I have heard. I remember the house they were building. That is only a vague memory. I cannot describe it other than to say it was built of concrete blocks and had a flat roof. I can remember sunbathing on the roof and how terrified I was when Mom would hand me up to Dad.

We had a black cat, Cubby. I can recall in my mind's eye her carrying her kittens around. I can vividly see her taking them into the woods, never to reappear. Years later the sight of a Cat's Paw advertisement would bring Cubby instantly to mind.

Our nearest neighbors, the Tatum's, had tall dark blue stools. I was terrified to sit on them because from my ground view perspective there was nothing to sit on.

I also remember taking the bus to get what was probably my first haircut. Mom took me on the bus. The bus pulled away and the driver failed to shut the door. Another terror. I thought I was going to fall out. The barbershop was in the living room of a house.

I don't recall this event, but my dad told me of the time he took me to Ronkonkoma to watch an air show. We were part of a great crowd. Dad bent low to point out an interesting aircraft that I should focus on. I bent low and pointed in imitation of him.

One other event stands out in my memory. That was the day Dad took Pat and me to the hospital to pick up Mom and my newborn sister Margaret at the hospital in Port Jefferson, N.Y. We went in a taxicab. It seems like there was snow on the ground, as well.

In the summer of 1948 we moved to Reading, Pennsylvania. My youngest sister, Bonnie, had arrived in June of that year but I have no recollection of the events from the time Margaret was born until we arrived in Reading.

Grandpa DeWees

This blog is about me. However, there are events that shaped my being long before I was born, so I don't feel too bad about going back to decades before I was born. I want to introduce you to my maternal grandfather, Earl Cyrus DeWees. He was of Dutch extraction and Pennsylvania Dutch by upbringing. DeWees means "the orphan," or so I am told. Most Pennsylvania Dutch are actually of German extraction and are often called Pennsylvania German. The Dutch is a perversion of Deutsch, which is what the German people are called in German. Grandpa and Grandma DeWees, however, were both of Dutch Ancestry.

Grandpa DeWees was born in the Autumn of 1897 and was about 21 years of age when this photograph was taken. He lived a long life, passing away in the Summer of 1972.

I had little interaction with my mother's father. He visited the family home several times, especially after my mother was injured in an automobile accident. I remember him well. In the 1950's he was somewhat heavier than he was in the photo above. He also had a wine birthmark or facial scar (it doesn't show in this picture, which may have been retouched) that was quite large.

I know that he had been an electrician and worked as a lineman at one time. I am told he was once knocked off a power pole.

I did not see him again until after I had joined the Navy. In fact, I was in my second enlistment when I visited him in Richmond, Virginia. He was then 77 years old and failing in health. It was a nice, but short, visit.

While I know little of him and his story I know that without him I would not be here today. I still have a few relatives alive who knew him well. I think I'll ask them to fill in the large gaps of my knowledge.