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During the 1990s, a few years before my father, Dave, passed away in December of 2000, he wrote a 35-page autobiography. Excerpts from it will be published here, as companions to the diaries my mother, Dorothy, kept in 1945 and 1946—the year she met Dave. My dad was born in 1927, in Hamilton, Ohio. The family eventually moved to the south side of Chicago.
Part 23
New Frontiers
After a few months in the southwest side GI housing project, we had added our names to a waiting list for one of the larger places in the complex, and soon we were moving again. Our newest home was part of a four-unit building, and had two bedrooms. Once again, we were buying furniture, painting, and wallpapering. We were becoming quite good at it.
Unfortunately, we quickly discovered that our neighbors' three children would be riding their tricycles from room to room and into the common walls on a constant basis, day and night. All of our decorating went for naught, as after just three months, we'd had enough. We were back at Louie & Pauline's once more.
During all of this, I was progressing in my job at Englewood Electric. Pay raises had come along, and the management was allowing me to work on my ideas and to set my own pace. Signing up dealers in Milwaukee, Gary, Joliet and surrounding areas, I was able to expand sales of our Lionel Trains, and Englewood's new line of gas space heaters.
Dorothy was a great cook, and she had a big fan in Art Anixter, my boss. Art's wife had recently passed away, and so he became a frequent dinner guest (as well as pinochle player) at Louie & Pauline's.
Since most of Englewood's Lionel Trains inventory was pre-sold to dealers during the summer months, they were not available at wholesale to non-dealer customers. Realizing this, I joined forces with a fellow employee, Max Aver, in order to rent a storefront, hire a part-time worker, and satisfy that under-served market.
We were upfront with Mr. Anixter about our plans, and for some reason he was all right with it, despite our little store being just one block from his.
1952 ad for Lionel Trains
Max and I became quite successful in our venture. We set up a charge account at Englewood, and called ourselves Southtown Merchandise. Art was impressed. He liked our operation so much that he encouraged us to stay in business post-holidays to service customers his store turned away, for not being legitimate wholesalers. We took on new products—lamps, lighting fixtures, appliances, and all sorts of electrical products.
In September of 1950, Max and I quit our jobs at Englewood to devote all our time to our Southtown enterprise, which now occupied a larger storefront. Business grew and grew over the next few years.
In 1953, Dorothy and I were finally able to move from Louie & Pauline's. We'd found a nice, two-bedroom house in a quiet, far southwest side neighborhood. A home with a yard, a garage and a public elementary school a few blocks away. The price was $14,700 with $2,000 down and the balance financed thru the GI Bill. We managed to pay the home off, free and clear, by 1958. .
While Max ran our store, I partnered with a tradesman, Ed Simon, to learn how to be an electrician. Max and I added fluorescent fixture maintenance to our list of services.
For years, Max's father, Sam, operated a handbook and horse-betting operation out of a newsstand at 51st & State St. Subsequently, and with Sam's assistance, Max and I set up our own bookie service in garages and storefronts all around the south side of Chicago.
The operation went well for about six months, until one day when I drove our truck to a small shop at 22nd & State, to repair a light fixture. I pulled up to the curb, opened the door, and stepped out.
“Hey, you,” said a voice from the doorway. “You're the one who opened his big mouth about the books, and turned us in. We wanna talk to you.”
Before I could even begin to inform this guy and the two others with him that they were mistaken, the two grabbed me and pinned my arms back, while the third broke the truck's windows with a baseball bat. Once that was done, they moved on to me. I was kicked, and beaten with the bat, and left lying on the sidewalk as they ran away.
After a time, I managed to get on my feet, sweep away the broken glass, and drive myself to the hospital where I was treated for cuts and bruises. The police were waiting. I told the skeptical cops that I had been mugged and held up, and really didn't know anything that could help them. Nothing more was ever said about the incident. Not by Sam, our contacts, or the police. However, we were never called again to do any bookie work. Such was the nature of the city at that time. People witnessed things, but said nothing.
Dorothy and I went about improving our home during the mid- and late-1950s, adding a very nice additional room onto the back, facing the back yard. I was able to handle a lot of the construction myself, learning new skills in carpentry on-the-job.
We were in the 1950s—the Eisenhower years. Our son David started at the nearby school. Dorothy worked part-time for a little while, at Bell Telephone, before becoming what was back then termed “a housewife.” She often visited her sister Louise, who was now married to Vertus, as well as her good friend Sunny, who both lived in the area. Normally, Dorth would go by bus, but she often bicycled, sometimes with little David on the handlebars. Eventually, she got her drivers license. I commuted to and from work in the company panel truck.
Vacation destination every spring: the Ocean Villa Motel, Daytona Beach.
Dorothy and Dave, Daytona Beach
Dorth, David and I took vacations every spring. Road trips in pre-Interstate Highway days, to Daytona Beach, Florida, and sometimes to Washington D.C. in our brand new, green and white, two-toned, 1957 Ford Fairlane 500. Vertus and I bought a powerboat we named Fasternhell, and learned how to water-ski in the process. House parties were frequent, either at our home or at Vertus & Louise's. Louie and Pauline hosted Christmas Eves, while my mother had my side of the family over to her house in Homewood on Christmas Day. By the late 50s, Vert & Louise had three kids of their own, and they and our son David became like brothers and sisters.
In all, by the early 60s, it had been a time of building, socializing, getting ahead, having good times together. Not much pressure, except that which was self-applied. As David neared graduation, Dorth and I began to talk about finding a larger home, perhaps a ranch-style one in the suburbs. We talked about sending our son to college in Florida. Dorothy loved the beaches and Florida's sunny climate, and we imagined visiting him while he attended classes there. JFK was president. The nation was looking ahead to the future, and so were we.
At the Museum of Science and Industry, about 1961.
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End of Part 23
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