Tag Archives: 30th Street

My Folks #15: 30th Street #3: Saved by Sis

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A year had passed since my mother’s ordeal delivering her oversized baby boy. The black and blue lumps on my head had long since formed into the perfectly formed skull I’ve been blessed with ever since. (That’s my story and I’m sticking with it!)

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We were still living in the tiny house on 30th Street. Dad was actively renting the trailer he had purchased to build the tiny house and he was more than happy to stop and chat with everyone who asked about it. In fact, with no credit card records in 1946, he had to chat and get enough evidence so the folks renting the trailer would bring it back.

I don’t remember it but my older sister Vicky does and my mom sure did. Apparently Dad was responsible for watching Vicky and I when he got busy conversing with a neighbor. Or renter. It must have been a very important chat. 

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There was an irrigation ditch running through the property, small enough for any adult to step over and any three year old to jump across. And, apparently, just the right size for a one year old to fall into without having the room to roll over and get his face out of the water. 

My sister noticed my laying in the ditch and struggling. Dad ignored Vicky’s frantic cries. So she reached down and pulled me out. 

Thanks, Sis …

There is no record of the reaction when my mother asked about her dripping wet muddy boy but the marriage lasted another thirty-one years.

My Folks #15: 30th Street #3: Saved by Sis

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A year had passed since my mother’s ordeal delivering her oversized baby boy. The black and blue lumps on my head had long since formed into the perfectly formed skull I’ve been blessed with ever since. (That’s my story and I’m sticking with it!)

Screenshot

We were still living in the tiny house on 30th Street. Dad was actively renting the trailer he had purchased to build the tiny house and he was more than happy to stop and chat with everyone who asked about it. In fact, with no credit card records in 1946, he had to chat and get enough evidence so the folks renting the trailer would bring it back.

I don’t remember it but my older sister Vicky does and my mom sure did. Apparently Dad was responsible for watching Vicky and I when he got busy conversing with a neighbor. Or renter. It must have been a very important chat. 

Screenshot

There was an irrigation ditch running through the property, small enough for any adult to step over and any three year old to jump across. And, apparently, just the right size for a one year old to fall into without having the room to roll over and get his face out of the water. 

My sister noticed my laying in the ditch and struggling. Dad ignored Vicky’s frantic cries. So she reached down and pulled me out. 

Thanks, Sis …

There is no record of the reaction when my mother asked about her dripping wet muddy boy but the marriage lasted another thirty-one years.

My Folks #14: 30th Street #2 : Birthing This Boy

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(originally blogged as My Folks #11: Birthing This Boy – fits in the story here)

I don’t remember the day, but my Mother sure did. April 25, 1945. Five days before Hitler murdered his newly married bride and then shot himself. At 6:25 in the morning, despite Mom’s hard work and interminable efforts, my fat head just would not get beyond crowning. 

Finally the doctors decided to take drastic measures by placing a contraption with three suction cups on what was showing of my head and yanking all 9 pounds and 5 ounces of me from her body.

Babies skulls are soft, an essential part of our getting through the birth channel. It is why the three suction cups that pulled me out left three very prominent black and blue lumps crowning the fat glory of me.

Somehow, after all that, my beautiful mother generously still loved me! 

Years later Mom told me how excited Dad had been, running along the line of new dads looking through a viewing glass to see their newborns for the first time. Cigars were passed out and lit up as he made sure everyone looked where he was pointing while he exclaimed: “That’s my boy! That’s my boy!”

It was then Mom looked at me and confided, “But Dean — you were the UGLIEST baby I had ever seen!” 

Gosh. Thanks, Mom!

My Folks #13: The Smell Test

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My dad’s plan on marrying my mother was the same it had been with his first wife — to move in with his folks at the farmhouse out on Horseshoe Bend Road. 

It was a large two-level house with the latest in modern counter-balanced windows that offered good circulation in the summer months. It also featured an outhouse, chicken coop, hay barn and milking shed, all of which guaranteed a rich “bouquet” that permeated the entire premises. In that department I’m sure it was no different than any barnyard. 

Years later my mother assured me she was having nothing to do with that plan: “He was not moveing me into that smelly old house to take care of his mother and aging brother and sister.” 

And he didn’t!

Instead they rented a small place in Boise until they bought a single lot on 30th Street. It was and remains at one block north of Lowell Grade School’s baseball backstop.  

Soon they were building a small one-bedroom house. Three years after their wedding on June 14, 1940, my older sister joined the few pieces of furniture that were crowding that space. I joined them two years after that. 

My Folks #11: Birthing This Boy

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I don’t remember the day, but my Mother sure did. April 25, 1945. Five days before Hitler murdered his newly married bride and then shot himself. At 6:25 in the morning, despite Mom’s hard work and interminable efforts, my fat head just would not get beyond crowning. 

Finally the doctors decided to take drastic measures by placing a contraption with three suction cups on what was showing of my head and yanking all 9 pounds and 5 ounces of me from her body.

Babies skulls are soft, an essential part of our getting through the birth channel. It is why the three suction cups that pulled me out left three very prominent black and blue lumps crowning the fat glory of me.

Somehow, after all that, my beautiful mother generously still loved me!

Years later Mom told me how excited Dad had been, running along the line of new dads looking through a viewing glass to see their newborns for the first time. Cigars were passed out and lit up as he made sure everyone looked where he was pointing while he exclaimed: “That’s my boy! That’s my boy!”

It was then Mom looked at me and confided, “But Dean — you were the UGLIEST baby I had ever seen!” 

Gosh. Thanks, Mom!