Depot Street

When I was three, my dad sold our farm and moved us to town, to the never ending delight of my mother.  She vowed she would not return to the farm until she could have all the conveniences of town--namely running water and electricity!  My dad rented a building a block off main street and two blocks from the train depot and opened a new and used furniture store.  The new furniture, appliances, and woodstoves were on the first floor with the used furniture displayed in the upstairs.

This big old building, rumored to have been a livery stable in a former life, became my home away from home.

By the time I was eight I could walk to the Furniture Store from my house, especially if I cut across the back yards and through the black neighborhood that backed up to the train tracks.  Everyone soon knew who I was and I would be greeted with messages like "You tell your dad I'll be in this afternoon to make a payment on that couch.", "Tell Mr. Morris that I appreciate him delivering that refrigerator."  Sometimes reprimands were included, such as: "You need to quit cutting through Miss Elizabeth's back yard.  She's scared you're gonna tromp on her roses!"  Or, "Girl, it's too cold out for those shorts.  You need to get some long pants on."  (Dressing myself was not my strong suit--appropriate dress for me was whatever I liked.)

I loved the street where Daddy had his store.  Depot street ran from Main Street to, naturally, the train depot.  Trains still arrived at the old station, mostly freight trains, but a few passengers would get on or off.  When a train arrived the street would hum with activity as people went to the station to pick up relatives or loads of freight.

Down from the depot, the first store I would pass on my trek to town, was the hatchery.  (There were other stores, but they weren't interesting to me.)  I could never pass the hatchery without going in to see the new baby chicks.  There were stacks of wire racks with eggs in a heated room where the baby chicks would peck their way into the world.  Then the chicks were moved to the front in stacks of cages.  I could stand for hours peering at the tiny, fuzzy babies and listening to the continuous den of cheeping.  The hatchery supplied the surrounding farms with new chickens for eggs and Sunday dinners.  I was constantly scrounging odd jobs to earn money so I could go buy chicks at 25 cents apiece.  Daddy would rig up a cardboard box and a light bulb for heat and for a while I would be in the chicken business. 

A little further down I would come to the little restaurant owned by the gregarious Italian couple, Mary and Phillip.  A quick detour inside would usually get me a fresh biscuit or a cookie.  With Mary's melodious accent making every comment an adventure, I would chat about my day.  Soon she would send me on my way with a message of "Tell your daddy we're having Swiss steak for lunch.  I'll save him some."

Directly across the street from daddy's store was a building that housed the funeral home that catered to the black community.  The upstairs portion was where the owners lived while downstairs was the funeral home.  The Adams' were a lovely couple with two children just a little older than me.  Their front porch was always overflowing with beautiful flowers and friendly greetings.  I would occasionally play hopscotch or jacks with their daughter, but frankly she was too "girly" for me.  I would usually be in dirty shorts and a blouse while she was always perfect in a dress and hair bows.  I think her mother always wanted to take me in and clean me up! 

Just down the street from Daddy's store was the local pool hall.  A few years later Daddy would actually buy the business as a place for my Grandfather to operate as an escape from my Grandmother, however at the time it was a source of total fascination to me.  Since no women were allowed to enter I could only imagine the adventures that took place inside.  However, it wasn't long before I had made friends with all the teen-aged boys and young men that hung out there.  I spent many hours sitting on the stoop out front learning how to whittle, whistle through my teeth, arm wrestle, and spit.  Skills every little girl should learn. 

Daddy befriended many of these boys over the years loaning them money, helping them furnish apartments when they married, giving them jobs, listening to their problems and, often, helping them solve them.  They, in return, became the fierce protectors of his little girl. I was included on many adventures from night crawler hunting to fishing trips, because they were there to watch out for me.

Only a few more steps and you'll be on Main Street and the more respectable part of town.  For me, it didn't begin to compare to the delights of Depot Street.