More Harlem memories

When I think about how my mom used to obsess over terrible things that might happen to me as a kid, it amazes me that I wandered all over Harlem alone without her saying a word.  She and Daddy were both at work all day; maybe I never bothered to mention my wanderings.  
I cried myself to sleep many times when we first moved to the city because we had been living on a farm where my dad was a hired hand, and I loved that place.  I missed the barn cats and my dog Cookie, who had to be shot before we moved because she had a huge tumor on her belly (and we had no place for a dog in the apartment).  So yes, I cried.  
But there were things I learned to love about our new home.

The levee

I loved going on the river side of the levee, sitting on one of the big rocks, and simply watching the Missouri River below.  (I still love the river, and find it interesting that I live so near it today.)  Sometimes a boat would come along; you'd hear a "toot" that was the signal for someone to raise up a portion of the A.S.B. bridge (in the background) to let it through, and neighborhood kids would run up to the top of the levee to watch.  
Up under the bridge were signs that hobos had been there, perhaps taking refuge from the elements:  whisky bottles, sardine cans and such were scattered about.  
Surely my mom didn't know I was wandering up there alone!  

We lived within easy walking distance of the Municipal Airport, which was one of my favorite places to hang out.  It was THE airport serving Kansas City back then.  My mom and I met Pat Boone's plane one time when he arrived for a concert sponsored by Katz drug stores, and we ended up being in a picture of the crowd on the front page of the Kansas City Star.  
Because of our close proximity to the airport, our TV signal often went haywire as planes flew over our house; when they were taking off or landing, the noise was horrendous.  

We drove to the airport yesterday; it's no longer "THE airport", but planes still land there.  Kansas City International Airport lies about fifty miles or so to the north.


While we were in North Kansas City, I asked Cliff to take me to the spot where I went to school when we first moved to the city.  I was halfway through the sixth grade when I was enrolled in McElroy Dagg school, which at that time was a grade school.  Later on it became part of the high school.  

Now the building is gone; in place of the McElroy Dagg building and grounds is Dagg Park.

A couple blocks away stands North Kansas City High School, from which I graduated in 1962.  The old part of the building hasn't changed much, although additions have made it at least double the size it used to be.   One thing that has changed drastically:  In 1962, you wouldn't have seen one black face in the student body.  There wasn't any enforced segregation, it's just that the Kansas City population north of the river was 100% white.   
That seems strange now, doesn't it?  Some traditions are best left behind. 

  Cliff and I saw several faces of color when we drove past the school.

I realize these ramblings are probably of little interest to my readers, but sometimes I need to turn back the years and remember other times, simply for my own benefit.   

It's true: You can't go home again.

I was in the sixth grade when I moved to Kansas City with my parents; we had relocated there a couple of times before, but we always ended up going back to north Missouri.  In 1956, we came to stay.  
Two of my dad's brothers lived with their families in tiny apartments in the unincorporated area called "Harlem".  Our actual address was Kansas City;  Harlem wasn't the most desirable place to live.  
There were four apartments in the two-story building where my uncles lived; they were in the first-floor apartments, and we rented one of the two apartments on the second story.  From my parents' bedroom there, I could look across the Missouri River and see the Kansas City skyline, so close I could almost touch it.  I loved seeing the huge coffee can atop the Folgers building.  My favorite, though, was the light on the Kansas City Power and Light building that changed colors all the time.  
I slept on the couch during our short time at the apartment, because there were only three rooms:  a bedroom, a living room, and the kitchen; all the rooms were tiny.  The bathroom was downstairs, and we shared it with other occupants of the building.  I say "bathroom", but there was no bathtub or shower.  Only a sink and a toilet.  I think maybe Uncle Cecil's family had a bathroom of their own.  They had more kids, so they definitely needed it!  
Cliff had some business to take care of in North Kansas City today, and I asked him to take me on a sentimental journey to Harlem.  He's much more willing to do silly things like that, now that he's retired.  

This building sits where the apartment house was.  Notice the street name on the sign:  "Harlem Road".  Looking up the street on the left-hand side of the picture, you can almost see the location of the house my parents bought later on... the first home they ever owned.  

That house sat approximately in this spot.  There are very few people living in Harlem now, although we did find a few.

 Way over there.  Houses!

Cliff turned down the road so we could see whether people lived in them.  Yes, the houses are occupied.  These are the sort of houses I remember seeing in Harlem in 1956.  

Finally, I found something that hasn't changed much!  Harlem Baptist Church.  My cousin Alice used to sing in the choir here, alongside her grandmother.  I wonder who attends nowadays, and where they come from.  There certainly aren't enough people living in Harlem to keep a church going.  
More than anything, I would love to have gone to the top of the levee like I used to so I could take a picture of the skyline as it looks from Harlem.  

However, the levee is fenced off.    

No more walking to the other side of the levee with my Allen cousins.

No more climbing up those steps that lead to the A.S.B. bridge.  
*sigh*

Cabin fever, and pictures from old Kansas City

When my parents and I first moved to Kansas City in 1956, we lived in Harlem for three years. It wasn't a slum, but it was a very poor section of town. I was unhappy about our having to leave the farm where we lived previously, but being so close to the Missouri River almost made up for it. Back then, you could walk right to the river's edge. That's my daddy in front, and some cousins following him. The A.S.B. bridge in the background made for a wonderful playground!


You could walk right up the steps and walk across on a sidewalk into downtown Kansas City.

My mom had tons of friends, and she'd come home from work at night exhausted and seem happy as could be to receive calls from all the neighbors. I'm afraid I'm the opposite: When the phone rings, I think, "Oh no."

That's a postcard picture of the old Municipal airport, which was also a short walk from our home in Harlem. This was another fun place for me to hang out. I'd watch airplanes landing and taking off for awhile, then wander through the terminal picking up travel brochures with pictures of exotic places and dream of flying away someday. There were pay toilets there, but that didn't foil me and my cousins. One of us would crawl under the door, use the facility, and then let the others in one at a time.

I've been snippy and grumpy this month, and it's due to the weather, I'm sure. Two of my favorite outdoor pastimes, horseback riding and jaunts on the motorcycle, are put on hold. I've tried riding my horse when it's frigid, but I've found that at any temperature under 45°, my toes go numb with the cold. Unless I confine my ride to fifteen minutes. Which hardly warrants all the trouble of retrieving the horse, grooming him, and saddling him up.

Cliff and I do take our walk in the pasture each day no matter the temperature; once you get moving, you stay comfortable. I have Carharts, you know. And wear a stocking cap. Our walk used to take a half-hour, but with my knees the way they are these days, I have to walk softly so as not to jar them, which has extended the time to about forty-five minutes. I've told Cliff he has his choice: Walk at his own speed to get his cardio benefit, or saunter slowly with me.

I've been watching the ten-day forecasts throughout this month, and all I've seen in my future was bitter cold. Now, finally, weather.com has given me some small hope that we'll warm up. Highs in the forties next weekend? I'll take 'em!

We'll go to Cliff's aunt's funeral today; that's a two-hour drive to Versailles. Last weekend we went to a cousin's husband's funeral in the same town. My mom and dad always said funerals come in threes, so I'm wondering who's next! I hope it isn't me, I want a few more motorcycle rides before I check out.