Young girls write diaries, old men write autobiographies. Certainly the writer of this one, now seventy-three years of age, is not to be compared with Saint Augustine, Beuvenuto Cellini or Benjamin Franklin! He may, however, have been in his lifetime just a little bit like one of these, or all three of them for that matter. As far as I am concerned, I do not seem to need to write an "apologia" for this literary effort, my reasoning stemming from a notion that I am very sorry that none of my forefathers left an autobiography for me to read. So, therefore, to amuse my grandchildren who, thank heavens, know how to read in spite of spending too many hours in front of a TV set, I will begin.
In order to get started I will of course have to be born, which I was on December 7, 1900, at 1017 N. Ellis Street in Peoria, Illinois. In those days it was not necessary to be born in a hospital - as far as I know I was born in a bedroom. The house still stands and is next door to an old home still occupied by a Trefzger, my cousin Marie. Oh, yes, I almost forgot in order for me to be born it was imperative for my father Frederick Wilhelm (named for the Emperor of Prussia) to love a girl whose name was Otillia Berger. He did, and I am happy about the whole thing. My father's father, Simon Trefzger, came to the U.S.A. from Wehr, Baden, in Germany in 1855. He, my grandfather, was a surveyor by training, but as opportunities were almost non-existent in Wehr, he learned the baking business to support his large family. Evidently that trade was no better, for my courageous grandfather decided to come to Cincinnati, Ohio. He and his family, then two children, I believe, lived at 71 E. McMicken Avenue, just west of Walnut, today south side of the street next to the playground. They came to Cincy because there were many Germans in the city and Simon was acquainted with at least one family called Berger. Well, to get on with the story, Fred met Tillie - George met Nellie - brother and sister married brother and sister. Simon had a job at Schneider's Bakery on Walnut Street, but left Cincinnati for a more lucrative position in Oxford, Ohio then on to Pekin, Illinois. Later, he opened his own bakery in Peoria. For those interested in American history I am told that he baked bread for the troops during the Civil War. The old homestead of the Simon Trefzgers was at 120 S. Monroe Street, just around the corner from the bakery which was on Main Street. There is still a Trefzger Bakery in Peoria but it has been moved uptown. Where the old home stood is now a parking lot. Before I get back to myself, stripped, stark naked and yelling, I would like to say that my father was born in Germany in 1871. By this time Simon was an American citizen, well established and affluent enough to take his wife and family back to Germany for a visit. As it happened while they were there the Franco-Prussian War broke out. The Germans would not allow the Trefzgers to return to America. However, life must go on - so Pop was born over there, but he was a good 100% American. Each time Pop went to vote the representative of the Board of Elections gave him trouble for he insisted upon seeing Pop's citizenship papers. Naturally Pop had none. He was the son of an American citizen and just happened to be born in Germany.
Now, to get back to Francis Frederick (that's me) and my first name. How could a mother of am American boy call her son Francis? Here's how it happened. Mother had a very close girl friend and the two of them made a pact that each one would name the first born of the other. I have no idea what my Mom called her friend's child but you know what her friend named me! Perhaps the handicap of a "girl's name" was a blessing - a kid has to be tough to go through life with a name like that. It just occurred to me that you might be interested in knowing that my father, Frederick W. Trefzger, was the third Fred born to my grandmother. The first two died as babies. Evidently Grandma was not superstitious and really liked the name. It is possible that when this great literary work is published somewhere along here I will, attach the genealogical charts or the Trefzger and Berger families. However, like all great writers I am anxious to get to me. And what I did as a child. To add insult to injury my mother after naming me Francis decided that my hair (golden brown) should be allowed to grow long (like a girl's) because it was so beautiful. What a disaster! I cannot remember anything about living on Ellis Street because we moved to Bryan Street where my grandfather owned two pieces of property when I was not yet three years old. One piece of property was a bungalow in which my Aunt Emma Schmidt lived; the other a two-story two family house. I believe that we lived upstairs. The family downstairs was Irish, named Tinan. They had a daughter Helen who was just a little older than I. To me she was an angel. There were other kids in the neighborhood with whom I played. One evidently was a bad boy. I remember that he took me into the barn behind our house to show me how he played with his penis and did his business in an old box. My mother soon took care of him.
During this period I had a very harrowing experience. The family decided to go to the cemetery - perhaps for a funeral or perhaps to inspect the new Trefzger plot. I strayed away from the group and found myself lost. I scurried here and there among the tombstones, yelling and crying for my mother. My cousin Joe finally found me. The place seemed immense to a 41/2 year old. In 1973 we visited this cemetery where both my mother and father are buried. It isn't so large now! I was about 5 when they decided to send me to kindergarten at Sacred Heart School which was connected with the downtown Peoria Franciscan Church on Fulton Street. My grandparents lived across the alley from the church, and the Sisters who taught at the school lived next door to the Trefzger homestead. The Sisters still occupy the same old frame house. Someone must have told my mother that before little boys went to kindergarten they had to have their hair cut. Finally the big day arrived. I can remember clearly walking down the street four blocks with my dad to the barbershop. The shop was in the basement and we walked down some steps from the street. I wish I could remember the barber's comments on this never-to-be forgotten occasion. He put me up on a board spread across the arms of his barber chair and with his scissors made one little boy very happy. I had my instructions to bring home a handful of the golden brown hair to my mother who cried when she saw me. The sample is still around, a bit faded. I attended kindergarten for a short time - the class was held in the basement of the school and certainly did not impress me because all I can remember is a blur of varied-colored paper, other kids, a nun, and a blackboard.
I forgot to mention that when I was l8 months old my brother Herbert was born we probably lived on Bryan Street.
I recall that while living on Bryan Street my father who could not swim would got up at 5:00 A.M., walk down to the river, rent boat and go fishing. He would catch enough fish for his breakfast - he cleaned and fried it himself. At that time he had an office job. He was secretary of The Illinois Master Plumbers' Association. Later in life, he told me that because of his official position he was eligible to attend a convention in New Orleans. This trip was one of the biggest thrills of his life, and one of the most memorable tourist attractions then, as now, was the old cemetery with the tombs above ground.
My mother was a beautiful, well built woman, 5 feet 7 inches tall. Dad was a roly-poly fellow, about 5 feet 5 inches tall, almost as round as he was tall. He told me that from the time he was thirteen years old he weighed as much as 200 pounds. Thank heavens he fell in love with a taller woman. I am 5 feet 7 inches tall, my brother Herbert (who was born when I was 18 months old) is 5 feet 7 1/2, and our sister Elsa who did not show up for quite a few years, about 5 feet 3.
All this while my mother, a country girl from Cincinnati, was getting more and more homesick for hills. Peoria is rather flat, rising from the Illinois River slightly to what they call the bluffs. (The river views from these bluffs are magnificent and worth a trip to Peoria.) Anyhow, Mom wanted to go back home to Cincinnati. My father, being a true Trefzger, must have said "Yes, dear," and we moved to the Queen City. I was about 5 1/2 years of age. Plans had been made to move into a new two-apartment building at 1966 Queen City Avenue, two doors west of the neighborhood saloon, across the street from Stang's Bakery, and a block or so west from Richter's Grocery and a hair factory. A short distance away lived another Fred W. Trefzger, a chicken huckster, unrelated to us as far as we knew. Behind the two-apartment building at 1966 Queen City was an alley on which was located a sign painting shed under the name of Dan Dukes Signs. The Stangs were new arrivals from a Germany, and excellent bakers. Mrs. Stang and her daughters worked in the bakery, at the counter. After the customer gave his order and she filled it, Mrs. Stang would say "Wot yet?" The Richters were relations by marriage. The hair factory stunk from the hides they scraped.
Well, getting settled at 1966 Queen City Avenue was not so easy for the Trefzgers from Peoria. First of all the bills of lading for all our furniture were sent to Fred W. Trefzger, the above mentioned chicken man, and secondly, the building was not ready for occupancy. We went to grandmother Berger's place on the Hill (2567 Queen City Avenue) and stayed there for a while. When dad couldn't locate the furniture and household effects he finally got together with the other Fred W. who admitted having received the bills of lading, but said, I did not know what they were all about so I threw them out." Much furniture and money was lost because the Rail Road did not wish to accept the Trefzgers story. The two Fred W.'s however, did not want any more mix-ups so they decided that the man up the street would be Fred Trefzger and pop would be Fred W. Trefzger. Big deal! Just after the turn of the century there were three families of Trefzgers in Cincinnati, who were not actually related but all of whom came from the same town in Germany, Wehr in Baden. The third group settled in Madisonville. But through the years confusion of names has continued, with more Freds, Jerrys, Patricias and Maries, weddings and funerals, and articles in the newspapers, in all three families. This would be more understandable if our name had been Smith or Jones.
Of course living on the Hill then, as throughout the years was a great delight to me. As a small boy those 27 acres seemed to be the great outdoors, and the big old house with its deep cellars and many rooms was a palace. What a place to play hide'n seek, and "haunted house." During that period old Henry was my grandmother's hired man. At first he lived up in the third floor or attic, and clumped up end down the back stairs morning and night. In going up and down the stairs he had to pass through the back bedroom in which we slept at the time. He ate with the family, but down at the end of the long table. I could not understand why, with all the excellent food served in the Berger house he was always eating clabber with jelly in it. Homemade cookies were always available on the big dining room table, as well as fruit and nuts in season. It is strange how smells and tastes cause one to reminisce. Even now when I think of the back of the kitchen on the Hill I can smell Cook cheese, which is homemade from clabber left to dry and then cooked with caraway seeds. The unpleasant odor lingered. In those days I could not bring myself to eat either cook cheese or cottage cheese. But they were the days of hot cereal - oatmeal and cream of wheat, and pancakes, eggs, bacon and fried potatoes for breakfast. Not too long thereafter I ate my first corn flakes with thick cream and sugar. Really good! Cornflakes in the beginning were large, thick and hard; they had to be soaked in cream.
Before too long, old Henry moved down to the big stable apartment. After Henry's death his work was done by Rob Bauer, one of my mother's cousins. Aunt Teresa Sheblessy in her Remembering gives much of the atmosphere of the Hill. I would like to relate one or two stories that Aunt Teresa knew but chose not to include in her Remembering. My father as I have already mentioned, was a man of about 5 feet 5 inches
who weighed at least 200 pounds. He was a beer drinker and liked to play pinochle. His brothers-in-law were whiskey drinkers who liked to play poker. He was the butt of many of their jokes. It is said that when he took out his nightgown on his wedding night they had cut out the whole front of it. To relate another story, while dad was sleeping upstairs in the old house, before the time of indoor plumbing, he heard very clearly the call of nature. He took off, down the back stairs, through the summer kitchen, and was running across the yard toward the outside john (about 75 feet away) when in the dark of night his nose hit a taught clothesline and threw him to the ground. According to some members of the family he is supposed to have said, "Oh well, I wouldn't have made it anyway."
In my early days the Chic Sale was still in the yard on the Hill (as the above story relates). It was next to a carriage house barn on the circle. Nonnie's one-room house was on the Price Hill side. The Eckerle's lived on the Westwood side of the property in a fancy house on a three-acre tract. The same narrow driveway serviced both homes.
A creek (Lick Run) ran along Queen City Avenue and into this main creek ran our small one which came down the valley. These creeks necessitated a rather large wooden bridge because both of them became tempests during storms or heavy rains. This was the horse-and-buggy day. Eckerles' barn was on Queen City near LaFeuille Avenue. The Bergers' main barn was just at the turn above the bridge (now known as 2567 Queen City.) Both families had hired help, horses, cows and, of course, chickens. The Berger barn was quite an architectural gem almost a tri-level masterpiece. On the lower level perpendicular to Queen City Ave., built into the hillside were the cow and horse stalls, at least five or six, with a door at each end for open passage from the driveway to the pasture. Built partly over this structure on the 2nd level was am apartment to house a stable man and a carriage house, complete with a narrow, gravel circuitous driveway around the complete tri-level structure and back to the main driveway. A path led from the circular driveway to the front porch of the house at the top of the hill. And interestingly enough a portion of the driveway fronting the house was covered for protection against the weather. However, the distance to and from the house made this protection somewhat inadequate. The third level was the hayloft with built-in ladder and hay slide. What a place for kids to romp and play! Do you suppose playing in all that hay could have made me the hay-fever victim I am today? Attached to the main barn on the Price Hill side was the chicken coop and hen house.
Before leaving this kiddies' paradise I would like to recall a very frightening experience which I had in the cow barn. It was my pleasure to hang around there, particularly when the hired man was milking a cow. To keep me from getting too close he would squeeze a teat and squirt the hot milk in my eye, and I did not like milk at the time. So, I usually watched from a distance. While in the cow barn one day a sudden violent storm came up and a bolt of lightning, probably attracted by the metal milk pail, came in one door, struck the pail, upset it, knocked the man and the cow down, and went out the other door. Fortunately no one was injured. It was my first experience with lightning. Later, a bolt split a large and beautiful cedar tree near the old house - this within 2O feet of the room in which I was sleeping. Again, when my family lived at 2929 Lischer Avenue, the darn stuff hit our rear chimney immediately above our bedroom (Herb's and mine). We were still rather young, and after the crash we found ourselves on the floor in the corner - no longer in bed. Neither one of us knew how we got where we were.
Aunt Teresa tells about the quince orchard which was near the old barn at the bottom of the hill
(I wonder if any of the young people today know what quinces taste like?)
Following the creek, from the old barn, past Nonnie's house then across the creek, ran a limestone country road. This private road went through the valley then up the hill, going south, and arrived at an old grain barn in the center of the eleven acres our folks farmed on the Price Hill side. Generally these acres were in corn which was used to feed the stock. It was flat terrain and adjacent to the Branch Hospital, which at that time was a county hospital for contagious diseases. We called it the "Pest House" and stayed away for fear of dying. This old farm road was never in very good shape. To traverse the road old Henry would hitch up the workhorse to a sled (heavy wood work sled with metal runners). No one thought that a wheeled vehicle could stay on the road. So imagine our surprise when we were awakened very early one morning by the clanging of a bell on a horse-drawn city vehicle rushing up our road to the barn on the other hill. Later we were told that an itinerant worker had hanged himself in the barn. Thereafter we associated ghosts and spooks with that spot, and avoided it. And before too long, my grandmother had the barn torn down.
How long we lived on the Hill during this period I cannot say. While there I did start to St. Bonaventure School in the valley on Queen City Avenue, near St. Francis Hospital. As my folks had no carriage it was often necessary to walk to school - and I judge that the distance was close to two miles. Sometimes I got a ride with the Eckerles who had a carriage and who attended the same school. Or Uncle Joe would take me along in his racing rig, a two-seater. I remember that for a while we ate our lunch at Aunt Richter's whose grocery was close to our school. On the way to school we passed through an Italian settlement known as Little Italy, which housed many Italian immigrants who had come to this country as road builders. They built their own stone houses along Queen City Avenue - even a pleasant little church. There was trouble one day in the settlement neighborhood. I am not sure how it started. Some say I beat up a little Italian kid who ran home to tell his mother. (Fortunately there were a few older boys who usually accompanied me on the way to school.) But trouble there was, because shortly thereafter - a day or so - as we passed the Italian boy's house his mother came tearing out with a large butcher knife, yelling and screaming at me. If someone had clocked me that day I would have set an all-time Olympic record. From that day my friends and I were no longer safe walk along Queen City Avenue - so we followed the old Cincinnati-Westwood R.R. tracks (Called Gambles' R. R.) on the crest of the hillside, parallel to Queen City Avenue - and passed behind St. Bonaventure school. On these tracks we were safe from our enemies and could amuse ourselves on the trestles, and around the lime-kiln operated by Martin Stritzinger. My only recollection of St. Bonaventure School when I began there is that there were two school buildings, one on either side of the church. (They were torn down later and the one on the Cincinnati side was replaced by a small monastery home for the Franciscan Fathers.) The first grade was in the front room of the building on the Westwood side. There was something different about St. Bonaventura School from the beginning. We were instructed in German in the morning, and English in the afternoon, which did not seem to bother the kids because most of them came from German families. I was bilingual from the time I learned to speak in Peoria. Mom and Dad were bilingual, and they felt that learning two languages was important.
During the summer of 1907 we were still (or again) living on the Hill. Herbert and I were sleeping in the back room on the Creek side of the house. The front room on the same side was called the swan room because of a design in the furniture. I the middle of the night we were awakened by a peculiar noise - a baby crying. Sure enough, in the swan room a baby had been born to Aunt Teresa, a baby named John Berger Sheblessy. During this period there was another memorable incident in my young life. One day after school Uncle Joe in his racing rig saw me walking home. He stopped, said, "hop in," and off we went. When we reached Richters' Grocery he told me to wait in the rig while he picked up some groceries. While I sat there something frightened the very nervous racing horse and it took off at high speed for the Hill. Fortunately for little Francis a young neighbor, Harry Stephens (later the village dentist) dashed into the street, grabbed the animal's bridle, and was able within about 50 feet to bring the rig to a stop. Uncle Joe and Harry thought the incident was great fun - I had other ideas!
As I mentioned before, about 1906 or '07 we moved to 1966 Queen City Avenue. The Sheblessys lived downstairs, and we up. There were two entrances - our entrance room on the first floor was rather large, 1arge enough to be used as a music room. It seems as if we always had a piano. Upstairs, we had a living room, dining room, kitchen, and two bedrooms. There was a large third floor. The yard was small, surrounded by a rather high fence. A street of sorts passed on the west side of the house, and behind was an alley. As mentioned above, about 100 feet away from our house on the alley was the sign painting establishment wherein there worked probably the most foul mouthed men in Cincinnati. They were always cursing, blaspheming, and using four-letter words. Their conduct displeased my mother and her sister Teresa who complained to my father. Now my dad was short and fat, but he did not lack courage. He went right to the sign painting shop and told those painters to shut their filthy mouths - and strangely enough, they did!
Once while we were living in the same place, Aunt Teresa cornered a prowler in her kitchen. Her husband, Uncle Jack, was not at home, but in answer to her screams and yells, went to the rescue. The prowler threw Aunt Teresa aside, went out the door and jumped the fence. Dad went after him and to our amazement, he also jumped the fence. Unfortunately his speed did not match his courage, and the prowler got away through the alley.
Many reminiscences of the years we lived in Lick Run crowd my mind. Generally speaking, the people were poor, and the children poorly dressed. They did not bathe too often because they lived in old houses, many, many with outside toilets and no bathrooms. Ours was one of the newer buildings with fully equipped bathrooms. The water for our baths was heated in a gas water heater fastened to the wall directly above the tub. There was no pilot light - it was necessary to light the burner with a match and allow a short time for the water to heat. (Years later when we rented our first apartment in Milano, Italia (1928) we had the same kind of water heater but the tub in Italy was marble - and enormous We had a coal, hot-air furnace, and used gas jets for lighting.
A new invention of the day was the Wellsbach mantle. This contraption was fragile, a meshlike cap,made possibly of asbestos threads. When correctly adjusted it threw a much better light than the ordinary gas jet.
The little boys at St. Boniventura School were given a choice - they could be singers or servers. I want to be a server because I thought that singing was for sissies. Now when I think of it, we servers probably looked pretty sissy-like in our red cassocks and white embroidered surplices. One day some kid and I found ourselves alone in the sacristy. We were examining everything we could put our hands on when we noticed a pipe sticking out of the wall, about six feet up. We climbed up on a table and could just about reach the pipe. He turned a switch, lit a match, and POW? A jet of gas flame burned every hair off his head. He looked like a sooty Yul Brunner. We were well paddled for our mistaken curiosity. Those were the days when the teacher let you have it if you didn't behave. In class I sat behind a fat kid named Hech who for some reason or other wore his father's suspenders. They fascinated me. I could not refrain from pulling arid then letting them slap against his fat back. Strangely enough he resented my actions and so did the Sister. She called me to the front of the class, got her big ruler, and said, "Hold out your hand!" I did, she swung, I drew back my hand and she hit herself. She tried several more times, but each time I lacked courage and pulled back. Finally she lost patience and gave the final order, "Kneel down!" There was no escape.
One day my mother received a fancy bottle of fine perfume from Uncle Mike Sheblessy who was a druggist In Chicago. This perfume had a peculiar allure for me. So one morning before school I doused my coat lapels with it, and went off to school. We went to Mass every morning before school, and into church I went. The boys sat on the right side of the aisle, the girls, on the left. I was in my place with the second grade boys when, as the church warmed up and 1 warmed up, the kids around me became restless and began to mutter and grumble. Finally, I could hear them saying, "Phew, monkey piss!" I realized that mom's perfume was pretty strong, and that I was causing all the consternation. Finally the Sister asked me to leave the church. I went over to the boys' toilet room and tried to washout the offending odor at the washstand. The hotter I got, and the more I washed, the stronger it smelled. I had a big decision to make. One, to return to church or two, to go home and get a whipping. I chose the latter!
The years that I spent at St.Bonaventura School were important ones in my development - both good and bad. For one thing, I became more conscious of the difference between girls and boys. I really had known of this difference from the time we lived in the same building with the Tinans in Peoria. There were two girls, neighbors of ours in Lick Run, who affected me. These girls were older, and from time to time mother left us in the charge of one or the other. Today we would call them "baby sitters." As far as I was concerned, one represented Good, the other, Evil. Since those days and after much reading and studying of literature, philosophy, and the theatre, I know now that I was Dante and girl No. 1 was Beatrice - spiritual, ideal, and to me, beautiful. Girl No. 2 was Lilith - physically, sexually and, fortunately for me, frightening. I tried to immortalize my Beatrice by painting a very large likeness of her on our attic wall. From the other I learned about the human anatomy, and other things that a young boy could have done without at my age. Whether it was early training in the Catholic school, the influence of a wonderful mother and father, or just an inherent dislike of filth, either of body or mind, I escaped the fate of Don Juan Tenerino. In fact I have been very fond of women throughout and I must say that in almost every instance, they have been very good to me. Just for the record - at that time in my life I thought that new-born babies came out of their mother's navel. Very logical, otherwise, why have a navel? It did not occur to me that boys also had them!
The boys who attended St. Boniventura School were a pretty nasty lot - not too clean. Most of them, particularly in the winter, had what we called "snot noses." They also had very bad habits at recess time. They would yell, "fenny core!" whenever they saw a kid eating an apple or a pear. This simply meant that they would get the core to finish that was left on it before the eater threw it in the garbage can. In itself, this was not too bad a habit, but it led to piracy as the larger end stronger boys would take the whole uneaten apple or pear from the smaller ones. If the latter complained to Sister or Priest, they would be beaten up the next day. For a while I was bothered by these young pirates because first of all, I often had fruit for lunch; and secondly, I was small for my class. However, I was freed of this harassment by an unexpected accident. On day I had a few cents in my pocket, and decided to go across the street to buy some candy at the neighborhood confectionery. As I came out of the store with my purchase in hand, ready to eat, I was attacked by a kid called "Nigger" Freese. This boy was not a black, but simply dark complexioned. Therefore the nickname. I might add that all kids in those days had nicknames. Mine was "big shrimp" to distinguish me from my brother Herb who was "little shrimp." When Nigger grabbed me to take away my candy my temper (which has always been nasty) turned to fighting anger and I went after him like a tiger, lifted him up off his feet and slammed him into the large plate-glass window of the store. It crashed into a million pieces. Nigger and I took off in opposite directions. I circled the block and returned to my class In school, but no one will ever know my anguish and fear of capture and punishment. Every time there was a knock on the classroom door, I thought it was the police looking for me. Many years later I found out what happened and who paid for the window when, as a salesman, I went into an office. There was Nigger. He said that his parents had been forced to pay for the window because the lady in the store told them it was his fault, not mine. Anyway, after that upset I got better treatment in the school yard because the Freeze kid was a much bigger and stronger boy than I. Fortunately I did not hang around the school yard after school was out. I knew that some of the larger boys were forcing the smaller ones into homosexual acts, sometimes called "going down on a guy" or "earning a wooden nickel."
One day while walking home from school I witnessed a terrible livery-stable fire. The stable was just opposite Saint Francis Hospital. It was built of wood and evidently full of hay which caught on fire. At least six horses died in the blaze because the helpers did not know enough to cover the horse's eyes, and the animals refused to be led out. What a thrill to hear and see the fire engine with its three-horse team come clattering over the cobblestone street. My other senses did not fare so well, however, as the heat was terrific, the smoke very thick, and the stench from burning Horseflesh sickening. Perhaps this experience with fire was useful to me at a later date when I was closely affected by one. As I have said there was no electricity in those days. Our Christmas tree was lighted with small candles in holders which clamped onto the twigs and branches of the cedar tree. Everyone used cedar trees then. Well, one Christmas it happened to us - yes, our tree caught afire while I was alone In the room. I was perhaps eight years of age. All I remember is that somehow I got the window open and threw the burning tree out, into the yard below where it was soon a blackened mess. All of our tree ornaments went along with it.
During those years on Queen City Avenue Herb and I had so many colds, much coughing, but mostly what my mother called croup. She used to burn some kind of Benson atomizer in our bedroom at night. It seemed to help me. I wonder, now, after many years o1 allergy, whether we were not allergic to something around us. Herb who was a croup victim with me, however, has not been bothered through the years. As Mother was ill much of the time, we learned to help around the house with the cleaning, as well as the preparation of meals. We both took music lessons with the Sisters at school. Herb played the piano and I, the mandolin. My mother took great delight in having us perform for our grandparents, either on the Hill or in Peoria where we visited from time to time in the summer. All I can remember about my mandolin teacher is that she was ailing and always had to have a glass of tonic during lesson. Later I was told that the tonic was red wine. One time Herb and I got into a terrible scrap over practicing our duets together, and he hit me with my mandolin, splitting it up the back. We got spanked, and dad had to pay to have it fixed.
I have always loved to read. And even in those days had a secret ambition to become a writer. Unfortunately, then as now, I had no creative imagination and my first literary effort, a short story was plagiarized from the Sunday magazine. I am sure that my mother knew it, but she was a most understanding woman and urged me to keep on trying. In addition to reading and games for amusement, we had what was called a "magic lantern." This was a tin box with a candle in it and a lens in front, similar to a camera. Through the lens was reflected and enlarged onto a piece of canvas or a white wall a postcard which the operator (Herb or I) placed in an opening in the back of the tin box. These magic lanterns were much more effective a few years later when an electric bulb was substituted for the messy candle. Because of mother's illness Herb and I became adept as young house cleaners, in fact he used this early training to help pay his way through school in later years. I have done my share of it, as well, but not for pay.
Several other memorable episodes occurred during our residence in Lick Run, which reflect the times and the people. For a while my head was itching and I scratched so much that my mother said, "Francis, let me look at your scalp." Then she cried out, "Oh, my goodness, you have lice, your hair is full of nits." (Nit is the egg of a louse or similar insect - probably from the German niss or nisse. Well, the poor woman tried everything - oils, turpentine, even picking the nits off by hand -but to no avail. So they shaved my head and I went to school looking like a zombie or an early version of Yul Brunner or Telly Suvalis. Evidently my mother felt it was her duty to advise the teacher of my problem so that, if possible, the school authorities could find the real culprit. So what did the Sister do? When all the kids were in class she went to the hoard and, looking away from the class, she said, "Isn't it too bad that one of our boys had crawlers on his head. " It was bad enough to be bald, but this remark was truly a low blow. My mother did not get on too well with the good Sisters, and every once in a while Herb and I found ourselves in the middle. For instance, at St. Bonaventura we had many religious processions for the various feast days the children who marched usually carried flowers. We were told to bring five or ten cents from home to pay for the flowers. During the winter my mom would comply, but if the feast day came in the spring or fall, she would refuse absolutely to give us the money. Her answer was, "we have plenty of flowers here and on the Hill, prettier than those from the florist." Poor mom, she did not understand that our flowers were not exactly like the flowers the other kids were carrying, nor did she realize how embarrassed her boys were. However, the lessons we learned (1) hold on to your money, and (2) do not be afraid to be different, have stood us in good stead all our lives.
I have mentioned the Cincinnati-Westwood Railway tracks on the north side of Queen City Avenue. On the opposite side, behind Stang's Bakery and the Hair Factory was a real Rail Road. I believe it was called The C.H.&D in those days. Anyway, the tracks are still there and it is my understanding that freight is still hauled on this these tracks to Indiana and perhaps, Chicago. This R.R. had a peculiar attraction for the boys in Lick Run. No kid had any "rep at all until he had "hopped a freight"". It was not too easy to hop a freight. They move pretty fast. And, also, on that track there were and are several very high trestles. If a kid happened to get caught on the trestle he would surely be killed, as the engineer could not possibly stop. If a kid got on the train, he had to jump off before the train got to the next trestle. The day that I decided to hop the train turned out disastrously for me. As I tried to grab on the freight car my hand and foot slipped and I fell into a mound of cinders, I cut my face and hands badly. I knew that I was in trouble, and did not want to go home. Above all, I was hungry. On the hillside I found an apple tree with fruit which was not ripe, but my appetite whetted by fear of whet was to come as well as hunger knew no bounds. I became quite ill with what we then called "colored marbles", a euphemism for belly-ache. The correct medical term was ____ . No need to mention what happened to me when I got home, but will admit right here that one of the neighbor boys my age lost a leg trying to prove that he could hop a train. While living on Queen City Avenue I had one friend called Charlie who did not go to St. Bonaventura School because he was not Catholic. A terrible tragedy happened in his home - and I saw too much of it to forget. His father was a Cincinnati policeman who one morning came home from work and blew out his brains with his service revolver. I shall never forget the appearance of Charlie's mother and the children, the look on their faces! The family moved to the country shortly thereafter, and I lost track of Charlie.
A more pleasant experience that I had during this period was learning to play baseball. It was only hard ball then. We played in a vacant lot across the street from our house. Evidently I was not too good for one day a hard ball hit me in the temple and knocked me unconscious. Our doctor was Dr. Wendlen, a very pleasant fellow who had an office on Westwood Avenue. It is still a mystery to me how he got around because he had no auto -perhaps a carriage, but I never saw it. I do know that once when Herb fell off a high walk at Eckerles Uncle Joe and mother drove him down to the doctor's office in Joe's buggy. It was Dr. Wendlen who quarantined us when Herb had diphtheria (strep throat) and he would have died had Dr. Wendlen not had the latest serum with which to inject Herb. During those years at 1966 Queen City Avenue we naturally spent much time on the Hill, especially during the summer. As there were four Eckerle children we always had playmates - and our share of fights. I even had one with my favorite cousin Eugene who was a big fat boy and as kind and gentle as a girl. He was six months older than I, and much larger, but I bloodied his nose and the sight of blood made him faint. As usual we were punished and not allowed to play together for a week.
At this time in my life the regular occupants of the Hill house were my grandmother, my Aunt Anna (unmarried), and my Uncle Joe (also unmarried). The latter was rarely home - he was a ladies' man, a traveling salesman, a three-cushion billiard champion, and in general, a man about town? He was my idol - he seemed to always have time for me. He rode me in his buggy, behind his fast racehorse. He tossed ball, hard ball, with me. He pitched and I caught. He was 6 ft. 3 in. tall - and the balls he pitched were fast, they really did sting my hands. One day I was up in a cherry tree on a high limb when he passed under. I asked him to swing me, which he did - right out of the tree because I did not have a good hold. I fell over 7 feet to the ground and broke my arm in two places. Uncle Joe hitched up his rig and went for Dr. Wendlen. I can still feel the pain I experienced on this occasion, but old Doc did a good job. However, my left arm has ever since been a little shorter than the right. My uncles carryings-on did not always please the ladies in the family, but he had a way with them and gifts of candy would at least temporarily make them forget his peccadillos. One of the big sports events of the time was the Johnson-Willard prizefight. What excitement - black vs white. All of us young ones had to wait until Uncle Joe got home for the results - there was no telephone, radio or TV. To tell the truth, today I can not even remember who won, or exactly what year it was.
It was about then that Uncle Joe sold his horse and buggy, and purchased a Stutz Bearcat. This beautiful auto was parked in Eckerles' drive one day when somehow the brakes loosened and down the hillside it went, to Queen city Avenue. The car must have been a tough one, for Uncle Joe went down to get it, and drove it back up the hill.
The occupants of the Eckerle home at this time were Uncle John, Aunt Amanda, Viola, John Jr., Gene, and Adolph. As I have mentioned, Uncle John was a rich man, a very successful tobacco merchant and salesman. He was personable, and liked children. Aunt Amanda was sweet - we all loved her. There was a tremendous contrast between the two houses on the Hill - the old homestead - a typical farmhouse type - and the new Eckerle turn-of-the-century modern American home. Structural changes took place in both houses through the years, of course. From the beginning the Eckerles had a foreign couple as help. They lived down below in the garage apartment. My fondest memory of these foreign women was in the cooking. One, in particular, a Hungarian, could produce the best smelling cakes which she called "strudel." She was especially fond of Eugene, and would say to him, "Willst poi habe, Lucie?" (Want some pie, Eugene?) Naturally he did, as we all did. About this time the Eckerles were changing from horse drawn, vehicles to autos. My recollection is that the first one was a Packard, then other Packards, and finally, Pierce-Arrows. Last evening I was watching on TV a film called World War II -the episode had to do with the North Africa campaign. One of the biggest problems of the British soldiers was houseflies. They caught them in screened boxes, killed them, then stacked them into tubs or vats. They had to quit this practice because of the terrible heat and because the flies had been on dead bodies, carrion, and were more poisonous dead than alive. The story reminded me of Uncle John Eckerle who hated flies. (There were no screens in those days, and very little refrigeration.) So, Uncle John paid us kids to kill flies. He furnished the swatters. We killed the flies and counted them. It was great hunting. As a matter of fact, just about that time there was a fly-killing campaign throughout the entire city of Cincinnati. The result of this endeavor is evident in the city today. Compared with other cities Cincinnati has very few flies.
Because the Eckerles were wealthy, and Uncle John had many business friends from out of town, they put on big parties, with an abundance of food and drink. At one of these parties my cousin Adolph and I stole a bottle of champagne, went into a cupboard and drank it. For the first and last time in my life I was almost unconsciously drunk! The episode was one of embarrassment for my poor mother because of the family connection. Adolph was what the German aunties called a "nix-nux", a mischievous kid. He was always in trouble. During this same period he and Herb built a fire too close to the carriage on the Hill and much of the barn was burned away. There was something glamorous about the Eckerles - their home, their cars, their clothes, their meals (served in courses) and their wealth, but my heart was always in the old house on the Hill.
I loved my grandmother, Aunt Anna and Uncle Joe. The deep basements intrigued me, - as did the wine cellar, the attic, the gloomy steep back enclosed staircase, the summer-house with climbing roses, and the summer kitchen. In the summer kitchen the ladies and the help would make butter and cheese; they would prepare the vegetables for canning and pickling; make sauerkraut; and turn the grapes into wine. I enjoyed picking ripe produce in the vegetable garden. Have you ever tried eating carrots, radishes, even cabbage, right out of the garden? A job to my liking was turning the handle on the butter or ice cream churner. I liked licking the container and rollers after cake baking and ice cream making.
A cousin of my grand-mother's, a deaf mute, lived In a small one-room house on the Price Hill side of the Hill. Her name was Nonnie, at least that is what we called her. We couldn't understand her inability to hear and speak. In her little house she was surrounded by chickens and cats. She was quite stooped, and after she died we knew why. She had a sack of metal coins hanging around her neck from the time of her arrival from Germany. You might call her a miser, but if you read what Aunt Teresa had to say about her in Remembering, you will understand Nonnie better. After her death my grandmother gave me
about half of the coins, which I still have. They are from many countries and some are very old. Some have holes bored through them which could indicate that at one time she had them strung around her neck. She had been through famine in her youth and undoubtedly the poor soul was everlastingly gratefu1 to my grandmother for giving her a home.
Many other persons from Europe found at least a temporary home on the Hill. Several were teachers - academic and music. These men exchanged language and music lessons for their board. One of them was a splendid singing teacher. I heard the results of his instruction in the lovely voices of my grandmother and her sister, my Aunt Bauer. The way they sang Schubert and Schuman Lieder was unforgettable.
During the summer of 1910 my grandmother, Aunt Anna, and the Eckerles decided to take a trip to Europe, especially Germany. Grandma asked mother and dad to bring our family up to the Hill to live during their absence. It was so pleasant there. Mother cooked for all of us, including Uncle Joe, a bachelor, who she thought needed a decent meal now and then. Something else was at that time going on the Hill at the time which, if I had been a little more sophisticated, I would have noticed. My mother was urging Herb and me to pray for a little sister, and she seemed to be getting fatter. Well, at the end of the summer, on November 7th another baby was born in the Swan Room, my little sister Elsa (now, Elsa Trefzger Meyer Gervers). Although the shock of hearing a new-born baby crying in the middle of the night was not as great as it had been with John B. Sheblessy, there is really something eerie about hearing and seeing a new human being.
Incidentally, one day while we were living on the Hill that summer we had a terrible electric storm early in the morning, perhaps about 5:30 a.m. Lightning, struck a tree in front of the house and in some manner followed the electric wire into the house and started a fire in the wine cellar. Aunt Teresa who was at that time still young and active rushed downstairs followed very closely by me. As sac opened the cellar door the flames gushed out. She closed it promptly and we went out to the yard, attached the garden hose, and put out the fire which, fortunately was just a paper fire.
During the summer before Elsa's birth we kids on the Hill used to go up the street to what was called Kenning's pond to swim. The pond was a natural one but quite stagnant, full of cow manure, old broken trees, and mud. There was really no danger of our drowning because Herb and I had learned to swim when I was seven, and he, five and a half, in Peoria. Our uncle, Charles Trefzger, the baker, had paid for our lessons. In Peoria we went to a very fancy sulphur-water pool near Glen Oak Park. The natural springs were there. The water which flowed continuously was ice cold. Sulphur water is easy to stay up in but it smells had, like rotten eggs. My swimming teacher was a kindly German whom we called Old Man Becker. Then I went up to him at the pool side and said, "I am Francis Trefzger; I have come for my lesson," he said, "All right, Francis, let's fasten this broad belt around your waist." The canvas belt was fastened to a rope which was in turn fastened to a lone, strong wooden pole. The pole was at least ten feet long but he handled it as if it were a tooth pick. After I was securely fastened in, he said, "Are you ready?" before I could answer he had kicked me into the deep water and allowed me to sink to the bottom. No use trying- to explain how scared I was: But Mr. Becker succeeded in teaching me the breast stroke, and I have never been afraid of the water since.
We all liked to swim. We decided to dam up our creek. We chose a spot where the water was fairly deep, perhaps three feet, and where the surrounding walls were of solid limestone rock. Because it was a natural spot it was not too difficult to dam up the creek and build ourselves a swimming hole. We dived off a fallen tree close by. Of course we had to put up with crawdads and a few garter snakes, but they did not spoil our fun. During this same period we developed a bad habit (which I think all country kids have for awhile) of stealing birds' eggs from their nests. If someone were to ask me now why I did it, I would have to say that the colors of the eggs fascinated me. Also, at the time, I was a born collector. Old Nonnie was dead, so we used her old house as a kind of clubhouse. In one part I had several old shelves on which I displayed my beautiful birds' eggs, many colors and sizes. Now it happened that both of the above pastimes - swimming in the creek and stealing birds' eggs - made Uncle John Eckerle very angry. He put a stop to both. As to the latter, be simply said, "If you boys don't quit that I will whip you good!" We stopped. As for the former, he had a great idea - to put in a concrete pool on the side of the hill not too far from the lot line. It was built in 1911, I think. The pool of solid heavy poured concrete was 40 ft. long and l6 ft. wide. At its deepest point it was about 4 1/2 ft. Uncle John reasoned that if the water was not too deep no one would drown in the pool. It is now the year 1974 and the pool is still used, and no one has drowned in it. There were iron rails around it on all four sides except at the steps where one entered. It had overflow drains as well, which were later removed so that the water would be deeper. Evidently Uncle John did not know about young peoples' love for diving because he furnished no diving board, nor deep area for that sport. As soon as the pool was finished all the Hill people and their friends participated. The older folks put on their swimming togs in the house, but the kids, in the beginning, slipped into an old "john" or "Chic Sales," with seat removed, which stood about twenty feet from the stairs into the pool. It was a very small "cabana" with space for only one person to dress or undress at a time. Between the pool and the lot line in those days the Bergers had a chicken-run with coops and an incubator, up near the cherry tree at the high point. The smell of the chickens and the need for outside dressing rooms lead to the conversion of the coop end incubator into a dressing room, on the left for the women, and on the right, for the men. The old john was burned down. These new dressing rooms were built about 1913, 1 think. I do remember that the women's dressing room soon had many peep-holes in it. Many young fellows, including the writer (to his everlasting shame), learned much about the female anatomy in this thoroughly despicable, sneaky manner.
Enough of this confession of my early morel turpitude, and back to the cool water of the pool. Unfortunately the sun over heated the water in our more-or-less shallow pool. Going into it even at night was not invigorating. So Uncle John to the rescue! He got in touch with his friend Scherz and had him put up an awning which covered the entire pool. This appealed to the older ladies because in those days it was not the style to get sunburned and have ugly freckles stylish women had to have mi1k-white skin. In fact, my Aunt Anna Trefzger who was an excellent swimmer - she swam every summer day wherever she was, in Peoria, Cincinnati, or elsewhere - wore a complete swimming outfit including hat, stockings, shoes, and gloves. The surprise was that her paraphernalia did not sink her. As you may have guessed, the awning kept the water too cold. We had to roll it back so the pool was only half covered. The boys used the high metal pipes of the awning frame as diving towers, and more than one guy was taken down to St. Francis Hospital to get his head sewn up after hitting the bottom in that shallow pool. Others went to the same hospital because they insisted upon diving between end balancing upon the pipes, or bars as we called them. Time has witnessed much building and many changes around that pool, including several filtering systems. In the beginning we cleaned it every week by hand, like a bathtub. The pool area of the Hill is now called the Lodge -but that's another story. Evidently I got carried away in writing about the Berger Hill pool. Chronologically, we were still living on queen City Avenue. I was about ten years old and while at that time I was cognizant of some of the peculiarities of the male reproductive system, and not adverse to some experimentation and manipulation, I was definitely not ready for girls.
After the birth of Elsa the Fred W. Trefzgers bought a home in Westwood, at 2929 Lischer Avenue. The lot was about 45 by 421 feet; it ended at the Westwood R.R. right-of-way. All the homes on Dirheim Avenue run into the side of the above mentioned lot. It was a frame house with a coal furnace in the full basement; an entrance hall, living room, dining room with bay window, and kitchen on the first floor; two bedrooms and bathroom on the second floor. There were large walk-in closets on both sides of the house. Mom, Dad and Elsa slept in the front room, Herb and I in the back room. To the rear of the house was a very large screened porch. Beyond the porch was a cement walk which ran under a grape arbor. In season we had the most delicious grapes, bushels of them. At the end of the arbor Dad built a number of chicken coops, and through the years, at different times, we had chickens, ducks, guineas, geese, and rabbits. In addition to the coops and runs, we had a large vegetable garden in the early days. I do not know where my folks got the money to pay down on this house which cost approximately $3,000. Perhaps one of them had received a gift from their parents. My father who had had several jobs in Peoria was now a bookkeeper for a cigar making business called The Cuban Cigar Co., at 111 East 6th street. The company was owned by a man called J. Adam Schmidt , and his best cigar was called the Laughery Club Cigar. Mr. Schmidt was a sport and evidently belonged to the Laughery Club, a Republican political club down near Lawrenceburg, Indiana.
Well, we settled in at 2929 Lischer. Electric lighting and the telephone were two of the conveniences we enjoyed not too long after we moved there. Herb and I attended St. Catharine School. I was probably in the 5th grade. Father Tieken was the pastor, and Sister Loretta (S.S.F.), principal, and teacher of the 7th and 8th grades. In those days the school and church were housed in the same building. On the first floor there were four schoolrooms, each room accommodating two classes. The church was on the second floor, and in the rear of the church was a choir loft with an old-style pedal-pump organ. If the organist (sometimes a Sister, and sometimes Joe Seiwert) forgot to pump, the music would stop. St. Catharine School was a typical neighborhood Catholic School of those times in the U.S.A. - long on religion, discipline, good clean living, and somewhat short on academic excellence through qualified teachers. Four Sisters from Oldenberg, Indiana took care of eight grades. Considering the situation it is surprising that we learned as much as we did. Recess and lunchtime interested me much more than the hours spent in the classroom.
Across the street from Fr. Tieken's house was Winters' Grocery Store. When I had money to spend I bought Nabisco crackers, two very light ice-cream-cone-like crackers put together with a rich icing to make one cracker sandwiches, maybe fifteen to a box. (I believe they are still on the cookies-shelf in the groceries.) Usually I went home for lunch. Mother always had a sandwich and some soup ready for us. I ran all the way home and back to school so as not to miss a chance to play baseball, soccer, or football when the weather was nice. Then it was bad, there was pandemonium in the school basement. While In the 7th and 8th grade I played baseball on the school team. There were several excellent ball fields on the Westwood Commons but opposing teams, however, could not get, their hands on the necessary carfare to come to Westwood to play. So, we had the opportunity to play on various fields in the different sections of Cincinnati. There were several drawbacks to these games: 1) because there were no leagues we ourselves had to arrange for all games, and trust the other team would show up; 2) We had no umpire, so ordinarily some neighborhood fellow went along to umpire, or one of the extra players acted as umpire (imagine the arguing and fighting throughout the game; 3) each team was supposed to bring a new ball (cost $l.25). The later requirement was ill -afforded at best - and if both balls were lost or stollen, the game was over!
We had no basketball team at St. Catharine because there was no basketball floor. My first experience with basketball was at the Westwood School in a night gym class.
In the evenings after dinner we joined the girls in the neighborhood in such games as Go-Sheepy-Go, Hide-and-Seek, and other timeless games. They were helpful to me as I began to understand girls better, and association with them helped to knock off some of the rough edges that young boys develop - such as trying to look, act, and talk tough. I can remember being so annoyed with a particular girl once that I let her have a fist, and I knocked her down, much to my regret. My friends turned against me and I was forced to apologize. Generally speaking, though, even in my early years I had a very romantic attitude toward girls. Lischer Avenue was an excellent hill for sled riding in the winter, and roller coasting in other seasons. We built: our own coasting automobiles for racing, which led to much fighting and arguing over a false start, or the like. I learned to ride a bike on that hill - but not my own bike. My folks did not feel that they could afford to buy each one of us a bike.
Across the Westwood R.R. track behind our house was Mr. Gamble's pasture, and in the center of the pasture what was called Gamble's pond. This pond was a delight in the winter because it was not deep, it froze readily, and there we learned not only to skate, but to play ice shinny with home-made sticks and tin cans. Later, when we were more sophisticated we bought hockey sticks, and used a puck in our games of choose-up-sides hockey. After all these years 1 can still relive the exhilaration of flying about on the ice with the sharp wind in my face. We enjoyed ice-skating with our special girl friends, and sometimes we skated when the ice was too thin. On one occasion my favorite girl and I went through. We found ourselves sitting in this muddy water up to our waist. By the time we reached home our wet clothes had frozen to our bodies. In Gamble's pasture we played football - sometimes with opposing teams from other parts of town. The Noltings from Northside were really tough. In as much as there no dressing rooms for changing clothes - that is, getting into whatever football equipment we could assemble - mother allowed us to use our back screen porch. One of the hazards of playing football in a cow pasture is very obvious. The cows had no respect for the young athletes who were lucky if they did not land face-down in the cow dung.
Mother urged me to continue my mandolin lessons while still at St. Catharine School. I tried, but could not get on with the teacher. Finally, one day, in a fit of anger, she threw me on the floor, and left the room, saying, "Never again will I give you a lesson." Of course, when I got home I received further castigation from my father. However, I continued to be interested in music, particularly singing. Mother, who had a lovely voice and could play the piano, taught me many of the old songs. We loved to sing together. I could not read music but had a very good ear.
My debut came when I was in the eighth grade. The St. Catharine School performance was presented at the Westwood Town Hall. Dressed in overalls, with my face blackened with cork, I sang "Dixieland." I think I was a success -but I'm not sure. As far as studies were concerned that year I was at a disadvantage: 1) I had skipped a grade and was approximately one year younger than my classmates. 2) Our teacher, an older Sister not too well versed in her subjects, had to teach two grades in the same room. My folks in an effort to give me an incentive to study, promised me a bicycle if I led my class - or a baseball, if I came in second. You guessed it - I got the ball. A girl beat me, and I was so incensed with her that I washed her face with snow.
To get into Hughes High School from St Catharine School I had to attend summer school in 1914. I was thirteen years of age and went downtown to the old Woodward High on Sycamore Street. It was a long ride on the streetcar as well as many blocks on foot. But the experience was good for me in several ways. I became acquainted with downtown Cincinnati: I attended a public school and had male teachers for the first time; I improved my English and Mathematics; and I was exposed to very bad company, and realized how some kids lived, thought, and talked. That fall I started Hughes High School. We took the Westwood car to Spring Grove and Harrison Avenue where we transferred to the Crosstown line. The Crosstown went up over McMicken Avenue to an inclined p1ane called the Incline. This was a mechanical device which carried streetcars and other vehicles up and down from Fairview Heights to McMicken Avenue. The car was driven onto a platform and the wheels blocked. For the incline to work properly there had to be one plane coming down as the other went up. Evidently the weight was necessary to help the motors pull the big cables. Naturally with young people in those days riding to school on a crowded streetcar was great fun. The boys, rough ones, enjoyed jostling their neighbors and telling off-color stories. The romantic boys met their best girls, gave them their seat or at least held their books. We usually were "packed in like sardines" and this physical contact seemed to be enjoyed by al1.
Things at 2929 Lischer continued to improve. We had electric lights and telephone installed. We were planning to put a tennis court in our back yard, to replace the chicken coops. I did not like the idea of getting rid of them because it was under the coops that hid to read novels which I got from the Westwood Library. I must admit that I did not always answer my parents' call, particularly if the book was interesting. My early reading was helpful to me in later life. Like music, literature has fascinated me through the years. It was during this period that our family bad a shock. Mr. J. Adam Schmidt, owner of the Cuban Cigar Company, man-about-town, sport, and my dad's boss, committed suicide. He was debt ridden and could not face the consequences. My mother, who was a very practical woman, cried and was emotionally upset over the incident. We were in precarious financial straits and needed the small amount of money Dad brought home every week. To add to mother's distress, Dad wanted to buy the business - which he did. I do not know where they got the money to buy it - perhaps from the Trefzgers, perhaps from Grandma Berger, or perhaps they borrowed it. My father, at this time, was experimenting in our basement with the manufacture of soap. I remember what the machine looked like in that he used in making the soap bars. It was hand operated and pressed down on the gooey soap to form an oval shaped bar. Too bad that dad didn't beat P & G at their own game, but he didn't!
To add to the above mentioned troubles, dad was having some problems with two boys named Francis and Herbert. Neither one ever wanted to do his assigned chores, and when he did, they were not done right. Francis was indolent end spent much time reading under the chicken coop or running around the neighborhood with the other kids. He was at times a bit of a bully judging from the following incident. A younger boy from next door called Daniel - and Irish, to boot - would not play with Francis because, as he said, he had to mind his sisters. This seemed "sissy" so Francis waited his chance and sure enough Daniel came down the street all dressed up, wearing a brand new light yellow straw hat, hard sailor type. The temptation was too much for Francis who grabbed the hat and filled it with wet mud. But to get back to the manner in which my father handled his two bad boys. One day we just happened to find near dad's tool-bench a copy of a letter to St Bede's School for Boys in Illinois, inquiring as to how much they would charge to board and discipline his two sons. We got the message! Also, during the same period more or less, I found a little black book in one of mother's drawers I had arrived at an age when the facts of life, as well as my genitals, were bothering me. Mother and Dad evidently were cognizant of this but did not wish to speak plainly to me. Therefore the book (which I still possess) called The Marriage Guide or Natural History of Generation - Dr. F Hollick - New York, N.Y., 1977, was planted? It explained everything I needed to know, and had pictures as wel1.
I have mentioned our chickens, in fact all our neighbors had chickens. The neighbor next door, Mr. Honeybrinck had a very well fed and a numerous coop-full of them. One evening Mr. Honeybrinck thought he heard noises in his hen house, and sure enough next morning he missed a number of his best birds. He was furious. He purchased a revolver in town, and the following night lay in wait for the intruder. Mr. Honeybrinck had never fired a revolver in his life. Well sure enough, about midnight the chicken thief came up through the woods, cut a hole in the wire fence, and entered Mr. Moneybrinck's chicken coop. The hens got noisy as they were stuffed into a bag, but Mr. Honeybrinck waited until the thief passed through the hole in the fence on his way out, then shot the revolver at the moving figure in the dark. The thief was hit, groaned, and dropped the chickens. Then he fled down into the woods where his groaning continued. The reader is probably saying to himself, "What has all of this to do with the Trefzger family?" Well, it was just at this point that Mr. Honeybrinck fell, apart. He was terribly excited and did not know what to do - so he called to Dad for help. Remember, Dad was 5 ft. 4 in. in height, and weighed 220 pounds. He called the police, who arrived before long. But, Mr. Honeybrinck, as well as the brave Cincinnati Police, refused to go down into the woods to where the moaning thief lay. Who went? My Dad! As he took off, he remarked, "Why that man could be dying." The thief was a Negro, who died on the way to the hospital.
This era was the period of the silent movies. My first movie show was at the Bijou, across from the original location of the Tylor-Davidson Fountain. My mother took me one day when she was in town (I could not have been more than six years old). The show house was quite small, the price a nickel. In the front, immediately under the screen, was a piano. As I recall, a woman was playing the piano that day. In general, the movie musicians would follow the story and furnish whatever melodies or racket they thought fit the action at a particular moment. My first movie, however, was a disaster for me because it was sad. It could have been an early version of Murger's story "La Vie de Boheme." The heroine died of tuberculosis at the end, and I wept so loudly that my mother had to take me out of the place. It was the first and last time she took me! While in the seventh and eighth grade at St. Catharine School we went often to Cheviot to a movie house called Huebners. There we saw many episodes of "The Mil1ion Dollar Mystery" with Pearl White, various films of Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, Fatty Arbuckle, Mable Normand, and so on. We never actually had a movie house in Westwood, but we did have, behind Habig's Drug Store on Montana Avenue what was called an Airdrome. It was just a lot, with a fence around it and the ground covered with tan bark. It was a "wa1k-in", but probably the forerunner of the present day "drive-in". If it rained too hard, rainchecks were passed out or money returned. The same picture played at the Airdrome that was playing in Cheviot, but they started at different times and a boy on a bicycle took the reels back and forth. This transportation of the reels added to the continuous breaking of the film and caused many lapses in our entertainment. When a break took place or when the film was not back on time we expressed our disgust by whistling, yelling and being generally unpleasant. Some of the breaks were premeditated I think, to give the management time to sell ice-cream cones, soft drinks, popcorn, and peanuts.
I remember going to a Carnival in Cheviot. In one tent they had a hoochy-cootchy show with half-clothed belly dancers doing the bumps and shaking their breasts. This was a show that Francis did not want to miss. Kids were not admitted, and I still wore short pants. So I sneaked up to the box office window from the side, deposited my quarter, and walked in with a sigh of relief. There was a barker who said, "Come on in, sucker," or "A sucker is born every day". Wel1 shortly after they had the place filled with on-lookers, the drummer started the African chant Bum, Bum, Bum, Bum, Bum, Bum, Bum, Bum, Bum, etc. The ladies did their stuff. The whole thing shook me up quite a bit, but one comment by the comic or master of ceremonies I will never forget. After a dance or two he said in a very loud voice: "Now, if any of you guys have busted the button off the front of your pants, the old lady in the back will sew them on for you."
At the Westwood Town Hall we had worth-while theatrical performances.
