There's money buried in the yard......

That was what we grandkids believed -- that there was buried treasure in the yard of the house on Avenue Z. But....was it true, or was it just a fanciful tale, told to a house too full of children, with the hopes that some of them would dash outside and, hopefully, spend a couple of hours searching for gold -- which is excatly what I tended to do when that statement was thrown at me. I'd grab my brothers and any nearby cousins and out we'd go, with $ signs filling our eyes. What a gullible child I was. Sheesh! Yet, even now, when the bills start piling up, I think of going back for some digging in 212's yard. But.... the older I get the more suspicious I'm becoming about the veracity of the claim. :) Does anyone else like to believe in fairy tales -- even as an adult?

I can't remember who started the rumor about the buried money. Was it my grandmother? My mom? One of the cousins I was closest to? Was the motive to get us out of the house so my grandmother, my mom, and the aunts could have some peace and quiet, or was it to play a joke on us and have some fun at our expense? Who's to know.

The story was, that whoever had lived in the house before my grandparents, distrusted banks, so, of course, they had buried all their money around the yard. (As I'm typing this, I'm seeing my grandfather's face. Could it have been him who started the whole thing?) I remember thinking that whoever this person was, he went around buring piles of money all around the, rather sizeable, yard. The odd thing is, I don't think our search for buried treasure ever involed any actual digging. As I remember it, we would amble around the yard discussing where the probable sites might be -- stopping to suck the sweet nectar from the flowers on the huge honeysuckle bush in the center of the side yard. I don't know if we were too lazy to dig, or if we knew better than to dig up Gindaddy's yard.

The house at 212 Avenue Z was on a corner lot. In the front yard were two huge pink crepe myrtle trees (one on either side of the front steps). I used to enjoy squeezing the round buds to see the flowers that were compacted inside. The 10 or so front steps led to the front porch and the front door, then the porch curved around on the right side of the house. ( Like the floor furnaces, those front steps had left its own kind of brand on many a cousin. I lost my bottom baby teeth when I fell down the front steps. This earned me the admiration of the other cousins my age, and even a couple of older ones. An odd sort of badge of honor.) Walking around the yard to the right led you to the side yard (where the money supposedly was buried). There was a two-lane dirt road running along the side yard, then a small hill beyond the dirt road, and then the railroad tracks. Across the railroad tracks, it sort of leveled out and you could walk a short way to the next street where the bus stop was.

If you went to the left of the front porch, you would find the other, much smaller, side yard. There was also a dirt road (more of an alley, actually) along that side of the house leading to some houses that were up the hill in back. Just across the dirt road was my godmother's house. There was a backyard, too, but I don't remember going there much. My grandmother had a garden in the back. The road in front of the house was a paved road. There were sidewalks along the front and one side of the house.

212 had three porches, a big porch running across the front of the house and curving around and along half of the right side of the house. There were big, sturdy rocking chairs and a large swing that was hung from the porch ceiling just where the porch curved -- perfect for reading and people watching. There was a smaller side porch off the big room in the back of the house. And there was that back porch off the kitchen that I remember not being allowed to step on. I think it was rickety from age, and there was a fairly steep set of stairs from the back porch to the back yard. At the foot of the back steps was a fenced in area where my grandmother kept chickens . She would actually wring their necks when she needed to cook one -- or so I understood, I never saw it happen. Thand G-d! I did, however, eat many a fried chicken leg in her kitchen.

Speaking of chickens -- and my grandfather.... Gindaddy was quite a joker. MomP was not. I can remember Gindaddy joking at the dinner table and MomP just continuing to eat, as the rest of us laughed at Gindaddy's joke. To her defense, the time period I'm talking about is the 1950-60's and many of the conveniences we take for granted today, weren't available. MomP had raised five children and always seemed to have a house full of grandchildren and greatgrandchildren to deal with and prepare for, so maybe she was just plain tired. Having four children of my own (not to mention a teaching job), I can relate. But....moving on.... When MomP would place her platters of fried chicken on the table, my brother and I always wanted the legs. Two kids, two chicken legs. Works out, so it would seem. But, we noticed that there were extra, small 'legs' and asked about them. (Of course, they were chicken wings, but since chicken wings weren't popular at the time, we would never have touched it if had known the truth.) Gindaddy would tell us they were the chicken's third leg. I can hear his laughter as he said it. My brother, T, and I weren't that dumb. We sensed something was up, but didn't know what, so we left that 'third chicken leg' for whoever else wanted it. I did, however, sneak many a glance at the live chickens to see if any of them did indeed have three legs.

Pratt City (where my mom was from), Ensley (where my dad was from), Fairfield (where my uncle raised his family), were planned industrial steel towns. I think one uncle worked at TCI most of his life, and I think my dad worked at TCI for a short period after the war, but all-in-all, remembering back, by the time my parents entered the work force, more options were available and they moved to Birmingham. I would guess that my great grandparents worked in the steel industry, or why else would they have settled in those areas. I always thought of my family members as business owners so I was surprised when my husband once said that when he first met my extended family he thought them to be a tough breed. I still can't see that.

Here's an interesting link to the history of the area where my grandparents chose to raise their families. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ensley,_Alabama


Thinking back, the house on Avenue Z served us well. Many souls were nurtured within its walls, much fun was had on its lush green lawns. It was a shelter in every sense. Realizing now, how much my memories of this house mean to me, it hurts on an even deeper level thinking about all those an hour south of me who lost their homes--their histories, due to Katrina. My hope is that they carry whatever good memories they have with them as they create new shelters and begin anew making many, many more memories. May they all be good ones.

But, back to the yard on Avenue Z. My intelligence, of course, tells me that there is no buried money. But....sometimes....late at night....when my mind is still....my imagination is still tantalized by the possibility. Some might call it greed....

I cannot believe I found a Pratt City visual!

But....there it is! The place my memories have so often been taking me lately. I don't know why it's happening. I haven't been back to Pratt City in ages -- well, not actually, physically been back. But, close my eyes, still my mind, and....there I am..back in Pratt City. In my grandmother's kitchen, reaching into the bowl for a taste of the salmon she's making into patties. Catching jars full of fireflies with my brothers on warm, starry nights. Going to the library with my mother where we would checkout arms full of books to read in the front porch swing on those long summer afternoons. Waiting at the bus stop with my grandmother for our trip to downtown Birmingham so she could visit the department stores, be ushered into dressing rooms where sales clerks would bring in suites for her to try on. She always wore a hat and white gloves -- on the bus. Can you even imagine it?!? And, back home, with her new suite/s in tow, she would always say, "I never intended to buy this/these, but K (which was/is, moi) insisted. ....I'm sure that back then (had I been familiar with the term), I'd have thought, WTF? But....never, never, never would I have uttered those words in my grandmother's house! Shudder at the thought! And before heading to the bus stop and the trip home, we'd always stop for a coney at this little hole-in-the-wall in downtown B'ham. No seats because there was no room. Standing room only. There, in all her glory -- hat, gloves (which I assume she'd remove -- I don't remember how she handled that), new suite/suites and all, my prim and proper MomP would wolf down her two coneys, with the works. I don't remember it seeming odd (or alarming) at the time, so I imagine it was an accepted way of lunching in downtown B'ham.

Yes, the memories. They keep on a comin'. Washing over me in a way that demands I stop and pay attention. So, in a quest to figure out why this is happening, here begins my attempt to put my reminiscing in words -- or am I free associating? Whatever.... I guess I'm just plain blogging.

212 Avenue Z was where my mother was born (yes, in the very house!) and grew up, along with her three sisters and one brother. So many stories involving life in that house helped mold the myths and lore of my mother's family. My grandfather (Gindaddy -- now, don't snicker, what do you call your grandparents?) [smile] owned a grocery store which went broke during the depression, due to the fact, my grandmother, MomP, could be counted on to remind the family of, that he over- extended credit to too many people during those hard times. From time to time, she could be counted on to pull paper sacks full of IOU's from a chiferobe, reach her hand inside, pull out a handful of IOU's, and go on a tanget. I was quite young and don't remember exactly what she'd say. ....Truth be told, my mom, or an aunt would most likely usher me and any other young un within earshot, out of the room until MomP was calm once again. That's how things were done back then -- at least in my mom's family. There were things children weren't supposed to hear. What I do remember is feeling proud of my grandfather. ....I guess MomP had her own reasons for feeling as she did.

212 Avenue Z housed five women (MomP and her four daughters), two men (Gindaddy and his son), yet it had no closets. This fact always amazed me. How did they manage? I've never thought to ask, and now only my uncle remains. I really should submit a list of questions for him to answer. In the spirit of full disclosure, I must admit that there was in fact one closet I remember being in the house. It was located in one of the big back rooms, but it for sure wasn't large enough for five females. Unless....and I keep forgetting this.... Unless it's true that people didn't have anywhere near the amount of stuff we have today. In another room, a middle room, there was a built-in, enclosed bookshelf (on top), and an open storage area (on bottom). And that was it. Well....except for the walk-thru butler's pantry joining the kitchen and the dining room. It was a tiny space (as I remember it) with floor to ceiling shelves on both sides. There were no built in cabinets in the kitchen or bathroom so pieces of furniture were used for storing pots, pans, towels, and the like. Big ol heavy mahogany pieces of furniture with all sorts of combinations of doors, drawers, mirrors. Big ol heavy mahogany pieces of furniture that, at the time, I rememer thinking of as too dark and ....too big and ....too heavy. But, now, I'd give my eye-teeth to have just a couple pieces for my house. It could bring a grown man -- or, in my case, woman -- to tears if he knew that when my grandmother passed, and my grandfather, and my maiden aunt who lived with him, decided to move to a more modern house neared family, that a junk dealer was called to load up and haul away so much of that furniture. What a shame.

212 Avenue Z was oddly designed, compared to today's houses. It must have been built in the early 1920's. (Another thing I sould ask my uncle.) The house had front rooms, middle rooms, and back rooms. No halls. You would walk through one room to get to another room. The front rooms consisted of an entry room?? (I really don't know what you would call this room) that you stepped foot into as you entered the house through the front door -- it was large enough for a sofa and a couple of chairs. And very sunny and warm. A nice place for a child to play. Then, if you went left you'd step into the dining room. A lovely, large room with one (maybe two ??) huge bay windows facing the main street. I don't remember this room being used much except on holidays, or when several grandkids would be sleeping over and rollaways would be set up. If you turned right after stepping through the front door you'd step into the living room, complete with fireplace (that I don't ever remember being used. In fact, I remember a sofa always being in front of the fireplace). This room had the tv, enough sofas and chairs to accommodate a large family, and it had one of the two floor furnaces to be found in the house. A grandchild's first grid-burn was a rite of passage in our family. Once you had the distinctive marks of one of the floor furnaces (take your pick) on your legs, hands, butt, wherever (take your pick), you finally belonged. 212 Avenue Z had left its brand on you.

To get to the middle rooms you'd have to pass through the dining room or the living room. Stepping out of the dining room through the lovely little pantry would lead you into the kitchen. Now, I guess the kitchen merits a post of its own. So much of life at 212 Avenue Z took place there -- at least in my memories. Suffice it to say, for now, that the kitchen was a large eat-in kitchen with a humongous (in my mind at least) table accommodating ump-teen people for meals. I can't remember how many people would fit around the table, but there seemed to always be enough room for whomever was there. There was even room for a smaller, children's table on one side of the kitchen. Sitting at that table you could look out at the small alley/dirt road separating 212 and the house next door -- where my godmother lived. I remember the view well because most of my meals were eaten at the children's table. There were no built in cabinets in the kitchen, just unique pieces of furniture fulfilling whatever need there was. Oh, and there was a wood stove in addition to the gas stove. And a door at the back of the kitchen led to a scary back porch that I don't think I was ever allowed to step foot upon. ....See why the kitchen will have its own post? Must move on.

If you were to walk through the living room, over the floor furnace (!!) you'd step into a big, er, a big room -- that had a naked light bulb hanging down from the ceiling on a long cord, with a pull chain to turn it on and off. I don't know how this room was used over the years, but I remember it as being my grandmother's bedroom. It was full of that (now remembered as being) lovely big mahagony furniture -- bed, dresser with all sorts of drawers and shelves, chiferobe (where she kept the IOU bags close by), and a cute little single iron bed (that I slept on many a night). Sheesh! It must have been a big room because it also had her, well used, sewing machine, the telephone, and (this can't be true) but I remember some kind of largish table where, underneath, MomP would tape her butcher knives (among others) in case someone broke in. ?? Lest I confuse, the table with the knives taped underneath it is factual. The only confusion I have is why it would have been in MomP's bedroom? Maybe my subconscious wil work it out and imform me of its exact location -- the table's location....not my subconscious' location. This room, being a middle room I guess, had lots of doors. A door into the living room, a door into the bathroom, a door into the back rooms, and a door onto the front porch. Count them. Four doors. I've never thought about that before. This room also had those built in cabinet thing-ies. It was also honored with being chosen as the location for the window air conditioner -- which was almost never turned on.

The only other middle room left was the bathroom. It was between the kitchen and MomP's bedroom and it was quite big. It housed the washer/dryer, a couple of big pieces of furniture used for folding and storing clothes and towels and such and (shhh! don't tell Gindaddy) MomP would hide her snuff somewhere in that area. She was so clever that I never knew exactly where. I remember two things about that bathroom. Both involve my oldest brother. One: when he had eaten quite a lot of Exlax -- thinking it to be chocolate. He was ensconced on the throne for quite some time. hehehe Two: when my mother actually washed his mouth out with soap. He had either said 'lie' (not allowed, we had to say 'fib') or'darn' (not allowed, and I don't think there was any replacement word allowed). Yes, ma'am, things were different back then. And that's about it for the bathroom. Well, sheesh! Except for the (now remembered as) piece de resistance, the claw-footed bathtub. Nice and deep. Too bad I was too young at the time to equate a bath with pleasure. It would have been a perfect place to have enjoyed a relaxing soak.

Now for the back rooms. Lord Gawd! Will I ever get out of this house -- or get this house out of my mind? Oh, well, the back rooms aren't that interesting so there shouldn't be much to say. But....we'll see. This house is surprising me. As I remember it, there were two ways into the back rooms -- through one of MomP's bedroom doors or through the door to the side porch. The back rooms consisted of one big room with two smaller rooms off the big room. I guess those rooms were used as bedrooms for the five children born and raised in the house. I remember the big room as being my grandfather's room, one of the smaller rooms was my maiden aunt's room, and the other smaller room was used for....varying things, I guess. I remember once when my family was temporarily living at 212, waiting for a new house to be finished, I slept in that room, on a rollaway bed, along with most of our furniture and packed belongings that were stacked to the ceiling. It was eerie at night. Especially the time, in the wee hours, when the bottom half of the rollaway bed decided to fold itself up and popped straight up in the air. !! Talk about a young girl being scarred for life! Could have happened to me then. Could have if my dad-- the former boxer, and my oldest brother (who's actually younger than me)-- the jock, hadn't chided me for being a 'wuss', as I recall it. I think one of my older cousins was there also and he added his laughter as well. How could I have acted like a sissy in front of all of them? Is that when I started stuffing my true feelings? Just joking. I know nothing's that simple. And, lest I give the wrong impression, my dad, my brother, and my cousin were (and my brother still is) honorable, decent, caring human beings. I was very blessed to have grown up in a family of good, solid people. But, still in all, they did laugh at me....

Ummmm....when I began this post, I didn't know I was going to describe 212 in such detail. Maybe it needed to be done in order to get the house orderd and fixed in my mind? I dunno. I can see now that this blog is fighting for a mind of its own. It's attempting to control me more than me, it. I'll try and go with the flow -- do I have a choice? What will I write about next time? Who the hell knows!

For now, bye from 212 Avenue Z.