"Luxury Features Galore"

Suburban Chicago, about 1957. The developer of the subdivision in which I grew up lists the modern features of the split-level homes. That Roper wall oven (and those birch cabinets) served our family for 34 years.

Thanks to my friend Mary for making this document available to us.

Dad pays bills.

Suburban Chicago, June 1972. It's weekend work.

Floor Plan

Suburban Chicago, about 1957. Here's the floor plan of my childhood home. I noted earlier that these homes usually housed families consisting of five or six members.

Thanks to my friend Mary for making this document available to me.

The Ashley

My Best Friend grew up in the "Ashley" model of homes in our subdivision.

My Best Friend and I once had a sale in that garage.

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"[G]rease proof asphalt tile." The tile in our kitchen—and in my Best Friend's kitchen—was pink.

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Hmm. I thought the upstairs bath had a double sink.

Thanks to my friend Mary for sending this document to me.

"Luxury living at its best"

My Parents bought their home in a new development. They had hoped to settle in nearby Elmhurst, but they couldn't afford houses in that suburb. Mom and Dad chose the middle of the three models offered for sale, the "Beverly." The house measured about 1,725 square feet. Most "Beverly" homes housed five- to six-person families.

Here are some images from the promotional brochure created for the development:

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I think the definition of "walk-in closets" was a bit different in the 1950s.

Thanks to my friend Mary for sending this document to me. I'll post more from the piece later.

An Understanding

Suburban Chicago, December 1973. My paternal Grandmother, Tatjana, learned to admire Gigi.

Organizing

Suburban Chicago, November 1962. Has Mom just returned from shopping, or is she sorting yarn?

His Weekend Spot

Suburban Chicago, January 1972. Dad's in the Master Bedroom; he's standing next to his desk, the spot at which he wrote bills. Two "Santa Fake" framed photos sit on the desk.

The doorway behind Dad leads to the Master Bath (see the 1950s tile?)—the place Dad used as an improvised dark room.

Dad catches up on some work.

Suburban Chicago, April 1962. Dad didn't work often from home. When he sat at his mahogany desk, Dad usually wrote bills.

Looking Ahead

Suburban Chicago, May 1961. Mom and Dad are in the backyard; they stand next to one of the Weeping Willows.

(Here's a color photo that shows Mom's skirt.)

Tuned in.

Suburban Chicago, Spring 1972. Dad develops film in his "darkroom"—the Master Bathroom. The shortwave radio sits on the counter; Dad often used it to listen to "Voice of America."

Mutual Admiration

Suburban Chicago, December 1973. As the years passed, Tatjana grew to accept Gigi.

Weeping Willows, weep.

Two prominent Weeping Willows anchored the center of my childhood backyard. The trees, you'll recall, substituted as the "Alps" in a production of The Sound of Music. Over the years, the Weeping Willows grew so large that their branches rubbed against the siding of the house.

It was not long after that growth spurt that some bugs common to Weeping Willows starting appearing inside the house. The spider-like invaders first arrived in my Parent's master bathroom.

My Mom arranged to have the Weeping Willows cut down soon afterward.

Suburban Chicago, Summer 1959. It looks like Tatjana is ready to celebrate my birthday. The Weeping Willow branches framing us are from a tree that, at the time, was less than two years old.

General Manners: Take a bath before you go to sleep.

Suburban Chicago, November 1961. I'm back in the turquoise bathroom of the master bedroom.

Big Shoes to Fill

Does wearing a white apron and black pumps make a little girl look like a physician?

Suburban Chicago, 1962. I'm sitting in the master bath, in my "doctor" outfit. I wear Mom's shoes, and I make one of my "grown-up" facial expressions for the camera. On the counter sits one of those plastic tumblers that the Jewel Foodstore distributed to customers as part of a sales promotion.

Home

This is the home in which I grew up. My Parents were its first owners. The house was part of a late 1950s subdivision. The developer named most streets after either: (1) Civil War generals or battle sites—for example, Sherman, Davis, Concord; or (2) his relatives—Elsie, Andy, et cetera. (I learned this forty years later because I happened to go to school with the developer's Granddaughter.)

The subdivision featured three home styles. All were based on a split-level design, and the three models had many features in common.

The home my Parents bought was the middle model. It had a two-car garage, and the Master Bedroom had an en suite, turquoise bathroom that doubled as my Dad's darkroom. The secondary bath was bright pink; it matched the kitchen tile. The kitchen came equipped with Roper appliances that lasted over thirty years.

Parked in the garage are the cars—Dad's black Beetle, and Mom's white "Swan."

Suburban Chicago, December 1963. I spent a lot of time looking out of the bay window in the living room. The multiple glass panels often leaked. That window had a wide, wooden ledge onto which our black Poodle, Gigi, jumped and barked aggressively at walkers. On the right grows the little spruce my Parents planted when I was born.

Candid Discovery

My Dad was an organizer. He cataloged our photos—old and new—by year and by place. Dad devoted hours to restoring and rephotographing aging snapshots. I often sat with him in his "darkroom"—the master bedroom bath—while he reprinted the old treasures. I consequently have seen most of the photos that I post here; I rarely run across one that is new to me.

I stumbled on a new image yesterday. My Dad had a "to do" box of photos. Some of the photos were ones that relatives had sent to Dad for restoration; others were prints Dad had brought with him from Europe that appear to have been too tiny to restore expertly. Yet others look like ones Dad had planned to rephotograph shortly before he died.

Here is one of those photos. My Dad's twin sister, Jonė, sent this candid to her Mother—my paternal Grandmother, Tatjana—either when Jonė and Tatjana lived in different Displaced Persons camps or after Tatjana already had emigrated to the United States.

Jonė noted on the back of the photo that she found this image unflattering. I don't think so. The photo captures her sweet mannerism and vivid engagement.

Germany, about 1947 or 1948. Jonė walks away from a café with her Ukrainian friend, a fellow Displaced Person.

It's Friday. Let's go out to dinner.

My Parents and I posed for this snapshot in my Parents' bedroom. It was a "master bedroom" of sorts because it had a three-quarter bath attached to it. By today's standards, it was a small room. To the right of my Dad is his mahogany desk, at which he used a Parker fountain pen to write the bills every Saturday morning. The photo of me that Dad loved hung just to the far right, next to the door to the bathroom.

I am wearing the aqua and white suit that my Mom knitted.

Suburban Chicago, April 1961. I get ready to go out with my Parents. It's unlikely that we were "going out to dinner." My Parents were frugal, and we rarely ate in restaurants. Here, we probably are heading off to another, customary, Sunday visit with a Lithuanian family.