Shopping in Madison Park is one of the reasons to settle down here.
We tend to know vendors by name and if there is a particular item needed, you will undoubtedly hear, "I'll have that in tomorrow. Please give me your number and I'll call you."
It's that special attention that brings us back to support our neighborhood.
It's always been that way, whether it was wheeling my bike with a jammed chain to Hatfield's Garage at age 9 and one of the cheerful Hatfield brothers would fix my ride, or at age 23, having to push a car there with a starter problem. The same service prevailed.
Another time, three of us kids pooled our pocket change to buy a big cheeseburger from Ella's Café, where Sorella's now stands. We climbed up on stools to watch Ella prepare a perfect burger, and she even cut it in thirds for us after seeing our big pile of coins.
With a big, knowing smile, she piled the plate high with French fries and served us. In unison, we replied gratefully, "Thank you, Ella!"
After school one day in the '40s, we stopped at the Broadmoor Café (where the realty firm is now next to US Bank) and plunked our nickels into the jukebox to hear the latest hits. We usually ordered a large Green River with several straws for booth rent so that we didn't appear to be loitering.
During World War II, shoes were repaired several times, mostly on the soles and heels. The only way we got new ones was if they were completely worn out.
When it was available, the shoe repairman used metal inserts to lessen the wear; they were called clickers.
Jaffe's Shoe repair (located where Madison Park Jewelers is today) would not only repair and stretch our shoes to add extra miles, but Mr. Jaffee would give us a lecture on how to "care for the shoe." He was stern but always ended his statement with a smile and a pat on the head.
Another fun thing to do was to buy fishing line at the hardware store, wind it around a piece of wood and, if Mr. Johnson at Johnson's Marina was in a good mood, fish off the end of the pier.
It was always a contest to see who could catch the biggest bullhead; 4 inches was the record.
In the summer of our final year at J. J. McGilvra school, we made friends with Jolly John, the ice cream man. He drove his three-wheeled cart around, and we'd pile on and ring the bell as we cruised the park.
That ended as soon as some pretty girl in shorts appeared, and she slid alongside him. He then gave us free ice cream bars and winked.
We piled off the cart and watched Jolly John, the girl and the scooter disappear up the dirt road in the woods now called Canterbury.
When news of the latest comic books came out, it usually enticed us to walk quietly into Ken Lindley's drugstore and sit cross-legged by the magazine rack. There, with one shiny dime in hand to show our good intentions of buying, we read the new books.
Ken would ask how school was, and we would reply, "Fine, Mr. Lindley!" at which point he reached into a big, heated display case filled with mixed nuts and scooped some into our cupped little hands. There weren't many treats better than that 60 years ago.
Years later, we sat cross-legged and watched Milton Berle on Thursday nights there on a Zenith round-screen TV set. Mr. Lindley still doled out the peanuts.
On Saturday mornings after our paper routes, we walked into Madison Park Bakery - shivering from the cold - with the expectation of eating delicious baked goods. After greeting Herman Stohl, the owner, we pooled our change and decided on sugar doughnuts and maple bars.
Next it was off to Riley's Café for fresh, hot cocoa.
Buoyed with nutrients, we climbed high onto the pilings alongside the ferry dock and watched the big ships of war leave Todd Shipyard, bound for points unknown.
In those days Madison Park Beach was pretty deserted due to the war, but just about every weekend in the summertime, a guy named Specklemeyer (we never knew his first name) would cruise by the beach in a boat with binoculars, trying to find a lady to befriend.
Cruising into shallow waters, he would ask a young damsel if she wanted to go for a ride. We'd bet she'd say yes, and most of the time away they went. On days he didn't find a date, he gave us a ride, and that was a very rare treat.
One interesting personality who used to spend a lot of time at the little beach at the end of Lynn Street on 43rd was an older man, and his body trembled from injuries inflicted from the first World War.
He would build a small bonfire and undress beside it, revealing bathing-suit attire that covered him from neck to ankles. Carefully folding his clothes, he proceeded to wade out into the cold, winter water and swim. Every day he did this.
He could hardly speak from his condition, but one day I saw him on the Ave, and he said hello to me in slurred words and smiled. I replied in kind, and I think a kinship was formed.
In spite of all he had gone through in the war, he could still be friendly.
The best thing about growing up in a place like Madison Park and staying here your whole adult life is that eventually everyone's face is familiar and sometimes friends are made.
Sometimes wisdom is passed on, like that of Maude Hanson, an elderly lady who lived on 42nd. She walked with a cane and told us stories in the prominent accent of her youth.
When I walk the streets of Madison Park today as I did as a kid, I reflect on how impossible it is to not recognize at least one person. I am compelled to be in a good mood the rest of the day.
Richard Carl Lehman can be reached at mptimes@nwlink.com.
[[In-content Ad]]
