230503 Salsbury Street

I’m not sure what brought this story to mind today, but I like to remember it from time to time. My Dad’s sister Florence was married to a man named Chet. They lived in a four family flat on Salisbury Street in St. Louis and were quite poor. The flat had no bathrooms so there were four outhouses lined up out in the back of the yard, one for each family. There were chickens that roamed the back yard. Uncle Chet would grab one on a Sunday and chop its head off for Sunday dinner. There was cold water in the flat and electric, but the bulbs were so low wattage that they only provided a glow, not enough to read by.
On Saturday night they had their baths. Aunt Florence would heat water on the gas stove and that water was poured into a washtub on the kitchen floor. She would have her bath, then Chet, then her boys and then finally me. I didn’t like staying there and taking a bath in used water even less. By my turn the water was gray.
They were poor because Chet never held a job that I knew about. He earned his money by going up and down alleys in the area, picking up scrap metal, and selling it. He also trapped pigeons in a local schoolyard and fished in the nearby Mississippi river. The pigeons were tender and tasty enough but the river catfish were muddy tasting. I’m not sure but the part of Saint Louis that had sewers may have dumped into the river nearby, and local industry dumped their chemicals in the river. Those folks were very poor but there was no welfare in those days so they had to get along on their own.
One story I heard Mom tell was the Internal Revenue Service sent two agents out to Florence’s house one day. They had an idea that Florence and Chet owed them money. Florence flung open the door and said: “this is all I’ve got; take whatever you want for what I owe you.” The agents walked in, looked all over the house, then left. Florence never heard from them again.
I was just a child back in those days; in the early 1950’s when I stayed with them. I don’t know why I was sent there on some weekends. Florence had two sons who I never liked being with, but had no choice. They were both let’s say very slow learners. I hadn’t seen them in years when they showed up in the summer of 1968. I was home on a weekend liberty from the Navy. No one had seen them in quite a while. The oldest was in the Army at Fort Leonard Wood. He wanted Dad to co-sign a loan for a car. Dad was always ready to help anybody in the family, so he was ready to do it, but Mom blew her stack and screamed: “No! You’ll sign it and that’s the last time you’ll ever see them and you’ll be paying for a car you won’t even know where it is.” I don’t know if anyone in my immediate family ever saw those boys again. I don’t think so. I guess Mom was right. That’s the only thing I know Mom ever stopped Dad from doing, except for the shotgun incident, but that’s another story.