I am recalling the years from 1949-1956 when I was ages 7-13 in St. Catharines. Ontario.
Our home was owned by a Polish immigrant whom we saw
infrequently. He spoke with an accent so prominent that I could understand
little that he said. A few steps from the Clark Street sidewalk a front door
opened to a hallway that we never used to enter our part of the home. A staircase led to upstairs to Mary Pankratz's
apartment which she rented from us. The sidewalk outside led to a side door that was our own primary entrance. It
opened to a family sitting and dining area. On the left a door opened to my
small bedroom. A hard left took us through a large arched entry into a formal living
room we seldom used. On the front facing
wall were two doors, one leading to the unused hall and the other to mom's and
dad's large bedroom. On the right side of the living room two more small rooms,
Murray's bedroom and a family bathroom. At the rear of the house, passing
through the sitting/dining room was the kitchen that ran the width of the
house. A back door led to a large yard that was entirely enclosed by a fence on
the right side and by walls of buildings to the left and to the rear. There
were two very tall trees on the wall side of the yard, trees that rose fifty
feet in the air. Trees that were mine to climb. I could sit in the crotch of a
tree with a good book for hours. (This image shows the Green property 65 years after I lived there. Then it had a grass lawn where the driveway is with shrubs beside the other home.)
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