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by Edward W. Love Sometime in 1916 we moved to an upstairs flat on Ingle Street near Seventh Street. There was Rechtin's Lumber Yard across Ingle Street and a planing mill in the block on our side. It was noisy; open to sight from the street and a delight to us kids. The mill was an ongoing show and stacks of drying lumber made a wonderful jungle and cliffs to play on until someone came over to chase us away.
Reprinted courtesy of The Friends of Willard Library.
Click here for Part I
All this was before Prohibition days, of course, and there was a saloon at Eighth street where most of the kids "rushed the growler", a slang term we had which meant to take a container, tin bucket, or glass pitcher, with 10 or 15 cents from home to get family's supper beer. I don't remember getting beer for us; Mother seldom drank and Father did his drinking away from home but it was a common thing for any convenient neighborhood kid to get called over to get beer. - earning a penny maybe - from the saloon. We boys scorned having to use the “Ladies” side door and walked up to the bar like big fellows. Sometimes we were offered a small glass for ourselves and I never refused. No big deal – we kids were always given a token drink of beer or wine at home if company was there, or even with Grand-dad, and no women to protest, a bit of toddy.
I recall one day, as I passed a Negro laborer digging in the Pennsylvania Street railroad area, he called me over asking if I knew of any saloon nearby. I said I did and he asked if I could get him a bottle of whisky saying a “nigger” couldn’t get served most places. I had never bought whisky but saw no reason why not. He gave me a quarter or so to get a half-pint so I walked up to the saloon I’d been to before, laid down the money given me and ordered whisky. I suppose the saloonkeeper was satisfied I was telling a straight story and gave me a bottle which I took back to the Negro. He took a big drink and then while I stood watching, wiped the bottle mouth carefully on his sleeve and asked if I would like a drink. That time I passed. I wasn’t sure what I supposed to do and he said I was a mighty fine white boy and that he “sure ‘nough” appreciated my kindness.
Race relations 1916 style.
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In line with the subject of saloons, I vaguely remember and I’ve been told that my father, when I was in his care, feel the need to visit some bars. There were plenty all around and in particular a fancy one at the corner of Seventh and Main streets. The story goes that sometimes I’d wander off, or while I was sitting in the car, he would wander off and it took a little doing to get us together again. It was told to me later that once when separated and tired of my sitting on or around the bar the bartender asked a relatively sober customer to walk me down the street to the next bar or “wherever the hell Bill Love is now.”
End of Part Two – Continued in the next edition of Evansville Boneyard
