REMEMBERING THE YEAR: 1945

Al Koch
November 2025

What follows is a snippet of life experienced in 1945. Admittedly, these memories are more than eight decades in the past and may show signs of cognitive erosion; but I am hopeful and trust the crux of the story still has the clarity and resonance of what occurred and conveys the meaningfulness of these events.

In 1945, I was four years old. My two older brothers were students at Sacred Heart School on Laporte Avenue, in Whiting. My oldest brother, Norman, was in sixth grade, and my middle brother, Ronald, was in second grade. Later that year, I would become a kindergarten dropout, and my sister Barbara was born.

From January of 1938 to June of 1946, our family of six, (I was born on Tuesday, January 21, 1941), lived in a garage flat on Robertsdale’s Lincoln Avenue’s 1900 block, three houses from the alley that paralleled 119th Street. The russet all-brick garage apartment was located at the rear of the property, adjacent to, and south of, the landlord’s matching brick house, with a side drive accessible from Lincoln Avenue.

The garage’s interior lower level featured a single car garage on the south side, directly in line with the driveway. Centered against the garages inside brick wall, was a sharply inclined stairway leading to the above living quarters consisting of a parlor, a small front entrance alcove, kitchen, pantry, bathroom, and two bedrooms—one large and one the size of two horizontal phone booths.

On the north side, just inside the ground level entrance were laundry tubs. Toward the back--the boiler-furnace and coal bin.  Deliveries of coal were received via a top hinged metal chute in the garage’s west brick alley wall between Lincoln and Superior Avenues.

The property featured a cyclone-fenced backyard.  And even though there was an outside wood staircase to the second floor living quarters, rarely did anyone use it, preferring instead, the garage’s ground level front entrance and inside stairway to the apartment. The space underneath the exterior stairway sheltered a small sandbox for outside playtime; however, during wartime, it was repurposed with a secure enclosure for chickens, providing eggs, soup-stock, and dinner table entrees.

A large parcel of property on the north side of the alley parallel to 119th Street was vacant save for two bookend buildings: the Nazarene Church, located at 1046 119th Street, two doors west of Lincoln Avenue’s east corner, and a grocery storefront/apartment building on the southeast corner of Superior Avenue.  Both properties faced 119th Street.  Shortly after the beginning of World War II, in the spring of ‘42, the vacant lot became home to Victory Gardens planted and tended by nearby Lincoln and Superior Avenue residents. Level with the alley, but well below 119th Street’s sidewalk; one had to traverse an inclined soil bank to access 119th Street.

There were six rectangular-shaped gardens, approximately 12 feet wide and 15 feet long.  A trough, the size and depth of a bowling alley’s gutter/channel, bordered the perimeter of each plot to catch run-off water that was redirected to the growing vegetables. The minister of the Nazarene Church demonstrated ecumenical kindness by providing a lengthy garden hose and access to an outside faucet that neighbors used to facilitate daily waterings of garden plantings.

Although each garden belonged to a particular neighbor, weeding, watering, and care was tended to by all the neighborhood residents.  A variety of vegetables showcased the taste and versatility of the individual household. Carrots, green peppers, tomatoes, eggplant, onions, cucumbers, zucchini, squash, radishes, beets, beans, peas, a variety of herbs, lettuce, turnips, and kohl-rabi.   Items like corn, pumpkins, potatoes, watermelon, etc., took up too much garden space and were purchased at a local food store.

Garden soil was well nourished with peelings and remnants from vegetables, fish, and fruits. Most organic refuse, like coffee grounds, were turned into the garden’s soil for added nutrients.  Resident’s kids weeded and watered daily. After returning home, the young “gardeners” reported the status of their “crops.”  Victory Gardens became a symbol of neighborhood patriotism, cooperation, commitment, dedication, diligence, and American-can do.  Residents willingly shared garden bounty with one another, in exchange for homemade noodles, sausage, baked goods, and bread. One neighbor had a backyard smoke house and traded smoked bacon for staples of a tasty garden salad. Ohers bartered garden produce for ration stamps.

In addition to the Victory Gardens, I remember going with my oldest brother collecting cooking grease for the war effort.  We’d stop at each neighborhood house asking for donations.  Dozens of cans from vegetables and coffee were filled with bacon grease, lard, and other cooking oils. When our Radio Flyer red wagon was full, we’d take the suet and tallow to a collection area, usually a church or place of business. It made us feel like we helped the troops.

Once a month, the Hoosier Theater would place a wooden bin in front by the ticket window.  People would donate metal items, pots, pans, cooking sheets, and pieces of scrap metal and place them in the bin. Each donor would receive a free pass to the show. Other times, residents collected rubber: tires, inner tubes, hoses, etc., for the war effort.

Directly across 119th Street from the Victory Gardens was St. John the Baptist Convent and School. The dark red brick multi-story building housed the nuns on the upper floor, classrooms on the second floor, and a ground level hall for related events and gatherings. The building was set back from the street which allowed an open area for the school’s playground.  The parish’s properties: playground, school/convent, rectory, and church were bordered with Oslo Style black ornamental wrought iron fencing, decorated with finial shaped tops.  Just inside the playground’s entrance was a water fountain where playground children could quench their thirst.

The first time I visited the playground and convent I was three years old. Mom took me with her to vote for President Franklin Delano Roosevelt in 1944.  The polling place was inside the convent/school’s main floor.  After a brief exchange of words between my mom and a voting official, I was allowed to go with her inside the voting booth. (To guard against voting fraud, only one person at a time was allowed in the booth.) Mom convinced the poll monitor that I would not jeopardize the veracity of her vote and was given permission to accompany her behind the curtain.

 As mom closed the curtain, all that was visible beneath the hem were shoes of other voters waiting in line. Later, my older brother would take me across the street to join neighborhood kids on the playground, always under the watchful eyes of parish nuns who watched goings-on from upper convent windows.

On Thursday, April 12, 1945, just 82 days into his fourth term as President, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, died of a cerebral hemorrhage at the Little White House in Warm Springs, Georgia. The 32nd President of the United States was 63.  Vice-President, Harry S. Truman, took the oath of office that same day. Unbeknownst at that time, less than a month later, Germany would surrender, ending the European hostilities of World War II.

I learned early that the telephone was solely for grown-ups. Our telephone was on a small table by the apartment’s front door, adjacent to the parlor where I spent the greater portion of the day.  I knew from watching mom show my brother Ronald, when I started school, mom would teach me how to use the phone.  When lifting the receiver to make a call, one heard the voice of the telephone operator.  She’d ask: “Number Please” Then you would tell her the number you wanted to call.

 These were the days before dial or push button telephones. Our phone was on a six-person party line, and occasionally when you picked up the handset/receiver to make a call, one of the other party-line people would be talking.  Unless it was a very important call or an emergency, you politely hung up and waited a few minutes before trying your call again.  Private lines were several years in the future, so phone patrons were required to be courteous, cooperative and polite. Eavesdropping and clandestine listening to someone’s telephone conversations or gossiping was frowned upon.   At that time, telephones were a series of numbers and letters.  Our phone number was Whiting 86-J.

If there was an emergency, one would lift the handset and rapidly push the switch hook several times. The switch hook was an electrical connection which signaled the operators via flashing light and/or sound. This indicated if the handset was on-hook, disconnected, or off-hook. Telephone pranksters who misused the telephone were appropriately reprimanded and scolded by switchboard operators.

 I knew when the phone rang, I would wait until Mom went to answer. My Dad was at work, my two brothers in school, so there was no reason for me to touch the phone, I ignored the ringing.  At that time, Mom was five months with child.  (We were not allowed to use the word pregnant). But that is exactly what she was.