Meanwhile back in 1999…the Highland Park Neighborhood, then known as the Ellwanger-Barry Neighborhood, was very much what is fifteen years later. That is the year when the following essay describing our neighborhood appeared in the Democrat and Chronicle. The essay was written by Roger T. Janezic: a Crawford Street resident who served on the Board of the Neighborhood Association for a number of years. The photos included have been recovered from older neighborhood website files from around 2001. But the words (and photos) still seem relevant as descriptions of day-t0-day experiences, almost as if they were written last week.
Six years ago I made a decision to purchase a home in the Ellwanger-Barry Neighborhood of Rochester. I was drawn to the house immediately. Today I share this home with my wife and find a quiet joy living here. I feel this joy often when coming home at the end of the day. Driving down our street feels like I’m entering our living room. An overhead canopy of sycamore trees greets me, trunks like sentinels lined along the street, arching their sheltering branches over our neat, tidy American four-squares. Neighbors wave, children play. It’s not uncommon to fall into a conversation upon arriving home and find myself still standing there, talking, 20 minutes later. I have an image of this street that I’m always trying to capture with a camera. Perhaps what I seek through the lens isn’t its physical attributes.
The community that exists here is tangible, immediate, and part of the everyday fabric of our lives. Our neighbors are not only acquaintances, many are dear friends. Together we have traveled on vacation, attended each other’s birthdays, shared grief at funerals, pulled together for someone’s sick mother, or bought presents for a newborn baby. We have celebrated the holidays together, caroling on bitter December nights or carving pumpkins under an October moon. We make a point of getting together regularly but often under some pretense of holiday or other event. Often our gatherings are spontaneous and may fill a porch on a late spring afternoon with an instant smorgasbord of food and talk. And even those who have moved away to other cities or states keep in touch, visit, and act like neighbors who have who have really never left. Not everybody participates to the same degree or frequency but each contributes in his or her own way. And we wonder aloud sometimes, daring to break the fortunate spell cast upon our street, “why does this work so well?”
There is likely a multitude of reasons for the harmony that exists here, some more obvious than others. Nearly all the houses on our street are owner-occupied and most residents have been here for five to fifteen years, all of which bring a stabilizing influence. The close proximity of colleges, hospitals, and parks help strengthen property-values, which lure and keep residents. While the environment exists for this neighborhood to survive, I believe that there are two other elements that allow it to flourish. First, many of the people who live here do so because they believe that cities are important, both for the advantages derived from urban living and for it’s strengthening action upon of our urban core. In addition, the physical make up of our homes, from the close proximity of our houses and compact yards to the welcoming nature of our open porches, invites interaction. It’s as if the houses themselves foster our relationships. I believe that this willingness to live side by side coupled with the architecture of our homes help us better to resolve differences, recognize similarities, and build bridges of friendship and trust.
For those skeptical of city living, I invite you to visit our neighborhood and walk the sidewalks. There is something that works here, something vital, something that may offer valuable clues to fostering a livable, vibrant city neighborhood. You may find that it’s for you.
Curator’s Note: This is the third and final chapter of Dan Cragg’s remembrance of the Highland Park Neighborhood. Dan is a former resident of the Highland Park Neighborhood and the author or co-author of over a dozen books. In a literary sense, this series is a homecoming of sorts, as Dan left in 1958 to begin the first of several careers. His years in the military included two tours of Vietnam as well as others in Europe and South Korea.
Although he no longer lives in Rochester, Dan still visits us from time to time. By way of these remarkable memories, we readers should welcome him back home. In chapter III, Dan revisits School #24, Minnie’s store, the Eastman Dental Dispensary and Monroe High School as he also describes the day-to-day lives of his family and friends. Enjoy!
My father, my uncle, my Aunt Josephine, my Cousin Jack, my sister and I all attended grammar school at PS 24. A Mrs. Gregory, one of my teachers there, remembered both my father and my uncle as her students. My oldest friend, Phil Willis, who is now retired from the RTC and living on Norris Drive (and we’re still in touch), was in my kindergarten class. Imagine my surprise some years ago when I discovered the school had been converted to condos and now my old kindergarten room was someone’s home!
I remember my first day of kindergarten. Since my father was away in the army at the time and my mother a patient at the Iola Sanitarium, my Uncle Bob took me. I had no idea where I was going, what it meant, or what would happen when I trudged into that classroom at the east end of PS24. I also remember the first time I was able to write my own name but more vividly I remember the first words I ever read by myself. Up to that time I always had to get an adult to interpret the Sunday comics for me so it seems appropriate that my first reading experience was in a Porky Pig comic book. That opened vistas for me that have never dimmed.
My old schoolmate Phil Willis and I often argue which year we started school. I think it was 1945 but Phil insists 1944 and the war was still on. I do remember that the glass paneling inside the school was all taped up to prevent fragmentation from bomb blasts. I remember very well the A-bomb drills of the 1950s we had to perform where we’d all troop into the hallways and crouch down against the walls for safety from the blast waves of an atomic detonation. We were also instructed to fling ourselves into the roadside if there were a bright flash in the sky while out of doors, or under our desks if an attack occurred while in the classroom. Looking back on all that now (and all the civil defense preparations of that era) I realize how naive it all was. By 1950 we had less chance of surviving an atomic attack than the school kids did in Hiroshima. But to us then the drills were exciting if also a bit frightening but we were assured the adults would know what to do if atomic war ever came to Rochester.
The principal there when I started was a Mrs. Arlene Fritz who was later replaced by a Mr. Thiele. I remember some of my teachers, Mrs. Rowland (6th grade) , Mrs. Greenstone (2nd grade), Mrs. Brookle (kindergarten), Mrs. Putnam (fifth grade), Mrs. Winterman (4th grade). A Mrs. Kenworthy was our music teacher but I never did much in her class except mumble incoherently, as did all the other boys, when asked to sing along when she played songs on the piano for us. One of her favorites was “The Light Cavalry Overture” by von Suppé and I really liked that but in class I could never be persuaded to more than mumble the lyrics. We boys just did not indulge. (In high school our music teacher was a Mrs. Wannamaker who looked just like Wagner’s Brunhilde. Once, in her 8th grade music class, practicing a chorus from “Carmen,” she heard a boy sing, “Toreadora, don’t spit on the floor-a, spit in the cuspidor-a,” grabbed him by his ear and ejected him from class with the words, “You shall not sing that filthy street song in my class!” But Mrs. Kenworthy at PS 24 was a pin-up girl to us boys).
At the end of the semester we were tested to identify the compositions we’d supposedly learned in class. The pieces were all played back to us via the school’s loud speaker system. I got them all right and Mrs. Kenworthy, in her amazement, accused me of copying the answers from the girl who sat in front of me. But her paper proved she had a tin ear so when that didn’t work I was hauled before the principal for interrogation. In the end it was concluded I just happened to have a good memory. That was the only time in my life I can remember being punished for doing well on a test in school.
I must digress here about music. My family was a singularly unmusical group. My cousin, Jack, could play the piano (acceptably, to my ear) and he had a good singing voice. I loved it when he could be prevailed upon to sit at the old, out-of-tune piano in grandmother’s parlor and sing arias from “The Student Prince.” In Rochester in those days there was no FM radio and as I recall, the only classical music you could get on the local AM stations was half an hour once a week. When the conditions were right I could sometimes receive broadcasts from the CBC in Ontario but what I remember most about listening to those Canadian broadcasts was “The Goon Show,” a zany complement to our own satirical Bob & Ray of radio fame (to which I was a loyal fan) or a predecessor to British TV’s Monty Python.
Of course with the Eastman School downtown there were always concerts but we never attended any. For us the closest we ever got to live musical performances were the hymns sung in church or the concerts at the Highland Bowl. One season a local opera company put on a performance of “Don Giovanni.” In one scene the Don rushed up a set of stairs, tripped over his sword, and was clearly heard to utter a word that was definitely not in Lorenzo DaPonte’s libretto.
Directory of Dan’ Cragg’s Mt Vernon Avenue.
Click the graphic to see the complete directory of Mt Vernon Avenue around the time that Dan was born. Houses have been renumbered since this was published in 1940.
Just down Meigs St. from PS 24 was Minnie’s, later known as Mim’s, a candy story which we frequented whenever we had some loose change to spend there. My grandmother kept her change purse in a drawer in the kitchen and I’d pilfer dimes to use at Minnie’s where I’d treat my conniving classmates (one of whom, under the influence of adult liquid refreshment years later, fell into the Barge Canal and drowned) to a candy feast. That might explain my popularity with some kids in those days. On the north side of PS 24 was our playground. In my day it was a just a plain patch of dirt without any equipment except what we carried with us. I don’t recall that physical exercise played a very prominent role in our curriculum in the 1950s. We got plenty of that on our own, however.
In my day grammar school kids had “religious education,” not in the classroom but at local churches (the Jewish kids had “Hebrew School”). This was really a kind of Sunday school during the week. With parental permission we were taken for instruction one morning a week. The Baptist church I attended for this instruction was at the corner of Linden Street and South Avenue and our instructor, a Mrs. Westra, would come to PS 24, gather up her charges, and march us to the church where we’d study Bible stories. This religious instruction offered a break from classroom drudgery and an opportunity for us boys to goof off. The one boy I remember from that experience, the biggest goof off in religious instruction classes, is the chap who got drunk one night years later and drowned in the Barge Canal.
When I returned to PS 24 in 1963 I was astonished at how small the place had become.
The Eastman Dental Dispensary
One of George Eastman’s many public endowments was the establishment of a dental clinic for Rochester’s school children. For five cents a child could go there and receive all the most modern dental treatment. I was one of those recipients. It was the worst experience of my life up to then and totally turned me off on dental science for the next 20 years. I hated that place so much I actually played hooky on the days we were scheduled to go. When I was caught no one asked me why I did it. I didn’t tell anyone either or if I did nobody considered a fear of dentistry an apt justification for staying away from school. I also guess I never expected anyone to check into my absence but eight-year-olds aren’t known for planning ahead.
The clinic on East Avenue was an imposing structure with a huge set of stairs leading to the main lobby. That lobby was enormous to me at age eight. In the center was a bird cage that held songbirds who tweeted and twittered as they fluttered about inside. To this day I cringe whenever I hear that sound. You’d pay your nickel and then sit on a hard bench until your name was called. The dentists were in a huge hall on the second floor that you reached by climbing a set of stairs. It was the “last mile” for me, those stairs. Once at the top you looked down this hallway lined with dental chairs on each side, and waited for your doom. I think those dentists were in the final phase of their training, something like interns, and in those days I don’t think they were taught anything about child psychology. They also did not use high-speed drills, only those monstrous devices run by a foot pedal that sounded and felt like jackhammers in your mouth. And no anesthetics. Once they had to tie my arms to the chair to keep me in the seat! That was after I ran screaming from that place. Finally, a doctor from New Zealand got me as his patient. He was a careful and gentle man who talked softly and would stop his work if it hurt me. Gradually, he gained my confidence. Eventually the other dentists would gather round and gape at how effortlessly he was able to work on my teeth. I don’t remember his name. If I had I’d have looked him up when I was in New Zealand years later.
Today the clinic is a ruin and some think it’s haunted. No disrespect meant to the philanthropist who endowed the place, but if it is haunted that is no surprise to me. It is truly wonderful to think that medicine has advanced so far over the last 65 years that no longer must anyone enter the portals of such places as the Eastman Dental Clinic or the Iola Sanitarium or lie alone in a hospital bed begging for death.
I started at Monroe in the fall of 1954. My sister and I were preceded there by my father, uncle, Aunt Jo, and Cousin Jack. In their day and in ours almost none of the kids had cars. I should say that in the transition from grammar to high school we ceased being school children and became “students.” So as students we, as those before us, walked to and from Monroe; I did anyway, and in all kinds of weather, dutifully carrying the lunch grandmother made for me (I never bought anything but milk in the school cafeteria). I remember very high standards at Monroe both in the quality of the education we received and the conduct of the teaching staff and the student body. I remember none of the problems that plague the public school systems throughout the nation today. One thing about the school system in those days, the teacher was always right. If you were disciplined it was because you deserved it (whether you did or not). That pertained as much to PS24 as it did to Monroe High. I was held back in the first grade and nobody objected or even bothered to tell me why. Thus the kids I started kindergarten with graduated from high school a year earlier than I.
I believe there were 248 students in the graduating class of 1958. Of them 158 were still living in NY state in 1983. They were all white except for one exchange student from Japan, Shima Murakami, I believe was her name. Many of those graduates went on to distinguished careers. Howard Relin became Rochester’s district attorney, for instance; others became lawyers, prelates, and so on. We held a 25th reunion in 1983 which I was unable to attend and the 50th reunion, scheduled for October 2008, seems never to have come off. About 15 of those who graduated in 1958 were also my classmates at PS 24.
Through the Rundel Library I met other young people from different parts of the city so the group I hung out with during high school included teens from schools like Ben Franklin and Marshall, my first exposure, you might say to a cosmopolitan outlook.
My greatest achievement at Monroe almost got me expelled when I dumped a trash can onto our table in the cafeteria. That engendered a satisfying rush of enthusiastic horror from the students during the second lunch period and they were still talking about it years later. I did it on a $5 bet with Phil Willis. The boy’s advisor, Mr. Julian Lowell, strongly suggested that to atone for this misdeed I give the $5 to the Red Cross. But when Phil coughed the money up later I kept it and spent it on books at Gilboy’s down at 197 Chestnut Street. Our punishment was to sweep the cafeteria floors for one week. Phil was suitably repentant but I picked up the loose change dropped by the students during lunch and saved it up to spend on books and science-fiction magazines.
Ah, books! When I got old enough to earn my own money I started spending it on books and hanging out at the local used book stores. There was the Book Hunter’s Shoppe on South Avenue in the same block as the old Milner Hotel, across from the Rundel Library, a room filled with books from floor to ceiling. The owner was a white-haired gentleman cigar-smoker who never objected to a teen-age browser; the Clinton Bookstore just up Court Street from there which carried the latest paperbacks and magazines; and Gilboy’s, a Mecca for teenage bibliophiles. A. Worden Gilboy was a raconteur of the highest order, an antiquarian bookman renowned for his knowledge, and a mentor to any young person with an interest in literature. In a word, he treated us as adults in sharing with us what he knew. His family lived in the rear and second-floor section of the old brownstone on Chestnut Street. In my high-school years I earned spending money by cleaning the store and his living quarters once a week. I never took the money in salary, I applied it against books on his shelves that I wanted for my own. As we grew older – J. B. Post, Dan Lynch, Jerry O’Neill and I – Gilboy would have us over after hours to enjoy cards, conversation and, after age 18, beer at his kitchen table. I learned more at Gilboy’s than I ever did at Monroe. Or what I learned from him has stuck with me. For me there never will be a more satisfying sensation than holding a real book in my hands.
A love of books led me to crime: I stole a book from the school library, a copy of Henry Fairfield Osborne’s Men of the Old Stone Age. When it came due I told the librarian I’d lost it and paid the $5 to replace it. I don’t know what happened to that copy. Last year I bought another off eBay for $100. When I went into the army I gave all my books away including a copy of the first U. S. edition of Darwin’s On the Origin of Species which I got from Gilboy for $5. I also bought from him a pristine copy of one volume of paleontologist James Hall’s contribution to the Natural History of New York State. Today I own two sets of the series fulfilling the adage that all things come to he who waits.
Anyway, with my attitude, I was an indifferent student, good at what I liked, history and English, but not very interested in anything else, including sports. One teacher I remember above all the others was the late T. A. Fabiano who taught social studies but he taught it in a way that challenged us to think. He was visibly disappointed when I saw him last in 1963 that I’d chosen the army instead of college. I did finish college eventually, on the GI Bill, but that wasn’t until I was in my 40s. Immediately upon graduation I enlisted in the army. But that’s another story.
On December 4th, 1954, Phil Willis and I climbed a tree in Highland Park and carved our names and the date in its bark. At that time we couldn’t imagine what it would be like to graduate from Monroe in 1958. Four years in the future seemed a lifetime away then. Now so it has become.
Dan Cragg is a former resident of the Highland Park Neighborhood and the author or co-author of over a dozen books. Recently he sent us a remembrance of his life, his family and his times spent in the area before he left in 1958. During his first of several careers, while with the United States Army, Dan travelled the world: including two tours of duty in Vietnam, and tours of duty in Germany, Italy, and South Korea. But even if he has never returned here to live, as the stories he shares reveals, the Neighborhood has always been with him. In the second of three parts of his wonderful contribution to our archives, Dan takes us back to the part of Mt Vernon Avenue with which he was most familiar as well as the family, neighbors and friends who shared that time and place with him
Mt. Vernon Avenue
One aspect of the neighborhood in my youth that may seem odd today is that it was all white. No black or Hispanic people lived in our part of the city back in the 1950s, there was no ethnic diversity in the neighborhood or our schools (I understand the student body at Monroe today is predominantly Hispanic). Black people were employed at the Highland Hospital and I suppose others seen passing by worked as domestics in some households, but our everyday life was one of de facto segregation. Read more…
Little Library Street is officially known as Caroline Street. When Caroline Street first appeared on City of Rochester maps around 1845, it ran from South Avenue to the city’s edge which was just beyond “Nelson” street, now known as Meigs St. By 1861 (see map at right) it reached all the way to the new extension of Goodman, by then also on the edge of Rochester proper. Today, this portion of the street between South and Goodman has accumulated more Little Free Library Stations than any other area in our city than we are aware of. And each of these three structures has an individual style all its own. But they are all still connected to the first Little Library which took residence in the Highland Park Neighborhood by way of the loves of reading and of real books. The Ellwanger & Barry company referred to our area as The Finest and Healthiest Part of the City. And what could be healthier for the mind and spirit than reading a fine old or new book or magazine? Read more…
Curator’s Note: Dan Cragg, a former resident sent us a remarkable remembrance earlier in 2014. While Dan’s package of photos and stories got delayed for a few months inside a local post office, fortunately, we eventually received it earlier this summer. Within the first few minutes of reading the first pages, I realized, as you will, that Dan’s detailed memories of the time he spent in this neighborhood are shared treasures. So it is my pleasure and honor to present the first of three parts of Dan Cragg’s Memories of The Highland Park Neighborhood. In part I, Dan writes about Highland Hospital, his childhood activities in Highland Park and the Pinnacle Range. The photos in this first entry are all supplied by Dan. The post cards images are from the archives of the Virtual Scrapbook. Enjoy!
I left the Highland Park neighborhood in 1958 and have returned there only for brief intervals since but often enough that I have retained a sense of belonging. Each visit renews that bond. Members of my family have lived and died in Rochester for well over a century and now, as I enter three-quarters of a century, reminiscences of my boyhood in the old neighborhood flood back in brilliant color and make me feel young again. The Irish poet, Thomas Moore, said it well: “Oft in the stilly night, ere slumber’s chain has bound me, fond memory brings the light of other days around me.” Submitted by Dan Cragg
The name “Highland” has been with me since I was born at Highland Hospital in 1939. Highland Park itself has been a source of recreation for my family for well over 90 years. One winter in the 1920s Grandma broke her back tobogganing down a slope along the ridge just to the south of the Lily Pond (not far from the Frederick Douglass monument). The cast they put on at Highland Hospital remained in grandmother’s attic until she died (at Highland) in 1965.
I was a patient at the Highland four times in my life. The first time was when I was born; then when I cut my leg in father’s vegetable garden (see the Smith Place); next to recover from strep throat, an infection I picked up playing with the stagnant water in the fish pond in grandmother’s back yard. The last time was when I was about 15. I was there for about a week with what was considered at first a kidney infection but turned out to be the passing of calcium from an old TB infection I got from my mother. They put me in a ward with grown men one of whom was dying from terminal cancer. He was kept sedated during the day but sometimes at night he’d wake up and begin screaming for someone to kill him until a nurse would come in and put him under again. He died alone, quietly, in a bed in a corner of our ward. I don’t think they even had hospices in those days where the terminally ill could pass out with dignity.
Submitted by Elaine Heveron
Good Morning! Perhaps we’ve met you on one of our morning walks—we’re the couple picking up trash with the long-handled grab-bar. We’ve met some wonderful people along the way these last several years.
Sometimes someone says, “Well, there’s not much trash around this neighborhood, right?” Well, right, but there would be about 300 shopping bags worth of trash per year more than what you see if we didn’t pick it up, and there are others who do this as well. The other day, we saw an elderly man using a walker and picking up trash along Elmwood Avenue; we were impressed!
Many people have taken a moment to say thank you or ask if we’ve ever found anything good (not yet.) And, comically, it’s usually person who is both walking a dog or two and pushing a stroller that says, “I should do that too!” We don’t have a dog and we’re walking anyway, so we’re happy to do it. Our feeling is, if people see trash everywhere, they might not think twice about throwing trash from a car to the street, roadside, or sidewalk. But if they don’t see any trash around, they might get the vibe that this is not the place to do such a thing.
We could use some help along Clinton and South Avenues, (ideally from those who own and operate the businesses there, mainly.) Also, some of the side streets need more picking up. If anyone wants to help increase and extend the pristine look of this neighborhood, not just by having a Clean-Up Day once a year, but as a regular thing at your own convenience, please consider the ease of this contribution. It’s easier with two people, one to hold the bag and one to pick up and deposit trash, but it can be done alone too. People always ask where we bought our grab-bar. The grab bars are easy to find online. My favorite is the Ettore 49036 Grip ‘n Grab (Amazon $17.98). because it can pick up the tiniest thing, even a cigarette butt or a dime. Other models can be found at places like Southside Apothecary, Home Depot-types stores, Pharmacies, or even the public market. So, get yourself a grab-bar and help reinforce the notion that this area is a very special neighborhood and we’ve all got our eyes on the scene.
And while we’re talking trash, I’d like to mention that if you have items in your basement, garage or attic that you’ve been meaning to get rid of appropriately, there is a great place to dispose of these items:
Eco Park, 10 Avion Drive, Rochester, New York (near the airport)
Check out their web site:
Here are the hours and items you can leave for free at the Regular Collections. (Check website for special collections of more items)
Wed.-Sat., 7:30 a.m. to 1 p.m. (closed on Monroe County government-observed holidays) – Monroe County households only (no businesses, not-for-profits, home offices, etc.)
- Electronic Waste
- Batteries (household alkaline batteries are NOT accepted)
- Appliances (without CFC/Freon)
- Scrap Metal
- Aluminum Can Pop-Tops (to benefit Ronald McDonald House)
- Paper & Flattened Cardboard
- Document Destruction
- Recyclable Glass/Metal/Plastic Containers
- Printer Cartridges
- Propane Tanks – 1# & 20#
- Bulky Plastic Items (should be clean and rigid)
- Plastic Bags and Product Wrap (must be clean and dry — no mulch/soil bags)
- Clean Styrofoam Packing (no takeout clamshells, cups, meat trays, egg cartons, etc.)
- Empty Prescription Bottles (labels OK)
- Cooking Oil/Grease
- Fluorescent Lights
- Sharps & Syringes
- Sneakers (no shoes, boots, cleats, ‘light-up’ or metal-containing sneakers)
- Clothing (Goodwill Donation)
- Cell Phones (to benefit Cell Phones for Soldiers)
- Flags (U.S.)
- Compost Give-Back (Seasonal – not for use in vegetable/herb gardens)
If you love parades, you may already have been present for one of the best, local and annual traditions. And it is an event that you can walk to it if you live in any of the neighborhoods bordering on Highland Botanical Park. That annual tradition is, of course, the Rochester Lilac Festival’s Parade.
To the right is a post card memento from nearly eighty years ago. It is a fun and antique reminder that thousands of people have been gathering in Highland Park every spring to see a parade for generations.
However, I am not writing this entry to relate a definitive history of either the festival or the parade. (Although I may get to that over time.)
I am actually writing just to celebrate by way of a record of my visit to this year’s parade. Like so many times before, the 2014 Lilac festival and the Lilac parade were welcomed in my neighborhood as heralds of spring and summer. And I have confirmed by an informal poll of my fellow residents, that they look forward to the Lilac Festival and all its events as much as I do. This year, because of the severity of the winter that ended mere weeks before the lilacs began to bloom, there may even have been extra cheering.
First up in the celebration is a video. The movie is actually just a few minutes of music from several of the many bands that participated in the 2014 parade. (Plus some special guests in special rather small vehicles.)
Next is my photo essay on the parade. But this is just a selection of a much bigger set of floats, participants and music. By that I mean, the movie and the photo collection could each be two or three times this size and woud still quite interesting.
See for yourself next year!