12th Avenue South

Down on 12th Avenue South, near the park, there were a couple of places that my family and I went during the Stokes years. On one corner of this block I'm thinking about, there was Cayce's Restaurant, and on the other corner of the same block, there was Becker's Bakery.

We went out to eat, once or twice a month, at Cayce's. In the winter, we would get there just as it was getting dark, and, through the big plate glass window near the door, everything inside looked warm and bright. Up front, as you went in, there was a bar where you could get, mainly, beer. And I remember, on the walls, there were these dazzling advertising displays for Budweiser which showed pictures of sport fishing, but with cutouts and a light bulb turning behind, so that the display seemed to sparkle and move - the trout rose magically to the fisherman's fly.

Besides Cayce, who mostly presided over things from behind the bar, there were two waiters, one quiet and the other sharp with the banter, who worked there for years. We got to know them pretty well and they would always kid around with us kids.

When Cayce retired to a life of fishing, he gave the restaurant to the two waiters. They were thrilled to have an opportunity to run a restaurant of their own. We went there several times after they took over, but it wasn't the same - they always met us formally at the door and escorted us to our table with great finesse. There was no more kidding around. I liked them better when they were waiters.

Becker's Bakery was the best bakery in town. Quiet, smiling Mrs. Frensley became an institution there to several generations, both before and after us. Betty and I discovered, fairly early in our relationship, that we had Becker's in common. I liked the Petit Fours and she liked the little pink, green and yellow cookies, shaped like fleurettes, that weren't too sweet, but went all crumbly in your mouth.

Between Cayce's and Becker's Bakery, there was a gravel parking area with a small concrete building at the rear. This was where, during my later Hillsboro years, I used to pick up my papers to deliver on my paper route. I was the only paperboy there who wasn't from the neighborhood. I had to drive there. The other paperboys weren't sure what to make of me. I was quiet and so I didn't give them many clues about whether I had anything going for me or not.

Among themselves, they were a rowdy lot, always ganging up on one or another of their number and throwing him into the rain barrel, outside the building. They never tried to throw me in the barrel, not even in fun.

One time, I remember, one of the boys came up and handed me a small paper sack, while the others looked on. I didn't know that they had put some little whiz-bang device in the bag. I looked inside and the thing snapped up at me. I looked up and the guy who had given me the bag said to the others, "See? I told you!" I said, "What?" and the guy said, "I told them you wouldn't jump!"

Back then, I figured they thought I was the kind of guy who didn't jump. Today, I realize that they held me in respect because my father was Rinkey Blumen.