On the Street Where Mrs. Steffy Lived

 

When I am in a quiet state of mind, the past comes back on small running feet. That's what happened again this morning. This memory carried me home to the year 1956 when I was six–years–old and living on Wellington Ave in Chicago, Illinois–down from Wrigley Field and blocks from Lake Michigan.

I loved living among all the fashionable Brownstones and Greystones which were surrounded by old iron Fleur de Lis fences. Our family house stood out because it was the only tutor in the neighborhood. The other house that stood out was directly across the street.
A two story cottage with a sweeping front porch. Mrs. Steffy called it home. I watched over that place from my second story bedroom window. The late 1800s style was of great interest to me. 

I suppose Mrs. Steffy's husband had passed. He wasn't around and it didn't seem peculiar. She lived alone. On occasion one of her adult children would stop to check on her. Mrs. Steffy had long grey hair threaded with shades of brown, which she wore in braids, pinned together at the top of her head. She was a slight woman who always wore a simple cotton dress covered with a fresh apron.

Summer days, I enjoyed spending some of my time in a wicker chair, rocking away, on her front porch. I wish I could rewind time so I could listen to some of the conversations we had. Mainly, my goal was to get inside of her house to see what things looked like in there. I ached to have a look around.

On one particular occasion, Mrs. Steffy said I could come inside with her if I remained on the first floor and did not go up the steps to the second floor.

As I stepped into the dark, narrow hallway, I was charmed by the steep steps and curl of the old wood banister that led upstairs; the forbidden space. Tucked into the bend of the wall was a huge grandfather's clock. It put me in mind of the nursery rhyme, 'Hickory Dickory Dock.'

The living room was to the right, the dining room after that, followed by the kitchen. After I was shown these simple rooms, they no longer held interest for me. The upstairs was where I wanted to go next. 

After a drink of water, Mrs. Steffy beckoned me back outside. I remained in the foyer, still intrigued by the huge clock, and gazed into the abyss at the top of the steps. Mrs. Steffy was old and therefore slow. I was young and therefor faster. I dove for the stairwell. In five seconds I made it to the top. The old woman below shrieked, "I'll get your mother if you don't come down this minute." I calculated that it would be a good four minutes for her to get my mom and bring her back. It was all I needed to rummage. 

I did not reply to her threats, and walked into each of the two bedrooms. One by one, I pulled out the dresser drawers for a peek. I didn't move anything aside. I only gazed at the top layer of treasures.

Then out of nowhere, my mother appeared and yanked me from the room, down the steps and out the front porch across to the street and back home. I'm sure I was scolded. That memory isn't clear, but I do remember being happy I saw the entire house. 

Mrs. Steffy passed about the same time we moved to Delavan, Wisconsin, years later when I was thirteen. Eventually her house was knocked down in order to enlarge the street. Another historical house lost. 

On the rare occasion I get to Chicago, I take a cab and walk down Wellington Avenue. After looking at my former childhood home, I turn about to see Mrs. Steffy's house directly across. And for just a moment I am surprised to see it gone. 

Do I regret racing upstairs to Mrs. Steffy's dismay? Nah.

I only wish I remember what was in those dresser drawers.

Have you ever ventured into a place you weren't to go? Tell me about it.