Growing up in Greentree: From the Journal of a Wayward Son

By Bill DeKlavon Jr.

Meet the large DeKlavon family from Greentree, a small suburb south of Pittsburgh. Join the Wayward Son in this light-hearted look at growing up during the war years of the 1940s. As the oldest son (and chief storyteller), he describes life in a home filled with love and laughter despite the hardships of World War II. Get to know his parents, who dedicated themselves to raising their children with high standards and the gift of humor. For all their determination, however, could even they turn this Wayward Son into a gentleman?

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Oct 10, 2011
• ISBN: 9781449723279

Bill DeKlavon Jr.

Bill DeKlavon Jr. was born and raised in the suburb of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, called Greentree. He currently resides in south Florida with his wife, Patricia (formerly Patricia Scatteregia), who is also a Pittsburgh native. They have three children, twelve grandchildren, and one great-grandchild. Bill is retired but remains active in his church and in teaching children woodworking. He enjoys writing, cooking, and skydiving and is a member of JOS (Jumpers Over Seventy). He is one of the oldest jumpers in the area.

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Contents

INTRODUCTION

DEDICATION

SPECIAL THANKS

IN THE BEGINNING

NO PLACE LIKE HOME

WAR COMES

TO GREENTREE

STARTING SCHOOL

TOM THUMB DEBACLE

TRYING TO MAKE

A GENTLEMAN

CHRISTMAS AT

OUR HOUSE

MY NECK OF THE WOODS

DAY TO DAY ON

LEON ROAD

DO CLOTHES MAKE

THE BOY?

FORCED LABOR

MOM’S HEALTH PLAN

GETTING MY ACT

CLEANED UP

PERFECT ATTENDANCE

THE PEPSI GENERATION

MOTIVATING A

WAYWARD SON

DENTAL ADVENTURES

WHEN BASEBALL RULED

AUTUMN IN PITTSBURGH

GREENTREE WINTERS

TELEVISION COMES

TO OUR HOUSE

ROBIN HOOD

LEGEND OF

THE KEROSENE KID

DAD’S WEAKNESS

(BESIDES MOM)

KENNYWOOD PARK

DAY CARE BILLY

PAPER BOY

PENN LINCOLN PARKWAY

WHISKEY HOLLOW

SMOKEY CITY

A REAL LOVE STORY

THINGS I REMEMBER

INTRODUCTION

Several years ago a young lady in our neighborhood was working on a report for one of her classes in school. Apparently her instructions were to track down and interview the oldest geezer she could find. Since I lived nearby, this would be an easy assignment.

As we talked, and I answered her questions, something interesting happened. She seemed to be amazed at my answers and explanations, and I started to realize just how much the world had changed during my lifetime. We talked for over an hour. I began comparing things today with the way things were over 50 years ago. I had written many stories with observations and amusing tales from those years, but what about a whole book devoted to just that era?

As I began to make notes, I thought about the community where I grew up. What an ideal place it was for a kid like me. Looking back, Greentree seemed almost like a storybook community. Through the years, I met people from all over the world and from many different backgrounds. Listening to their stories, I grew to appreciate my own home town and the era in which I grew up.

Of course, I must then introduce the family. I had a Mom and Dad who, in an atmosphere of love and laughter, made being a little quirky the norm—parents who broke the mold and made life an adventure for their children. In writing this book, I want to share just what life was like growing up in the home of Bill and Rachel.

EXPLANATION

From the time I began writing about my family I have referred to myself as Rachel’s Wayward Son. In a family of preachers and gospel singers, I could probably be described as a late bloomer or the black sheep. I always seemed to have to learn everything the hard way, and I was usually in trouble somewhere. It wasn’t until I was 31 years old that I came to Christ and allowed Him to change my life for the better. Mom often said that she was grateful her wayward son had finally found his way back home.

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my sister Georgie who passed away in 2010 long before her time. She and I would talk for hours about the family stories I was researching since she was my only sibling old enough to remember some of them. I came close to giving up writing when she passed away but I realized that would have been the last thing she would have wanted.

So this book is dedicated to her memory, my sister, Georgene, the best friend a brother could ever have.

SPECIAL THANKS

Looking back, now that the book is finished, I am amazed at how many people have had a hand in preparing it. With that in mind, I want to express my deepest thanks to the following.

First, there was the young lady in our neighborhood who inspired me to write this book with her questions for her school report. Then there were the family members and friends who encouraged me and offered suggestions.

My brother Jack and wife, Linda, have been an encouragement, and Jack has contributed his quirky sense of humor.

My brother Dave and wife, Jana gave me a refuge in Indiana to hide away while I struggled with my thoughts and memories for these stories. Dave has also kept my computer running on track, for which I am grateful.

My sister Jane volunteered to be my editor from the beginning and has had her work cut out for her correcting and re-directing these stories. I think it is safe to say that without her help this book would never have been ready, at least not in this century.

Special thanks go out to our wonderful friend from high school, Mary Fran. She has been a great source of encouragement to me and, having lived in Greentree at the same time I did, sent me numerous articles and memories of those times.

My wife Pat has, as always, been there for me. I’m sure she would be delighted if I would find another past time other than writing, so she could stop reading my story drafts over and over.

Most of all, I want to thank God for finding this wayward son and bringing him home.

IN THE BEGINNING

A PITTSBURGH PARADISE

Greentree! It was a dream come true for a young married couple looking for a place to raise a family. Though near the smoky, dirty, steel-mill city of Pittsburgh, Greentree was like a breath of fresh air; clean, green, and pristine. Slower to develop than most of the surrounding communities, it remained mostly a mix of farms, spacious homes, and undeveloped woodland. This is where my parents moved with me in 1939, to a tiny, brand new house at the end of the street, surrounded on two sides with woods. Both of my parents had grown up in a nearby dirty railroad town, so this seemed like a slice of heaven to them. Mom always appreciated the area saying this was exactly the type of place she had in mind to raise all of the children she planned to have. Although she knew the Biblical Garden of Eden was closed to mankind, I think she thought she could see it from Greentree.

DON’T PICK UP STICKS

Mom was always concerned about safety, especially for her kids, so living at the end of a dead-end street, she felt about as safe as she could get. Dad knew how secure Mom felt here, so he never told her about the huge copperhead snake he killed in our yard shortly after we moved in. Mom had a great fear of snakes, (maybe going back to the Garden of Eden incident), and I suppose Dad thought she would have had us all headed back to one of the dirty (but snake free) over-populated areas of the city if she’d known. I do faintly remember him jokingly warning me not to pick up sticks that moved, but there were no more incidents.

BRIGHT LIGHTS, BIG CITY

Not surprisingly, the main street in town was named Greentree Road and ran from one end of town to the other. On one corner was the municipal building with the tiny police and fire stations, the library, and a few offices. At the place where the two roads met was the shopping center which consisted of a grocery store and Doc Moore’s Drugstore. There was a barber shop beneath the drug store and another tiny grocery store across the street. That was the entire downtown area of Greentree. We lived on Leon Road, a dead end street that ran from Greentree Road, right in the heart of town.

THE ORIGINAL MINI-MARTS

Calling them grocery stores would be a joke today, as they were not half the size of a modern 7-11 store. When you went in to buy groceries, you gave a list to the grocer. Then you watched as he pulled the items from the shelves or barrels and placed them in a box, all the time carrying on a conversation about the weather or politics. My main fascination was with the long mechanical arm he used to reach boxes high on the top shelves. Once he even showed me how to handle that arm, and he became my hero when he let me actually pick up items with it. We used the grocery store next to Doc Moore’s, but there was another one across the street.

One day my grandpa took me to that other grocery store. Apparently, I grew a bit weary and looked around for somewhere to plop down. I found just the right spot on top of a large watermelon sitting on the floor. That was the day I discovered that watermelons are not real good resting places. I sat down and heard a distinct POP! Unfortunately, the grocer heard it too, and I remember him yelling at me about it. From then on, I would never go with anyone into that store. I would imagine Grandpa probably paid for that broken watermelon, but all I knew was that the owner was a mean, angry man who yelled at tired little boys. He and his store were gone shortly thereafter, and to my immature mind, it was good riddance.

HOME FOLLIES

Early family movies and pictures show Mom and Dad frolicking and playing in the yard with me. It was a joyful home. Dad worked a lot, and we rarely saw him, but when he was home the fun commenced. He would be out in the yard with us, playing tag or trying to teach me how to throw a football with Mom cheering us on. They were a happy couple, and Dad had all of the trappings of success as the young, up-and-coming executive of a business conglomerate in Pittsburgh. A new car, a new home, a pretty wife and a two year old son—what more could Dad have asked for?

FIRST BARBER

I was very young when Dad took me to the local barber shop for my first haircut. The barber was named John, and he owned the small, two seat shop under the drugstore. John assured Dad that he could handle giving haircuts to small kids as he placed a board over the arms of his chair. Next he placed me on the board, draped a cloth around my neck, and proceeded to cut my hair, much to my dismay. John had his own way of dealing with kids which could be summed up in this statement, Sit down and shut up. He felt that he should do the talking for both of us since I needed to be concentrating on behaving and sitting still. John warned me often that the reason I needed to sit still was so that he didn’t accidently cut off one of my ears. I guess that was good enough for me, so I quietly sat and listened.

Because I lived over the hill from John, he always called me Bill from the Hill. A typical conversation was, Come on over here and climb up in the chair, Bill from the Hill. I’ll talk, you listen, don’t fidget or I’ll cut off your ear. John was a great philosopher, at least to a kid, and he knew about everything. So, for the first years of my life, John was the only barber I knew as he snipped and talked to a silent, non-fidgeting kid. Knowing John was like having a grownup friend to a little boy.

FUTURE CAREER OPTIONS

Anytime I could go to work with Dad was a great time for me. From a very early age, I knew that Dad must be an important man because wherever he went, people respected him. He was always Mister DeKlavon, and I was young Master DeKlavon, like the son of the king—the little prince—at least until they got to know me.

One of my earliest memories was riding in an elevator in one of the buildings Dad managed. In the days before self-operated elevators, this elevator was operated by an impressive looking man attired in a light blue and gold uniform, complete with gold braids on his hat and his shoulders. His uniform had rows of gold buttons, and he looked like the most important person on the planet to me. He would greet us as Mister and Master while ushering us into his elevator, closing the gate and door after us. He then would drive the elevator to whatever floor Dad requested. As we approached the floor he had a way of giving the car a little surge and a sudden stop which he knew would produce a little wooooo effect in me. Of course, if there were any other passengers other than Dad and me, he would restrain himself. As I watched him at work, opening and closing doors and gates, and operating the levers and buttons that controlled that elevator car, I knew what I wanted to do with my life. After we were off the elevator, I informed Dad that I had decided to become an elevator operator when I grew up. I’m pretty sure Dad was not impressed with his son’s career preference since it just would not be the first choice for a prince. He didn’t make too much of a fuss though, only reminding me not to close the door to other options.

IN TRAINING

I admit I was fascinated by elevators. Perhaps it was just a lazy boys desire to get from one floor to the other without climbing stairs, but I thought they were great. Maybe the most impressive elevator of all was located in a dirty looking warehouse in the Golden Triangle area of downtown Pittsburgh. I think it was one of the properties Dad managed, and I was always excited when we went there. Dad drove the car through a doorway and onto a ramp, which was actually the floor of a huge elevator. When the car was on, he would get out and close the elevator door, then the gate. Next, he would push some buttons and the two of us, (along with our car) would begin to rise to the next floor. It was actually a parking garage without ramps but with an amazing elevator big enough to lift cars, and my Dad operated it. Wow! He would actually let me push the button. I thought this was wonderful training for my chosen profession of Elevator Operator Man. All I needed now was the uniform.

COLORFUL IMPRESSIONS

Even as a child I always seemed drawn to making poor or ridiculous choices in life. I never seemed to be able to think things through or worry about the results of my decisions, and that led to many embarrassing and painful consequences. One of my earliest memories of poor choices was the time Mom and Dad had an old friend named George over for dinner.

George really loved kids, and he was quite entertaining to a young boy. He told story after story and had us all in stitches. One story he told I found to be particularly interesting. He told about the time when he was a boy and had received a brand new box of crayons for his birthday. He loved all of the colors, and when he ran out of paper, he proceeded to color the wall of his bedroom with his new crayons. I thought that was a great story, and we all laughed about it as we finished our dinner. After eating, I was excused to go play while the adults continued talking.

Up in my room, I couldn’t help but remember all of the laughs George’s story had caused, and I began to look around at all of the bare walls in my room. It was a natural progression for me to find my own crayons and begin to George my own area. It was a very exhilarating feeling. I can still remember how proud I was of my artistic prowess in decorating those walls. In fact, I was so impressed, I continued my artwork out into the hallway and down the stairs. What I lacked in talent, I made up in speed and was able to cover a large area in a relatively short time. When my work was discovered, I think I was expecting either gratitude or at least laughter, because, after all, George got laughter from his work. To my surprise, no one was laughing. In fact, even in my underdeveloped brain, I began to sense that I was in trouble, big trouble. Fortunately, I had understanding parents who knew my motivation and did not punish me too severely. But I don’t remember George ever telling me anymore of his great stories, and that was the worst punishment of all.

NO PLACE LIKE HOME

Our home in Greentree was the perfect location for a curious, trouble-bound little boy to grow up in. The house was located in a quiet neighborhood and surrounded on two sides by woods. There were many places to explore and things to see all around us but perhaps the most interesting attractions of all were right in our house.

Although it was relatively small, with two bedrooms and one bath, to a little boy it seemed spacious. Along with the living areas, there was an attic, basement, and a garage, all suitable for one of Dad’s favorite passions—collecting things. Over the years, he had amassed some very interesting items.

The basement was divided into two parts. One side was the work area with Mom’s washer, dryer, and Dad’s tools. I was always fascinated with tools. I wanted to handle them and learn how they were used, but Dad had little time to teach me and had forbidden me to touch them. He gave me some silly reason like I might cut off my fingers or put out an eye. Since I was forbidden to touch them in the house, I would usually drag them outside where I could examine them at my leisure. Of course, once I grew tired of them, I would go on to something else, leaving the tools outside to rust or get lost. I don’t think Dad appreciated my inquiring