The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
My DetroitBy Larry Lehna QuailBellMagazine.com Detroit has been many things to me over the years. It has been my home, and a mentor. It has been the tough coach who teaches hard lessons. It has been the friend who is a bad influence and it has been the siren calling me. It has been my vicious pimp and my accommodating whore. It has at times been an affirmation and at times my downfall. It has been my life. Few people know this city as well as I do. When I showed classmates my portfolio of Detroit night scenes, they were in awe that I walked around a city at night with a camera.You have to know how to walk. You walk as if you are surveying your own estate. I am one with the city. As a child I remember the Christmas toy display in the window of Hudson’s on Woodward. We always stopped to look when we came for Hudson’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Both of those wonders are now history. We rode horses and rented canoes on Belle Isle during picnics. We also visited the aquarium, the beautiful gardens and the Great Lakes Museum. I believe only the museum is still operational. When I was in high school we began to explore the city. We attended hockey games at Olympia Stadium, baseball and football at Briggs Stadium. We went to Edgewater Amusement Park at Seven Mile and Lahser. We began hanging out at the corner of Vernor and Junction. There is a great little coney island called Duly’s on that corner. It is kitty-corner from Holy Redeemer Church. In the sixties the juke-box was a nickel, or three songs for a dime, or nine songs for a quarter. There was a place on Bagley between 22nd and 23rd called Evie’s Tamales. All they sold was tamales in lots of six or twelve. When I say only tamales I mean it literally. There was not even anything to drink. It was the only business as far as the eye could see. That block is now considered Mexican-town and is full of higher priced Mexican restaurants. Evie’s is still there. The place is bigger now and serves a full menu, yet is cheaper than the big name joints. That is where the Mexicans in the neighborhood eat. There is another place frequented by mostly Mexicans on Vernor across from Clark Park called Armando’s. You can have an alcoholic beverage at Armando’s, but not at Evie’s. There are also several taquerias on Vernor. These are little open-air BBQ huts. They are run by Mexicans. I guess they are not worried about the strict definition of the word taqueria. Grab a whole BBQ chicken and take it home. There is something satisfying when you do that during a snowstorm. It also seems to make the chicken taste even better. We used to shop on The Avenue of Fashion, which was Livernois, between Curtis (six and a half mile) and Eight Mile. Urban blight took over, but now they are attempting to rejuvenate the area. On the corner of Livernois and Eight Mile was (it could still be there) Baker’s Keyboard Lounge. Baker’s was the leading jazz club of the city. I have seen performances from some of the people who defined the genre. We attended Motown Revues at the Fox Theater long before it was refurbished. The area adjoining the Fox theater had been taken over by pimps and whores. We found that they did not check ID’s at the two burlesque houses, the Stone and the Empress. I saw my first nude woman at the Stone. The burlesque houses are long gone. We also knew that John R and Brush Streets from I-75 to Warren was the most infamous red light district. It was in an alley between the two streets that I had my first sexual encounter and my only sexual encounter with a hooker. Five of us high school boys went down in my orange Ford convertible. The hooker charged ten dollars for all of us and hopped from one to the next in my car. I can only assume that prices have risen in the ensuing years. The experience left something to be desired. I bought and smoked my first pot in the Boston-Edison district. That was prime real estate in that era. We went with a student from U. of D. to his parent’s house. It was the first time I visited a real mansion. We were smoking in the back yard and were joined by a couple from next door, which happened to be the home of Barry Gordy. I have no idea if the couple were relatives of Gordy. When I first moved out on my own I rented a house on Inglis St. near the corner of Vernor and Springwells. On the corner of my street was the Red Robin Bar, where I first met Cornbread Red. Across the street from the bar was Napo’s all-night pool hall. Both of these icons have disappeared. My street ended at Dix, which led into southeast Dearborn. That was the original Arab-American area. There was one block of ethnic restaurants. These were not pretentious places trying to lure outsiders. They were for their own people. I went in a few times and they would not even wait on me. I next moved into the old Duesenberg Mansion on East Jefferson. The place was somewhat run-down when I moved in. I lived there with about fifty other hippies. I had a great room. It was in the carriage house behind the main house. The carriage house went up three stories and down four stories into the basement. We were right on the Detroit River and the lowest level was flooded. I believe I had the best room in the place. It was on the third floor. I had two beautiful French doors which opened onto my huge balcony. There was also access to the roof. They held the Gold Cup hydroplane races in my back yard. I always had plenty of company for the event. I loved to sit on the balcony at night and reflect (or smoke pot). In the spring, when the ice breaks up on the river there is a spectacle that few have seen. I sat out there one chilly night and was in awe at the power of the river. There were chunks of ice in all sizes. Some as small as a Volkswagen, others bigger than a football field. There did not seem to be enough room for all of them, yet they sped down the river constantly mashing and grinding against each other (the river runs much faster than you would expect). The city was silent and the only noise was the sound of ice crunching together. A human who fell in would have been ground up to nothing in a few seconds. I still believe it to be the most impressive display of power I have ever witnessed. Maybe the pot heightened the impression, but I doubt it. I was high for months, it had become my normal. The Hari Krishna temple was directly across the street. On Sundays the public was welcome for a vegetarian feast. For some odd reason I never seemed to overeat at one of their “feasts.” Hippies also habituated the old Gar Wood mansion. That place had been more lavish than the one where I stayed. To get there you had to traverse a very narrow hump-backed bridge; there was only the one lane which led straight to the river where Gar had built his mansion. It was only a stone’s throw from the old Fisher mansion, which eventually became the new Hari Krishna headquarters. There was a swimming pool and a bowling alley in the basement. It, too, was right on the water, but on the Grosse Pointe border. Gar was a famous hydroplane racer from the 1920’s. The guys living there had a party every Friday and Saturday night in the grand ballroom and charged one dollar a head. One neighbor, Mrs. George D. Kyes, referring to the 70’s, said in a Detroit News interview with Vivian M. Baulch in 2001, “They [the hippies] had been tearing the place down piece by piece for years. Much of the statuary was broken, and strewn about the yard or thrown in the river. The rock bands and nudie parties drove us indoors quicker than a hurricane would.” There were normally close to 1,000 people in attendance. There were always bottles of Electric Kool-aid (a bottle of wine laced with a large, yet indeterminate amount of LSD) making the rounds. I do have to say that the Electric Kool-aid certainly facilitated the “nudie” parties. Often a rock star that had performed in the Detroit area would stop by and jam after the concert. I recall seeing Van Morrison, Edgar Winter, Alice Cooper, The MC 5 and Ted Nugent. That is where I first met John Sinclair. I sometimes wish I was not so affable. It has opened many doors but often they were doors I should have ignored. There were some great concert venues in that era, the likes of which will never be seen again. The Grande Ballroom and the Cinderella Ballroom were just two of them. I lived out of state for some years. When I returned, I moved into a huge four-bedroom, 4,800 sq. ft. Colonial in Rosedale Park (near where Five Mile and Grand River cross the Southfield Freeway). Maria’s was a small and romantic Italian Restaurant on Grand River that was only a few doors from the All-Sports Bar (both are gone and sorely missed). There are no longer any bars on Grand River in this area. The only restaurants are fast-food joints or coney islands where you order through one inch safety glass. The area was still vibrant at the time; however, I could not afford the utility bills in such a large house. I bought a three-bedroom ranch in Brightmoor (just a few miles west on Five Mile). It was a tough neighborhood. I was warned to stay out of some of the bars on Five Mile. It only served as a dare. The day I moved in I went into Harold’s Sky Club (one of the bars I was warned of); a biker bit my index finger half off during a fight. It took quite a while to regain full use of that hand. There were also several decent bars along the Five Mile strip. They are all gone now, as is Vio’s Pizza which was a neighborhood icon. The Dairy Queen is also history. The only place left, other than liquor stores, gas stations and pawn shops is good old Scotty Simpson’s Fish and Chips. I cannot imagine that they can hold out much longer as the neighborhood deteriorates around them. It was while I was living there that I was shot for the first time (that is a story in itself). Suffice it to say that I did not go to the hospital and my girlfriend dug out the slug. There was a bar called L’Amour’s on Plymouth Road and Evergreen run by an old couple I called grandma and grandpa. The neighborhood had already begun to change so they were only open from ten in the morning until six at night. Grandma went to Eastern Market every morning. When you ordered a sandwich there was an unimaginable amount of freebies that came with it. There was always a relish tray with all of the usual’s (carrot and celery sticks, green pepper, tomatoes, green onions, broccoli, cauliflower and dip). Depending on what grandma had found that morning there might be a bowl of grapes, cherries, watermelon, cantaloupe, or strawberries. It could be anything. There was always a bowl of Cheese-it crackers, and the coupe-de-grace: a bowl of homemade soup. You were urged to just ask if you wanted more. Grandpa was a musician and played a variety of instruments behind the bar. Sometimes he just used drumsticks on the liquor bottles. They had oodles of spoons and urged you to join in playing them. It was a happy place. I became a regular at that bar. They always sent me home with containers of veggies and soup (with the admonition bring back the container and we will refill it). I ate pretty good (and healthy) for a bachelor. I always brought back the containers. I just wish that my pro-Detroit instructor could have seen this and some of the other places I have mentioned. Detroit is coming back, but I doubt it can ever replace all of the unique spots that made it what it was. The last place in Detroit where I lived was at the corner of Six Mile and Mound. I do not know if I should even count that one. I did not really get out much. I was in Mound Correctional Facility prior to my release from prison. That is not the only Detroit jail I have ever been in. I have been arrested many times and have been a guest at most of the precinct jails. There were also several times I could have been arrested, but was allowed to leave. One cop dumped out a full quarter pound of weed and told me to get “my dumb ass back to the suburbs.” I had a cop tell me he would not take me in for drunk driving if I would follow him a quarter mile to an all-night pool-hall and stay there and drink coffee for a while. Just before he led off he came back to my car and said, “Don’t you dare run into the back of my police car.” I didn’t. Stuff like that will never happen again. The riverfront was a long neglected asset. The Soup Kitchen Saloon was the home of Detroit blues for over a century. Why is it gone? There is nothing there now, except a failed economic revival plan. At the Soup Kitchen your soup was served in a stainless steel bucket. The blues was served up in magnificent rifts from some of the all-time masters of the craft. The businesses left to make way for a casino that never materialized. It was a great little district that should have been perpetuated instead of quashed. It is still mostly barren, although, the riverwalk does bring people through the area. There is much room for improvement. I hit the riverwalk at three in the morning to compile a photo journal. The light shone off my white skin like a huge accusatory finger. I was an anomaly. I am not stupid. At that time of night there were some couples, however, most of the people were groups of young men who had been drinking or drugging, or both. When I felt the hateful glares, I glared back. I knew better than to show any intimidation. Nothing happened. But it could have ended badly. Twenty-five years ago, before they built the riverwalk, at that time of night the shoreline was filled with the people who had recently left the many bars in the warehouse district. They are not going to get many upscale strollers in the environment they have now. I have a feeling that the people who caused the downfall of the area actually made money in the end, but that is pure speculation. There is so much potential. But there will never again be a place like the Woodbridge Tavern, where you could eat in an alcove with lattice-work and grape vines the only barrier between your dinner and the sky. Yes, at the right time of year you could pick and eat the grapes. Hart Plaza has been around long enough for me to count it as an icon. It is one of the few newer jewels in this city. The ethnic festivals were (and are) a place to go on the weekends. The only ethnic thing about them is the music. The same venders are there every week. I found that any vender would feed the employees of any other vender. All you had to do was go into the service hallway and ask for food at the back of the kiosk. I ate well for over a year until one of my friends started laughing when we got served. The all seemed pretty angry. I noticed soon after that the employees all had ID tags. Yep, just like a terrorist attack, they had to put in safeguards. If you ever want to attend a pro sporting event at one of the three venues downtown the place to begin is Hoot Robinson’s bar on the corner of Michigan and Trumbull. That is across the street from the old Tiger Stadium. The parking is free and they offer free shuttle bus service to the games. Do not worry if you decide to leave early, the bus will be out there, unless it is on a quick trip back. You will never have to wait long. They used to have a larger bar but it was in the middle of the block. I sat in that bar and chatted with Marty Castillo (Detroit Tiger infielder) before one of the World Series games in 1984 (he only ordered a burger to go). They had to move onto Michigan Avenue for the exposure. This is one of the lesser known bargains in the city. What you save on parking will pay for a beer and a burger for a couple. It also eliminates a long walk. I have had good times and bad times in Detroit. Like any old man I long for the good old days. There have been so many changes for the worse. Maybe it had to hit bottom before there could be a rebirth. The old Corktown had character that can never be replicated, but it is making a comeback. Mexicantown is far too commercial, unless you know where to go (try a taquaria, or Evie’s Tamales). Greektown never suffered blight, but they have taken out all of the old individuality. Everything is new and shiny and upscale. I like to frequent the dives on occasion. There are none. The Fox Theater area is booming with the proximity of the two stadiums, but this is with new businesses and too much chrome and mirrors. The places that made each area unique are gone. It is possible all of that is necessary to bring back the upwardly mobile and rejuvenate the neighborhood. I, and a horde of other old-timers, will just yearn for what we remember. It could be that we just want to recapture our youth. It is a gift that you only appreciate fully when it is gone. I guess it is the same with Detroit. Comments
Susan Bock
9/5/2017 06:45:46 pm
Oldtimer you may be but you sure know how to tell a story and make the reader feel included.
Larry Lehna
10/6/2017 11:17:41 am
Hello Suzy Q. I just discovered that you had commented on this. Thank you for the positive reinforcement. I hope you are doing well. Comments are closed.
|
|