AP Photo/The Daily News, David W. Smith

Thanksgiving is the great American celebration of family, home and hearth, the most homebound of our major holidays. It is celebrated on Thursday, almost as if to say “there are more important things than work.”

The idea is to show and share gratitude for our blessings, for family and friends, gathered in someone’s home to share a great feast — often not fancy dishes, but delicious and bespeaking comfort and tradition.

In a great paean to the day, gifted editorialist Paul Greenberg of the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette proposed a litany that describes elements of domestic grace for which thanks is due: from “the sound of the awaited car pulling up a leaf-strewn driveway and disgorging familiar faces” to “the last plate washed, the kitchen clean, the grandkids gone and peace restored.”

I wrote about matters of hearth and home on this page earlier this fall. I proposed an experiment that tests the purpose of St. Louisans’ penchant for nostalgia and shared remembrances — the old “where’d you go to high school” question and “what parish did you grow up in?”

I argued that, rather than a trivial parochialism, this instinct serves as “a stabilizing ballast for social and civic progress” and a “source of comfort and continuity,” showing us how “the joys we cherish and problems we face are joys and problems strikingly similar to those of our predecessors.”

I invited readers to write a letter to an old home that they hold close their heart, the place where they grew up, reared a family or spent summers with grandparents.

I asked that, in their letters home, that they “recall not just family life, but also details about the fabric of the neighborhood, the rhythms and routines of community life.” I asked that the writers send a copy of their letters to me at the Post-Dispatch.

Below is the first wave of letters back home. I will leave it to you to decide whether, as I posited, they represent proof of our “common humanity,” whether their “stories and ghosts” help us to understand “the character of the community, its hopes and worries, aspirations, successes and disappointments.”

I would like to get more. I’m especially eager to receive letters from readers in the Metro East and letters that provide insight into the African-American experience throughout St. Louis.

Today’s sampling offers proof certain of something for which we can be thankful: This community is blessed with people who have poignant memories, a generous nature and the ability to share them with good writing.
— Eddie Roth

* * *

3248 Alfred Ave.
St. Louis

I lived in your house from 1945 until 1963, at which time I married. We now have four children and five grandchildren.

Carol's father, Earl Setchfield, and son, Mark Setchfield.

We were a family of a mom, a dad and five children. There were four girls and one boy: Joan (now deceased), Ruth, Dorothy, Earl and me. We all attended Holy Family Grade School, and I graduated from St. Elizabeth Academy.

Here are some pleasant things I remember most about growing up at 3248 Alfred Avenue:

My friends and I walked just about everywhere. Morganford Road was a central location. The bakery, the corner drugstore and Cook’s Market were at the top of the list. There was a live chicken store on the corner of Juniata and Hartford. I walked there with Mom to pick out the chickens for Sunday dinner.

We sat on the steps and watched the 6 p.m. passenger train go by. All night long, I could hear the sound of the trains coupling. It was music to my ears. On a quiet night, when the wind was blowing in the right direction, I could hear the sound of the tugboats on the Mississippi.

I remember an ice box, a window fan and someone shoveling coal in the furnace. I remember the shade of the tulip tree in the back yard. I remember doing my grandma’s hair in the shady yard. My payment was vanilla ice cream and root beer floats purchased at the local confectionery.

I remember the “rag” man with a horse and wagon going down the alley, collecting junk. I remember my uncle, who lived on Wyoming Street and worked for the Pevely Dairy Co., driving a milk wagon with a horse. On a hot day, we would hit him up for ice.

Dad was a union graphic member and worked at the Post-Dispatch most of his life. We were a proud union family. Mom was a stay-at-home mom. She was a great cook. No one could wash as white as my mother, and she took pride in her ironing skills. She even ironed dish towels. Dad was one of the best pitchers of his corkball league and spent a lot of time at the Gateway Corkball Club, which was a bone of contention with my mother.

Our Sunday tradition was to gather at our huge table in the kitchen for dinner. The family grew and grew.

I hope you will give me the opportunity to one day visit the home where I grew up and was given my roots. Thank you for making it pretty!

Carol Setchfield Stoker

* * *

812 Ann Lynn Court
St. Louis County

We were the first family to live at 812 Ann Lynn Court. I wanted to jot a quick note to the current inhabitants. Voila!

My parents, Bob and Ann Hager, built the house in 1962. At the time I was about to start first grade at St. Matthias the Apostle, and my brother, Steve, was 4 years old. My parents loved the idea of a cul-de-sac because they thought it would be a safe place for us to play and ride our bikes. This was our first brick house. The only house on the street that was all shingle was the original farm house.

Everyone else was excited about having a brick house and even prouder of an attached garage.

I couldn’t believe my parents chose a subdued pink/coral for the garage trim — it seemed so fashion-forward at the time. They were very decisive about the cabinet doors and the “copper tone” refrigerator, oven and stove. Our baby sister, Lisa, was born in the summer of 1964, and that caused some redecorating inside.

Connie and her brother, Steve Hager.

We all became best friends with the neighbors who lived behind us on Victory Drive, the Niedzielskis.

My dad and Frank started working on house projects together. My mom and Rosemary baked for each other and took all of us to Mass together. Steve was friends with Doug for riding bikes and playing softball and hotbox. Linda and I devoted hours to our Barbies and tetherball in their back yard. And their oldest daughter, Pat, was just amused by all of us.

Our parents would come in and pray with us every night. But as soon as they said “good night,” we had a whole list of games like seeing who could hold his or her breath the longest, who could make the most rhyming words.

We all have wonderful memories there, and we hope your family loves it, too.

Connie Hager Burkhardt

* * *

5565 Bartmer Ave.
St. Louis

Hello. I once lived in your house. My name is Ed Cook. I’m the little kid between my big brother, Bill, and my sister, Jane. My father, Howard, bought the house in about 1924, and Jane and I were born in the upstairs front bedroom. She in 1926, and I in 1928. Bill and Dick were born on Waterman Avenue.

Howard and Jenna Cook and family in front of 1934 Franklin automobile.

They both served in the armed forces in World War II. Bill was in the infantry for four and a half years; Dick was in the Air Corps as an aviator on a B-24 bomber for two and a half years. I was in the Navy for two years in the Korean War.

My parents bought the house from the Morey family to be near the Principia School, which was at Belt and Page at that time.

The family photograph was taken in Wisconsin in about 1936. The automobile is a 1934 Franklin.

My father was a prominent patent attorney, and my mother, Jennie, was a graduate of Harris Teachers College and taught for three years before marrying. Jane and I are the only ones left.

Edward B. Cook

* * *

7023 Lena Ave.
Jennings

Greetings. I was born in your house.

Brother Levon and Ray Killebrew, circa 1935.

To be exact, I was born in the front bedroom of the house where you now reside. It was around 9:15 a.m. on Jan. 25, 1934. I was delivered by a Dr. Wall with birthing assistance from my father’s mother.
Jennings was not incorporated in those days. It was unincorporated within what was called the West Walnut Manor area.

Your residence was one of only four houses built on the street in 1934. It was purchased by my parents, Roland Douglas Killebrew and Marie Opal Ferguson-Killebrew, in about 1932. The purchase price for the newly constructed four-room brick house with one bath was about $3,500. Your house was the only one I knew from 1934 until 1952, when I left home to attend Hannibal-LaGrange College.

The house’s heating system (a cranky furnace an crankier water heater) was stoked by coal. Coal was delivered by Fix Coal and Ice each week, directly below the kitchen.

My small circle of life was active and community laced, alive with families and childhood friendships, an area of cross-cultural and ethnic experiences.

Sometime around 1937 or 1938, my father lost his job as a Kroger employee. It was during the Great Depression with unemployment nearing 20 percent. He was able to find temporary employment as a butcher at a local meat market, hardly earning enough to support his family. My mother found a part-time job as a waitress at Zimmerman’s Restaurant, close to home, and the task of keeping an eye on me fell to my brother, Lavon.

My brother, 10 years older than I, and I shared a fold-out studio couch in what was the dining area of the house. We kept our clothes in the only closet in the house and our sports equipment in a basement cabinet.

We slept in a hideaway bed in the basement during the hot summer months, comfy and cool.

L. Raymond Killebrew

* * *

3117 Lemp Ave.
St. Louis

Our Benton Park home was built in 1901. Despite its being 108 years old, we are only the fifth owners of the house.

Marie and Philip DeLong on thier wedding day, Feb. 9, 1946.

The third owners had a fairly large extended family. On more than one occasion, we’ve had people stop by, ring our doorbell and give us the family name. In speakeasy style, we have invited them in to tour what they remember as “Grandma’s and Grandpa’s” house.

On one such occasion, two women appeared at our door, gave us the family name and got the tour. They had so many happy memories of Sunday dinners at their grandparents’ house. Heavy drapes covered the five sets of pocket doors; traces of the poles still can be seen on the woodwork.

We learned that “Grandpa” sat on the parsons bench in the foyer of the house, waiting to be called for dinner. Once, when “Grandma” called, he didn’t respond. He had passed away. My daughters believe that this is the ghost who turns on lights and television sets.

During the tour, we mentioned that we’d someday like to have a photo wall of all the people who were married at our house on Lemp. We had our wedding photos taken here ourselves. The younger of the two sisters obliged us when she got home to Columbia, Mo. She sent us a picture of herself, circa 1940, in her wedding gown in front of the house.

Sometimes houses start to fall apart, just like people do. But the memories that become part of our own foundations seldom falter.

Our hope is that this house will hold memories for our children as strong as the memories were for this woman.

Patti Eischen & Tim Mulligan

* * *

909 Marias Drive
St. Louis County

I hope this letter finds you all doing well. We lived in an idyllic middle-class world on Marias Drive from 1953 to 1977. We came home from school, ate our cookies, went out to play, ate our fish sticks and macaroni and then went out to play again past dark on Friday nights.

Virgil and Harriett Naumann and their son, David.

We had a wooded area behind the subdivision. On the other side of the woods was Maline Creek, which flowed into the Mississippi about a mile away. Water and woods are strong draws for kids, and we were no different. We dug forts and tunnels in the wolds, started ground fires, which, at least on one occasion, got out of control, made tree houses and played war.

There was a massive sewer line dumping into the creek, which had eroded a considerable area of land and which usually was dry except when we had high water. It was a miracle that on one ever suffered a serious injury because of our wayward attempts at archery and marksmanship. We loved to shoot our arrows straight up in the air and then lie on our backs to see how close the arrows would land to us without having to use the metal trash can lids that doubled as shields.

In spring 1973, the Mississippi River went to 43 feet above the flood level. We sandbagged, and no homes were lost. The back yards were destroyed, and I can still remember Chief of Police Allen Pruitt screaming at two people in a john boat who had decided to go cruising in the new Maline Lake, which had become part of the Mississippi River.

In 1993, Marias and Lebon Drive were not as lucky, losing about 10 homes despite valiant sandbagging efforts that went on until 1 or 2 in the morning. I can remember some of the neighbors swimming in an above-ground pool when the flood water was only several feet away.

David L. Naumann

* * *

6445 Smiley Ave.
St. Louis

I once lived in your house. Living at 6445 Smiley in the 1940s and 1950s provided a rhythm, rhyme and reason while growing up in the neighborhood.

Grandmother Barbara Stofko and Aunt Anna Rauh.

We rented the house, and the best feature was the glassed-in porch. One step onto the porch and we knew if the neighborhood kids had started a ballgame in the street, if they were bike riding, if they headed for the church’s snow covered hill or, on a certain October night, if trick-or-treaters had begun their haunting.

Folks knew each other and were friendly. Adults knew the kids and the kids said, “Hi, Mr. Galati” or “Hi, Mrs. Scharf.”

The men attended their jobs: the building cleaner, the baker, bookkeeper, the factory foreman. The women worked and cared for the home. They called us from the front porch or yard to come in for supper or darkness. Children walked to Epiphany or Longfellow schools, walked home for lunch and back to school. Children waited at Arsenal Street for dad to come home via the Lindenwood bus.

In autumn, 1951, the Post-Dispatch reported that the upcoming Veiled Prophet Parade was scheduled as a night event. Floats, featuring the Veiled Prophet from the mythical Khorassan, would be lighted by generators. The VP Queen and Maids of Honor would ride in a special float. My parents talked about this event and, a couple of days before the parade, proposed a plan.

I rode the Lindenwood bus downtown. I knew the corner to get off the bus, where Dad waited. As we walked to Laclede Avenue, the evening crackled with excitement. People laughed and chatted as they waited at the curbs. I can still hear the vendor calling, “Soda here, soda a dime.”

Evidently the economy was improving because soon Dad bought a car. He no longer bought a bus pass.

We moved out of town when I was 14. My parents were thrilled because they became homeowners. Years later, we often talked about those simple times at 6445 Smiley Ave. I hope you experience good times in the house.

Barbara Lindecke

* * *

230 Sylvester Ave.
Webster Groves

The house in which you are living belonged to my family from 1964-1969. My room was on the second floor, just to the left when you leave the stairs. I had a sunroom attached to the bedroom, and it had a lot of built-in cabinets and drawers and a drop-down table.

Julie and her brother, David Broz, Easter 1968.

Sylvester was a great place to grow up. The Kennedys lived in the big house across the street. They had nine kids — including one each the age of my brother, sister and me — so we had built-in best friends. Next to them, toward Portland Terrace, was the Brennan home. There were six kids there. On the other side of the Kennedy’s was the Van Benthuysen home. On the corner of Swon and Sylvester were the Chapmans. That was the most spectacular home on our block. They had a daughter who was a year or two younger, and she was in our gang of kids, too.

Summers back then were dreamy. We only had air conditioning in one or two rooms of our house, but we were outside all the time anyway so it didn’t matter. We played a lot of baseball, either in our back yard or in the field behind the Kennedy home. At night or on weekends, my dad would come out and be the pitcher.

We also walked to the Webster pool. We would walk up Sylvester, and on the other side of Big Bend was a scary tunnel we had to pass through. We went to the library, the Ozark Theater and Selma Market for penny candy with our earnings from lemonade stands.

The Kelly family lived on Portland Terrace. Their daughter, Chrissy, used to have a “day camp” during the summer. I think she would charge us a penny or five cents, and entertain us for a couple of hours.

I’m not sure that ever even lasted a week. We went back outside right after dinner and played kick the can, porch tag, etc.

We roamed at will.

For years, I had dreams that I had moved back into that house. I hope your family enjoys the home as much as mine did.

Julie Christiansen