July 23, 2014 at 2:10 p.m.
Many memories of his first apartment (01/31/07)
Back in the Saddle
By By JACK RONALD-
Every time I head north from downtown Indianapolis, I find myself doing the same thing.
Moving up through the numbered streets, as I pass through the neighborhood where I lived right after college, I steal a glance at the place where I had my first apartment.
It looks better these days than it did back in the fall of 1970. I was in Indy to begin a two-year stint working in surgery at Methodist Hospital, and I needed an apartment close enough for me to walk to work. A car would have been nice, but I was going to have to save some money before I could afford one.
In addition to having no car, I had no furniture, so I found myself prowling the neighborhood near Methodist looking for a furnished place where I could lay my head.
It was a pretty rough neighborhood in those days, and in many ways it still is.
Crime was a problem, though most folks didn't have much to steal. Drug use was commonplace.
Finally, after looking at a few creepy rooms for rent, I found what I thought I was looking for.
It was in an old brick house, and the apartment amounted to the entire third floor attic. The ceiling was a maze of dormers and angles, so it was easy to hit your head if you made a wrong turn.
None of the interior walls went all the way to the ceiling. They stopped about seven feet up, so it was possible to take off your shoes in the living room and toss them over the wall into the single bedroom.
And it was furnished, though not very sensibly.
There were a couple of chairs in the living room, a bed in the bedroom, and maybe a dozen chests of drawers. One miscellaneous room was furnished with nothing but chests of drawers.
It was garishly painted, with the bedroom in red and the tiny bathroom in pink.
The gas stove looked as if it could kill everyone in the house, and the hot water service to the attic was a little iffy.
In other words, it was perfect for a single guy setting off on his own in the big city.
I still remember the landlady showing me the place. She complained bitterly about the previous tenants. "A bunch of hippies," she said. They'd climbed out the windows onto the roof and bothered the neighbors.
I assured her I didn't have any such plans, only to be informed that she'd solved the problem by nailing all the windows shut.
Great, I thought, I'm living in a brick chimney with no exit.
Still, the price was right, so I took it.
A few weeks later, I was even feeling a little bit proud of the place when my parents dropped by for a visit.
My mother's reaction is lost to memory, but I still recall my dad's.
The apartment was okay as a place for me to stay, he said. But he didn't want to see his future daughter-in-law living there.
I got the message.
The next apartment was pretty basic, was unfurnished, and was more expensive.
But at least it was safe.[[In-content Ad]]
Moving up through the numbered streets, as I pass through the neighborhood where I lived right after college, I steal a glance at the place where I had my first apartment.
It looks better these days than it did back in the fall of 1970. I was in Indy to begin a two-year stint working in surgery at Methodist Hospital, and I needed an apartment close enough for me to walk to work. A car would have been nice, but I was going to have to save some money before I could afford one.
In addition to having no car, I had no furniture, so I found myself prowling the neighborhood near Methodist looking for a furnished place where I could lay my head.
It was a pretty rough neighborhood in those days, and in many ways it still is.
Crime was a problem, though most folks didn't have much to steal. Drug use was commonplace.
Finally, after looking at a few creepy rooms for rent, I found what I thought I was looking for.
It was in an old brick house, and the apartment amounted to the entire third floor attic. The ceiling was a maze of dormers and angles, so it was easy to hit your head if you made a wrong turn.
None of the interior walls went all the way to the ceiling. They stopped about seven feet up, so it was possible to take off your shoes in the living room and toss them over the wall into the single bedroom.
And it was furnished, though not very sensibly.
There were a couple of chairs in the living room, a bed in the bedroom, and maybe a dozen chests of drawers. One miscellaneous room was furnished with nothing but chests of drawers.
It was garishly painted, with the bedroom in red and the tiny bathroom in pink.
The gas stove looked as if it could kill everyone in the house, and the hot water service to the attic was a little iffy.
In other words, it was perfect for a single guy setting off on his own in the big city.
I still remember the landlady showing me the place. She complained bitterly about the previous tenants. "A bunch of hippies," she said. They'd climbed out the windows onto the roof and bothered the neighbors.
I assured her I didn't have any such plans, only to be informed that she'd solved the problem by nailing all the windows shut.
Great, I thought, I'm living in a brick chimney with no exit.
Still, the price was right, so I took it.
A few weeks later, I was even feeling a little bit proud of the place when my parents dropped by for a visit.
My mother's reaction is lost to memory, but I still recall my dad's.
The apartment was okay as a place for me to stay, he said. But he didn't want to see his future daughter-in-law living there.
I got the message.
The next apartment was pretty basic, was unfurnished, and was more expensive.
But at least it was safe.[[In-content Ad]]
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