Today, I’m going to tell a “personal-ish” story. It started with a trip to the University City Public Library to work on the BrodyMonster manuscript. Normally, I’m focused and not easily distracted. But on this particular day, I was distracted, and my eyes just darted around the room looking for a diversion. Then it came to me. Today was not a day for manuscript editing. I excitedly got out of my seat and headed toward the reference librarian’s desk.
“Hi, um…I’m looking for information on a residential property here in University City.” She looked intrigued. “Can I look up information on an address even if I don’t own the property?” Listen to me, asking silly questions. Of course, I could. She smiled and politely asked me for the property address. “7524 Gannon Avenue. It’s my old house, but I don’t live there anymore.”
This house on Gannon was the first home I ever owned. It is a brown brick Cotswold Cottage that my husband and I found two months before we got married. We fixed it up, a lot. But it was still a big project, even the day we left. I guess, we felt like we abandoned it in the middle of rehab or something. Needless to say, we felt a deep emotional attachment to this house where we began our life together.
The reference librarian quickly searched through the archives and found the film rolls with old construction permits. “What information are you looking for, specifically?” She asked.
“Anything I can find.” I replied. The reference librarian smiled and told me she could bring up some of the microfilms that contained filed property records. I smiled thinking about stumbling upon the name of the original architect or contractor. I wanted to know who they were and for whom else they built homes.
Clearly, I needed a lot of help loading the microfilm reader. The scene looked something like if someone handed a baby an ammeter. I was lost and didn’t want to assume responsibility for ruining single copies of delicate microfilm. The librarian showed me how to properly load the microfilm reader. Adding to my embarrassment, a small crowd gathered around like they were looking at a rare fossil collection or something. But then after pushing a couple buttons and turning a couple dials, the images came into view. Handwritten permits from 1926, listing important dates, names of contractors, and other fascinating information that I could use to launch a substantial search into the history of 7524 Gannon. I began to scroll toward the building permit for my old house, Building Permit number 3008. But then something horrible happened. At Building Permit number 3016, the film when blank.
“I’m sorry to say, but I think it’s damaged.” I was disappointed but the librarian offered up another suggestion. “Check the phonebooks, you might find the name of a previous owner.” Close by, I picked up the 1926 phone book and started flipping through it, trying to orient myself without tearing any of the fragile, 92-year-old pages. After several minutes, I swallowed my pride and walked back over to the reference librarian.
“I don’t think I’m doing this right. I know I used one of these in, maybe, 1992…but where can I look up information by address? Is there a section like that?” The librarian laughed at me, but graciously helped me find the right section.
Within a few seconds I landed on the property, excited to see if I would finally have a name. Vacant. No information. No landline was connected to that property in 1926. Technically, construction completed on the house in 1928. I suspected to find anything about the original owners I would need to check the 1930 phonebook. Feeling optimistic, I moved on, when I reached the section for Gannon Avenue I ran my finger down the page and finally, I saw it. A listing. Ysidor Asckenasy (sometimes spelled Aschkenasy) and Fannie, his wife. A unique name, I breathed a sigh of relief. I might actually be able to find something out about these people.
Quickly, I scribbled the name on a piece of paper and hurried back to my lap top to do a Google search. On a Jewish obituary records website, I found the name Shirley Mittleman, daughter of Ysidor and Fannie. She had a sister, Estelle, who died before her. When I contacted Shirley’s son, a lawyer in Clayton, he told me about his Aunt Estelle. Estelle contracted polio as a child and she stayed in the first-floor bedroom of our home (this was later Brody’s room and my office, see photo). It was in this room, where I helped Brody with physical therapy after his femoral head operation. It was in this room, my husband slept when he couldn’t walk up and down stairs after his ankle surgery. It was in this room, I studied for the PMP exam. It was in this room, I decided to accept a position in I.T. at MasterCard and later Enterprise Rent-A-Car. But most importantly, it was in this room, that Estelle fought and overcame polio.
I always wondered why there was an odd bedroom and full bathroom on that floor. Now I knew. Because of her polio, Estelle couldn’t walk up and down stairs. Thankfully, Estelle recovered from the disease. Later, I found a song called Birdies Waltz, a song Asckenasy wrote when she was six-years-old, studying piano under Emmett Murphy. Somewhat of a local celebrity, Estelle had frequent profiles in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. I first found an article from 1937 featuring her as a talented composer, poet, pianist and book lecturer. She wrote for a local St. Louis magazine called The Modern View. As I read the article, called “Her Talents Keep Her Busy”, the hair raised on my neck as I saw quotes from this young lady about her love of singing, writing, and remaining outwardly focused. I felt like I was reading about my twin in another universe, but she was way cooler than me. And then, I found out she also liked to cook. A Post-Dispatch article from October 10, 1954 featured Estelle as a cookbook reviewer with a recipe for a mean braised Oxtail. In such a short time, my old house came alive for me in a new way. I felt connected to Estelle, perhaps it’s why I loved that cheery back bedroom so much. Perhaps, she leant me a bit of her spirit.
For seven years, I intended to research our first home. But something always got in the way. I looked back at the men sitting in front of desktop computers in the library, hurriedly enrolling in health insurance programs for 2018, and I felt fortunate. Fortunate that I got to take a step back and spend the afternoon exploring a piece of personal history and connecting with Estelle. I never had time to do these things when I worked full-time. Now when I walk past my old house, I don’t see an awkward room off the back that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be a sitting room, bedroom or office. I see a little girl with dark hair and a widow’s peak (like me) wearing leg braces, trying to help out in the kitchen. And it makes me glad I got to spend so much time “with her” when I lived in her old house and worked in her old room.