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TOO HOT, EVEN FOR BABIES!
It was even too hot to have babies Sunday.
Peoria hospitals reported only four babies born here in a 48 hour period ending at 9 p.m. Sunday.
Normally six to seven times that number are born over the weekend.
St. Francis Hospital reported not a single birth; Methodist just one, and Proctor hit the jackpot with three.
METHODIST HOSPITAL: A daughter was born to Mrs. Mitchell Lipensky 6820 S. Wisconsin, Sunday a.m.
PROCTOR HOSPITAL: A daughter was born to….
So said the article in the Peoria Journal Star.
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Named for, and “giving a name” to Eli Goldman; weighing in at six pounds, twelve ounces, the little girl was named Ellie Jan Lipensky.
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Peoria, Illinois
June, 1960
Having a new baby to care for—her weariness and irritability having returned—having decided running the stairs was exhausting, Marsha suggested looking for a one story house to rent.
Besides, having his new daughter sleep in the same room—though his son had slept in their room—by this time having become used to privacy of sorts, Mitchell found that he would rather share a bedroom with just his wife.
Willing to pay extra, within limits, with the Peoria Journal Star’s classified section in hand, on the very next Sunday, for $85 a month—$10 more than they were presently paying—Marsha and Mitchell Lipensky rented a “cute” three bedroom, one and a half bath, one story house situated on a long, narrow, corner lot.
July 20, 1960
Bong! Bong! Bong!
Sleeping in a corner of and, with the help of a folding gate, kept within the kitchen at night, better than an alarm clock…
Bong! Bong! Bong! Mercy’s tail striking the metal cabinet door making a hollow Bong! Bong! Bong! that reverberated throughout the small house signaling the fact that near three and a half year old Michael had awoken, had gone into the living room and turned the television on.
It also told Mitchell that he’d better get into the kitchen, if it wasn’t too late already—and it usually was—to get Mercy outside.
Looking in the living room, “Hi, Mikey,” Mitchell said sweetly as he headed to the kitchen. Opening the gate, “Hi, Mercy,” he said in the exact same, sweet tone of voice. Then, “Down, Mercy!” he said in a tone not quite as sweetly as, stepping into the kitchen he found that, oh, yeah, it was too late… by a few times and, if for nothing more than to get the licking, jumping, bundle of early morning energy out of his hair while cleaning the pile’a’poop and the three—well, to be fair, because one and a half puddles’a’pee were on the newspaper that was spread near the back door—before cleaning the pile’a’poop and the one and a half puddles’a’pee off the linoleum covered floor, opening the screen door, Mitchell attached the six month old Dalmatian to the lead.
As there was no fence to separate this narrow, rectangular shaped lot and the side yard of the O’Connor’s, the neighbors to the rear, Mitchell clipped Mercy’s collar onto a lead that was attached to a pulley that ran along a seven foot high, fifteen foot long line that was fastened on one end by an eyebolt that was screwed into the wood frame of the back door and, running at a sharp angle, to the trunk of a tree on the other end.
****
Given two pure bred Dalmatian puppies from Cricket’s litter of eleven shortly after moving into their new home as a gift from Walter and Myra for the birth of their granddaughter, keeping the female, Marsha and Mitchell were told to sell the other and keep whatever money the pup brought, which in itself was a nice gesture because the male sold after only two days for $125.
However, having a child in his “terrible threes,” a newborn and two puppies to care for—even if for only two days while Mitchell was at work—was just a bit too much for Marsha and, what under other circumstances would have been considered a nice gesture, as most often happened between Marsha and her in-laws, this nice gesture soured rather quickly.
Though she did love animals, and dogs in particular, because of the baby, at first Marsha hadn’t been too excited about having even one puppy… not too excited at all.
Besides, as she’d said on more than one occasion, “If your parents wanted to give us a gift of a puppy and money, if that’s what they wanted to do, then why didn’t they sell the other dog themselves and just give us the money?”
But—excluding Walter, because she didn’t think he was all that devious—Marsha really didn’t know if her mother-in-law did it the way she did it knowing it would cause a problem, or if Myra, or Myra and Walter together, did it stupidly, without thinking.
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Nonetheless, Mercy was now one of and loved by all the family.
A Face For The Future
August 10, 1960
Coming from the air cooled lobby, My God, he thought as the heat hit him, it’s got to be a million degrees out here today! Standing within the miniscule shade in the lee side of the building, loosening his tie and removing his seersucker jacket, he draped it over the sample case.
Walking north on Main Street, glancing at his watch, It’s only 11:17, I can make another call before lunch, he thought, then either grab lunch here or go on home.
Knowing he had an hour to kill when eating downtown, Mitchell had taken to bringing whatever book he was presently reading with him each day.
Just about anywhere he worked in the city of Peoria was never much further than ten minutes from home. But Mitchell knew if he went home for lunch, especially on a day as hot and muggy as this day, most likely he’d remain home.
Rationalizing, But I’ve had a pretty good day so far. As a matter of fact, for only working—calculating—eight days this month, I’ve sold—calculating—better then four hundred thousand envelopes. And besides—rationalizing—I promised Mikey I’d take him fishing.
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Never expecting to, surprising both his wife and himself, Mitchell found he enjoyed the relaxation fishing gave him. But tiring of the racial barbs and ethnic jokes of Hugh Ivy and Bobby Joe Klee, in the early days of that summer he had taken to going fishing by himself and—still ambivalent about actually catching fish—he had found a small, shade stippled clearing on the western bank of the Illinois River where, depending on his mood and the day, sitting in sun or shade, Mitchell would bait the hooks on the two poles he then owned, cast the lines, eat the lunch he or Marsha had made, then, again depending on his mood—keeping an eye out for the bobbing of the tips of the poles—Mitchell would sit leaning on a nearby bolder reading a book, or, laying on a blanket watching the clouds, he would let his mind drift, and, if indeed he did catch a fish, other than baiting the hooks and casting the lines, it was purely coincidental and, still not too keen about beheading and gutting it—also considering the fact that his wife refused to even look at it, to say nothing about cooking it—the lucky fish always got tossed back.
Truly enjoying small town living… Well, in comparison to Chicago or New York City, even with a population of two million, Peoria could definitely be defined as a “small town.”
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“Hi!” Nodding his head, “How you doing?” Speaking to someone he thought he recognized as either a customer or a prospective customer, or someone that just looked familiar.
Being of a friendly nature and not wanting to slight anyone—customer, prospective customer or someone that just looked familiar—approaching, nodding his head, Mitchell said “Hi!” to anyone that even looked familiar. And sometimes, if she was pretty enough, he’d add, “How you doing this morning?”
Not sure if she knew this good looking, friendly young man, slowing slightly, “Okay!” the attractive, middle aged business woman said in passing. “How are you?”
“Fine,” he answered back. “A little hot today, but just fine!”
Okay, his thoughts coming back to his quandary, So, do I want to go home and take the rest of the day off and take Mikey fishing, or do I want to eat here and spend more time working? Well, Mikey is three, after all and he’ll probably get bored real fast. But it’s so hot…
Rationalizing whatever his decision might be, turning the corner onto Adams Street, he saw a grandstand swathed in red, white and blue bunting and a crowd of people that overflowed the grassy lawn in front of the county courthouse.
Approaching the crowd, “What’s going on?” Mitchell asked a man dressed in overalls passing in his direction.
“Ah, it’s, uh… one’a them guys what’s runnin’ for president there.”
“Yeah? Who?”
Passing, “Some politician,” the man said over his shoulder. “Don’t know his name.”
“Thanks anyway.”
Deciding, walking to where he’d parked the car, not taking the time to stop to listen, or to see John F. Kennedy, Mitchell Lipensky went home.
