A Guy and His Gun

In January of 1986, I worked three jobs. Why? I was 19 and I was on a quest to make money and to keep myself as busy as possible. I always liked to be on the go and with three jobs - I certainly was!

One of the disadvantages of living on Third Street was that all parking occurred on the street. My used 1979 Red Honda Accord could amazingly fit into small spots and believe me, I took advantage of that as much as possible. If I happened to come home late, I usually had to park at least a block away. My grandparents (who I lived with), were never thrilled if my car was not within view. I think they just liked to keep an eye on me and my stuff :).



On one particular Winter night, the parking situation really sucked. Instead of getting to park on Third Street, I had to go down to Orchard and then, park at the very end of it - almost at the corner of Orchard and High Street.



The black splat is where I ended up parking.

As I was walking up the sidewalk, nearing the corner of Orchard and Third Street, the light of a street lamp bounced off of one car and made it stand out more than the others parked on the street.

I looked to the right and I saw a guy - about my age - sitting in the driver's seat, with a gun in his hand. He looked distressed. We made eye contact. I diverted my eyes - but in a way that showed no fear. Why? I couldn't tell you. I probably should have been afraid. But everything inside of me kept me composed and calm and I continued walking at an even pace towards our house.

I walked inside - it was after 10 p.m., but my grandpa was still awake. He had just retired a few weeks beforehand and he claimed that he couldn't get used to not being awake for second shift. Secretly, I think he worried about me being out "in the dark" and so staying up, watching television kept him entertained until I got home.

So anyway, I walked in and I told my grandpa that we needed to call 911. I explained to him what I had just seen and amazingly, I was still very calm about it. For many years, Grandpa worked as a Security Supervisor at St. Joe Hospital so before we picked up the phone to place the call, he asked me specific questions.

Where exactly was the car parked?
Was it running? Or off?
What did it look like?
What did he look like?
Did he see you?
Did he make any attempt to get out of his car?
What did his gun look like?
What position was the gun in?

Most of my answers weren't specific enough (like I knew it was a mid-size American car but I didn't know what model/make/year), and forget the gun stuff. I just knew that it was a small pistol - it didn't have a wooden handle (you know - like handguns did in the Westerns on television).

My grandpa was very patient and in the span of 2-3 minutes, he got a lot of information out of me. He placed the 911 phone call himself (giving the details I had provided) and within 15 minutes, a uniformed FWP guy was at our door.

My grandpa and him got on well. The policeman took my statement and he asked the same type of questions that my grandpa had (and then some).

At the end of this process, he told us that the guy was upset over a domestic situation and that he had planned on killing himself. I was kind of shocked - I guess I never really stopped to think what was wrong with him or why he had a gun (or what he was going to do with it).

The policeman explained that he and his partner had approached the car (and its driver) to ascertain the situation and that is what took him so long to get over to see us. The individual had a gun permit but they did not feel comfortable with letting him go. It didn't sound like he was arrested - more that someone (or someones) were spending some time, talking to him. He was definitely out of the immediate area and the police gave him strict instructions not to come back near this area.

I guess I should have been comforted by that last part but really, I don't ever remember being scared or frightened. Something in his eyes - that split second we made eye contact - told me that this wasn't a guy who was going to hurt me.

But you know, I got a lecture from both the policeman and my grandfather about walking alone, so late at night, blah blah blah.

As he was leaving, the policeman shook my grandfather's hand and then looked at me and said, "You probably saved his life tonight". I didn't know what to say to that. So I said nothing. He didn't appear as if he was looking for a response.

After he left, and my grandpa locked up for the night, we sat in the living room and watched some late night television (Channel 55!). Neither of us said much and about an hour later, we went to bed.

The next morning, my grandma was all frantic. She pulled out every possibility (I could have been raped, murdered, kidnapped) and I just shook my head at her. Usually, when she got this way, me and grandpa just let her rant. Eventually, she went a little over the top and my grandpa stepped in to cut her off.

"Irene. Our granddaughter did the right thing. I don't like that she was out walking in the dark but in the end, it all turned out alright for everyone, including the young man who might have been found this morning by someone else walking past his car."

That quieted her - real quick :).

Every once in awhile, whenever I had to park on Orchard, I always wondered what happened to the guy. All of these years later, I still can't look at that corner without thinking about that night. Although we only shared a couple of seconds of co-existence, I hoped that he had been able to move past the type of pain that led him to that night in his car with his gun.

Cheese and Doughnuts

While I was in Fort Wayne two weekends ago, I retraced the very path that my grandparents and I used to take for cheese and doughnuts.

After crossing Third Street over to Wells Street, we would walk down the sidewalk - past 2nd Street, past 1st Street - and we would come across Richard's Bakery.

How to describe the baking smell coming from Richard's Bakery? I'm not eloquent enough - that's for sure. Let's just say - this place was in competition for best smell ever (with the bread people).

We would walk past the building (no, let's stop!) because grandpa said that glazed twisties would ruin our cheese sampling abilities.

We would round the corner and there would be the building that housed The Mouse House.

The Mouse House was the very last shop on this strip. The very last shop before you'd get ready to cross the old Wells Street Bridge.

We would walk in, and my grandparents would always be greeted by their names.

Wayne. Irene. How are you this fine spring morning?

I wasn't sure how they knew the folks who ran The Mouse House. I just know that every time we went in there, we were greeted like old friends. After sampling various cheese, we would walk out with at least one round of colby and a slab of another, unknown (to me) cheese.

We would walk back to Richard's Bakery and again - I would be greeted with that heavenly - please never leave me smell.

Again, my grandparents would be greeted by their first names. While I would stick my nose against the see through glass display mmmmm - doughnuts...mmmmm - pastries..... they would chit chat about everything and anything.

My grandpa would get his cake doughnut. I always got the glazed twisties. My grandma would get something with a filling in it.

The walk home always seemed longer than the walk there. Just cause I wanted to eat my doughnut - right there!

To distract myself, I chatted. (Chatting = forgetting the glaze part of the twistie - but only momentarily).

Me: How come we always walk down to the bakery and the cheese shop to get doughnuts and cheese? It's easier if we just pick up this stuff when we shop at the grocery store.

Grandma: Well because Krissie. These are honest folks, trying to make a living for themselves and their families. They put their heart into what they sell and I know that they wouldn't sell us anything that they wouldn't want their own families to have.

Me: So the grocery store sells rotten food?

Grandpa: Not exactly. I think what your grandma is trying to say is that we think it is important to patronize local establishments - family owned businesses. Many years ago, before you were born, that used to be the way of life. Bakeries, and cheese shops, and drug stores, and shoe stores...they all used to be owned and run by the families who lived in the community. Back then, everybody knew everybody and that's the way it was. When we moved to this neighborhood and we saw that there were some of these places close by, we made sure to visit them and give them our business.

Me: How come not more of these places exist?

Grandpa: Everybody is in a hurry these days. They want everything now, without waiting. These shopping centers popped up with national chains and people drive out to get what they want. Most family businesses don't stock up what you'd find in K-Mart and Murphy's.

Me: Well grandpa, we're only in a hurry because there's so many things we have to do!

Grandpa: When you get older, you might see things differently...

To Ride or To Walk? That was the Question.

My grandparents lived at 615 W. Third Street a good chunk of my junior high and all of my high school years.

I spent many summers and my entire senior year (and first year of college), living with them at this house.

By the way, that's me over there, to the left. I was visiting my grandparents and someone snapped a picture of me in a "pep band" uniform (white pants - ewww). This was the alley next to their house (and btw - the alley doesn't exist anymore). The house is to the left of this picture.


Their particular mode of transportation was by foot or by bus.

The rule of thumb (on whether you took a bus or whether you walked) was based upon this map I've put together.

There weren't boundaries given to me/us (spoken out loud) - I just remember, based upon where we'd need to go, the typical comments that I would get from either grandparent.

Grandma: We better take the bus. Those crazy driver's come off of the highway and still treat Goshen Road like it's their own personal raceway.

Grandpa: If you and Krissie are going to Murphy's, take the bus. There's too many streets for you to cross at this time of day.

Wells and Third Street - Then & Before Then

PTC Bus Stop

Corner of Wells Street and Third Street

Fort Wayne, Indiana 46808

My Grandparents (my mother's parents) lived in Fort Wayne almost their entire life (with the exception of a few years where they lived in Jackson, Michigan).

My Grandpa was born and raised in Fort Wayne. He always lived in the downtown area - Main Street, Clay Street, DeWald, Union Street.

The last house that my Grandparents lived in (before Grandpa died) was on Third Street. They picked it because it was a duplex, it had a huge yard, and it was within walking distance of everything that they cared about.

I've mentioned before that my Grandparents didn't drive. Ever. They always got around on foot or - sometimes - we took the bus. When they lived on Third Street, this is the bus stop we used to stand next to in order to catch the PTC bus.

As you can see from this picture, it almost looks "park" like. It has two nice benches and beautiful shade trees. I remember when those shade trees weren't tall enough to shade anything. And one day, while waiting on the bus to pick us up, I mentioned to Grandpa that they should have planted bigger trees so we had some shade during the hot weather.

That's when he told me about why these trees were so brand new.

It turns out, that just a few years before, a Firehouse - specifically Firehouse #6 - used to occupy the space that we were standing on.

A Firehouse?! Neat!

Me: But what happened to the firehouse? Did it not have enough fires to put out?

Grandpa: The city needed to put that firehouse out on Coliseum Boulevard. People moved out of the inner parts of our city to the suburbs and in case there are fires out in the new parts of the city, they've got a fire house close by.

Me: How come there can't be both (fire stations)?

Grandpa: Sometimes, when you only have one pot of money to pull from, you have to make a decision - one or the other.

He told me that it was built in the late 1800's and that before there were shiny trucks - there were horses which used to take the firemen and their equipment to whatever establishment needed them.

Me: Wow! Horses used to walk on these streets?!

You can tell, I was easily fascinated as a child :).

As I drove by this spot this weekend, I stopped and took the picture you see at the beginning of this blog entry. I sat on one of the bench's and I thought about the time that I spent in this area as a child. You never think - in the moment - how much time you spend "waiting" for something (and back then - it was a bus) and how those moments are great pockets of opportunities that should never go to waste.

In my case, I was such an inquisitive child and I often wonder - if handheld games and other modern things were around then - would I have turned them off and had these types of conversations with my Grandparents (especially as we walked downtown or waited for the bus)?

Sadly - probaby not. So I guess I'm thankful that my Grandparents didn't drive. I'm thankful that the PTC bus program operated during that time, and I'm thankful that my parents let me spend oodles of time with my mom's parents.

1401 Wells Street - Firehouse No. 6 - 1920

1401 Wells Street - Firehouse No. 6 - 1975