The House on 8th Street

I have been thinking about my Grandfather the past few days.

Robert was born in 1901. He was too young for World War I. He was too old for World War II. He loved trains, and in 1918 he got a job with the Pennsylvania Railroad.

He married Alice in 1924. For some reason they could not have a child without some sort of "modern medical science," the details of which I do not know. Their daughter, Patricia, was born in 1929.

Robert and Patricia, April 1929

During the Depression, things were tough for many companies -- including railroads.  Robert was laid off in the mid '30's, although he did work for Pennsy long enough to get a little each month from Railroad Retirement. For a while he worked as a traffic counter. He would stand by the edge of a road and count the cars as they went by -- mechanical traffic counting systems were not widely used yet, one of the first systems was not developed until 1937.

Good fortune smile upon Robert, though, as he was able to get a job with the Federal Government. He and his family moved to Washington DC in 1936, renting a red brick house at 401 8th Street NE. The house was built in about 1914 and was still plumbed for gas lighting. The electric light switches were the old push-button type.

The house was owned by Mike Fesko, a barber whose shop took up the southern half of the first floor with an entrance around the corner on D Street. Fesko had owned the house since the '20's if not the Teens. Why Fesko did not live in the house I do not know. Perhaps he needed the income from the rent while he lived with another family member.

My Grandparents had the northern half of the first floor which was where the dining room and kitchen were. The stairs were in the middle of the house.

Patricia in the front yard, 1940

My mother's music teacher once saw Robert "conducting" the orchestra on the radio as she rode by on the street car.

After the war my Father was stationed to Washington as a Military Policeman. Somewhere along the way he met my mother.

Patricia and Lawrence, 1948

My family would visit from time to time, although the first time I saw the house was in August, 1961. We pulled in at about 2 AM after a week-long cross-country drive for our move from California to New York. That is the first time I met Robert.

Me on the doorstep in August, 1961

As New York was not very far away from Washington, we would visit my Grandparents fairly often. In 1962 we became friends with one of the kids from the neighborhood. I don't know what there was to do in such an urban environment, but we had a good time. On Sunday morning he came to the door. My mother answered.

"I'm sorry, but we are getting ready to go to church. After that we are going home."

I looked forward to seeing him on our next trip but, unfortunately, we never saw him again.

A friend in the neighborhood

If we went shopping we would go up the H Street. It was not unusual for my Grandfather to give us a dollar to buy something. One time, I bought a friction-motor toy of a 1960 Chevy station wagon. My oldest brother bought a record: Rinky Dink by Dave "Baby" Cortez. As my brother played the record, I pretended that it was playing on the radio in my new toy.




Alice died in 1963, leaving Robert alone in the house.

Fesko died in about 1964. The house was purchased by a black woman. One of her relatives was a shoe repairman. While his shop took over Fesko's old barber shop, he also needed the rest of the first floor. Robert then had just the second floor, which was plenty of room for him.

Robert and Patricia in 1966, with the signs for the shoe repair shop in the windows.

Robert had a '50's vintage TV and a Zenith table radio, but he never really watched or listened to them.

One day in April, 1968, he went up to H Street to do some shopping. He did not know about the assassination of Martin Luther King. Robert must have looked bewildered at the what he saw on H Street. A kindly older black couple went up to him and said, "You really don't want to be here right now." He got home as fast as he could.

H Street NE, April 1968 Photo: AP

He called my mother that night. Along with the rioting going on outside, my mother could hear a terror in Robert's voice that she had never heard before. My mother figured that the only thing that kept the house from being burned down was the fact that it was now owned by the black woman.

The plan was for Robert to come live with us when my father retired from the Army in 1971. However, in late 1970 he was burglarized. That was enough. After thirty-five years, Robert left the house at 401 8th Street and moved west.

About twenty-five years ago, one of the clients of the company I worked for stopped by the house. She met up with the owner and had a nice chat.

Today, I think the top floor is still rented as a residence. Where the shoe repair shop and Fesko's barber shop used to be is now a coffee shop.



Memories of a house and the man who lived there.

Robert, 1973