Mom, Meet Saquatch

Pat McFarlane Young, born at Hurley in 1930 and a graduate of Flint Central in 1948, still has her sense of humor at her new home in Tacoma, Washington.

A Sense of Place: The Sill Building

The demolition of the Sill Building in downtown Flint, Michigan. (Photo courtesy of Amy Peterson)

A postcard of the Flint P. Smith Building, later renamed the Sill Building.

Downtown Flint during flooding in the 1940s.

Memories of another Flint landmark that is no more by Pat McFarlane Young, who has written about Flint bands, the I.M.A., old friends, and etiquette lessons.

I was puzzled by the recent photo of downtown Flint shot from the sixth floor of the Durant Hotel. The skyline didn’t quite look right. Then I realized the tall, narrow building that stood like a sentinel overlooking Saginaw Street near the river was missing. The Sill Building was gone.

The northern end of downtown always seemed more exciting to me than the rest, home to Thompson’s restaurant, the penny arcade and the Greyhound Bus station crowded with interesting characters, most of whom were not waiting for a bus. Across the street were the forbidden Rialto Theatre and an upstairs pool hall where boxer Jock Leslie hung out.

But my most vivid memories are of the Sill Building because my father’s office was on the third floor overlooking Saginaw Street. As a child my mother and I got to “visit” the office and view every parade from the windows of Darby & Son Realtors. Another not so pleasant memory was watching the historic Flint flood waters flow through downtown.

As a teenager I felt important going into the Sill Building. It was like I was marching to the Cheers theme song, headed “where everybody knows your name.” The elevator operator sitting on her little pull down stool greeted me with “Hello Patty, going to see your Dad?” I’m sure she probably guessed I was planning to ask him for a few bucks to go to the Honey Dell for a parfait and then catch the Lewis St. bus home so my mother would think I had walked straight from Central High School. Dad always came through with the parting words, “You don’t need to mention this to Mama.”

He never had to worry about that as Dad was my gentle hero all my life. I didn’t appreciate what my sometimes dour Scottish mother instilled in me until many years later. Their love, and growing up in Flint, made me into a person that could handle tough times and appreciate what really matters. I have faith that my hometown will now do the same.

Verne McFarlane hard at work in the Sill Building.

Sentimental Journey

The stage of the Capitol Theater in better days.

A reflection on Flint from Pat McFarlane Young, born at Hurley Hospital on November 2, 1930. It was originally posted on November 7, 2007, and it's one of my favorites on Flint Expatriates.

A stranger traveling through Flint today would, in all probability, view it as a rather dreary, gray, nondescript city filled with abandoned factories, boarded up buildings, and streets in need of repair. It certainly doesn’t have the charm of San Francisco or the excitement of New York, but I still see Flint through the eyes of my youth.

I often have an acute attack of melancholy thinking of my school days at Central High. My thoughts drift to 1945 and the school grounds teeming with students on their lunch hour, sitting on the lawn or hanging around Lloyd’s Drug Store, hiding their cigarettes in cupped hands. If I hurried I could run downtown for a coke at Pinecrest, a tiny lunch counter in the Capitol Theater Building. It was a hangout for the so called “400,” a faction everyone wanted desperately to belong to. I felt that my presence there would somehow make me belong as if by osmosis — a theory soon disproved by the chosen few.

After school I studied in the old Public Library, standing like a fortress at Kearsley and Clifford Streets. It was full of enchanting nooks and crannies with mysterious, narrow stairways where I sat and hid for hours in the world of books. I’m sure the new library offers many more advantages, but never again will I be able to escape in such a belletristic atmosphere.

I grew up on the Eastside and recall the unexplained pride I felt when the 3:30 Buick factory whistle blew and the roughly dressed workers poured out of the General Motors labyrinth swinging their lunch pails. Some were headed for home and some for the corner bar, but all with the determined step of an army after a battle won. I somehow felt as if I were a part of this giant assembly line and the city it fed.

Saturday night was an exciting climax to the week. I sometimes spent the evening surrounded by rainbows of shimmering colored light bouncing off the ceiling and walls like ping pong balls as couples swayed gently to the music. A psychedelic happening? No, only Saturday night at the IMA during the big band era. The World War II melodies of “Moonlight Cocktail” and “Sentimental Journey” were perfect accompaniments for the mood of the times.

Nostalgia, I’m sure, is the opiate of old age. Memories over ten years old automatically become the “good ol’ days." We remember only the happy things and leave the shaded areas behind. And yet, faintly sifting through the sands of time, I seem to recall saying, "The day I’m eighteen, I’m leaving this town."

Happy Birthday from Flint Expatriates

It's time to wish Pat Young — our most loyal reader and contributor — a happy birthday. She was born at Hurley Hospital in 1930. She stays in great shape by restraining her highly trained attack dog, Rob Roy, and writing about old Flint, the Sill Building, and etiquette lessons. Happy birthday, Mom!

A Flint Expatriate Christmas

Gordie Young (Flint Powers Class of 1984) and Pat McFarlane Young (Flint Central Class of 1948)

Happy Mother's Day

Flint Photos: E. 2nd Street

The house on E. 2nd St. bet between Stevens and Wallenberg where my grandparents lived when my mom was born in 1930. It appears to be a parking lot now.

Happy Birthday!

Happy birthday to Flint Expatriate and Central High grad Patricia McFarlane Young. She's 79 today. Have a great day, Mama.

Go here for some of Pat's reflections on Flint. And here for her memories of etiquette lessons at the Durant. And here for a story of what works means for a Flint native.

Kearsley Park on the 4th of July

I usually spent the 4th of July in Kearsley Park when I lived in Flint. My grandparents' house was around the corner on Illinois Avenue, and we'd all head over to the park with blankets and sparklers. I took these photos a couple weeks back just after a torrential downpour that temporarily turned Kearsley Park Blvd. into Lakefront property.

If you look hard enough, you can almost see Safetyville.

The steps down to the park near the intersection of Kearsley Park Blvd. and Olive Street. Gypsy Jack lived just a few blocks north.

The Golden Leaf Revisited

In October, I interviewed the manager of the venerable Golden Leaf Club, as well as talk to my mom and her good friend Adrienne Oliver about one of Michigan's oldest black-owned nightclubs. A few days ago I ran across some recent photos of the Golden Leaf, along with some dispiriting shots of nearby Clark School, on the Welcome to Beautiful Flint blog. Here are the photos, along with the original post.







I was at a wedding party for my friends Keith and Kim at the Potrero Neighborhood Center, known as The NABE, last weekend in San Francisco. I spotted a guy in a Red Wings jacket who turned out to be Albert Johnson, a NABE employee who was born at Hurley Hospital and went to Clark Elementary (left) in Flint. His parents, Jerry and Jimmie, still live on Providence Street.

We ended up talking about The Golden Leaf, one of Michigan's legendary black clubs. It’s still in business at 1522 Harrison Street, just across the school yard from Clark Elementary. It’s a membership-only club, just as it was when it opened in 1921.

“My dad liked to play cards there,” Albert remembered, before our conversation turned to how glad we both were that Matt Millen is finally out as the Lions GM.The Golden Leaf is a well-known Flint landmark in my family. One of my mom’s best friends from the old days in Flint is Adrienne (Wilson) Oliver, who is the mother of Notre Dame assistant coach Jappy Oliver (left). Although it wasn’t unheard of for a black girl and white girl to be such close friends at that time in Flint, it was rare. And it was even rarer for a white girl to visit The Golden Leaf. But Ardrienne took my mom, Pat (McFarlane) Young, on several occasions.

“We never looked at Pat as being white or black. Pat was just Pat,” Adrienne told me during a recent conversation. “She was with me and she was my friend, so nobody thought anything of her going to the Golden Leaf.”

Except, perhaps, the girls' parents. Sometimes a little subterfuge was needed.

“We did some of the craziest things,” Adrienne remembers. “Pat would say she was spending the night at my house, then we’d tell my parents we were both going to spend that night at another girl's house, then we’d sneak out.”

Adrienne and my mom both remember Central High, where they graduated in 1948, as having good racial relations. Blacks and whites interacted and formed friendships.

“I remember there being more economic prejudice than racial prejudice at Central,” my mom says. “Students seem to divide over their neighborhoods and how much money their parents had.”

Ardienne adds: “At Central, everybody was wonderful, but there was a lot of prejudice hidden in Flint. Nobody came right out and said it, but it was there.”

And there was prejudice built in to the structure of Flint life. When performers like Duke Ellington, Nat King Cole or Lionel Hampton came to the I.M.A., whites went to a separate early performance, while blacks were only allowed at a second midnight to 4 a.m. show.

“That was terrible,” Adrienne says. “It’s sick to even think about, especially when most of the performers were black.”

The Golden Leaf was a popular destination before the midnight dances at the I.M.A. “You know, it’s just a hole in the wall, but we thought it was the greatest joint in the world,” Adrienne remembers.

Today, the look of the Golden Leaf is relatively unchanged. It’s owned and managed by Lottie Reid, who told me on the phone that it’s still the same long, narrow brick building with a dirt basement, a bar, and several tables, much like it was when Adrienne and my mom went there, not to mention more famous visitors like Sammy Davis, Jr., Dinah Washington, and Malcolm X. The age of the members ranges from 21 to around 80.

But the neighborhood has changed, starting with the massive I-69 — I-475 interchange that obliterated much of the community that once surrounded The Golden Leaf . And like many Flint schools, Clark Elementary is boarded up.

“There’s really nothing around us now,” Lottie Reid said. “There’s nothing but us on this block.”

Green River

The post about Angelo's prompted a discussion of pop and, specifically, Green River:

Pat McFarlane said...

I was filled with nostalgia when I saw pop listed on the beverage line. Soda will always be pop to me. Speaking of drinks does anyone remember a small drugstore on Lewis St. near McDonald Dairy that had a fountain drink called a Green River. I think the owner lived above the store.

Mary said...

I'm not familiar with the drugstore you mentioned, but I loved Green Rivers. I used to get them at Underhill's on Flushing Road. I've never seen them anywhere else.

Here's the Green River story, courtesy of The Soda Depot:

"Green River soda was introduced to Midwestern drinkers in 1919, just as Congress was passing the 18th Amendment establishing Prohibition. When Prohibition officially went into affect on January 16, 1920, some breweries turned to making a nonalcoholic drink call Near Beer, while others were churning out ice cream. The Schoenhofen Edelweiss Brewing Company of Chicago turned to Green River. The soda was poured into old beer bottles and sold in the market. It was an immediate hit. The soft drink was so popular that Al Jolson recorded a song written about Green River.

"By the end of Prohibition on December 5, 1933, Green River trailed only Coke in fountain sales throughout the Midwest. However, after Prohibition the brewery made Green River a second priority and sales dropped. In 1950 the brewery went broke and closed in 1950.

"In 1992 after a raft of owners, the 73 year old brand was alive only in Seattle. Now Green River is on the rise again. Clover Club Bottling Co., Inc. an 85 year old company, with partners, Ed Kennelly and Joe Troy, bought the brand and are expanding its bottler network. The company has its own trucks, distributing in (4) counties around Chicagoland, and has distributors in (4) states at present. This year Kennelly and Troy, both of whom have 30 + years in the soft drink industry, hope to sign (20) additional distributors and double their distribution. Green River is available in 2 Liters, 1 Liter, 20 oz, cans, 12 oz bottles and postmix. A diet version is also available.

"So why is Green River coming back now? According to Kennelly, 'There is no other flavor like it on the market, and it has visual appeal with its bright green color. The brand takes people back to a pleasant time in their life, in the 1950's and 1960's — a time of corner soda fountains and drive-in movies. At first only the old timers were buying, but now everyone is. We get (50 to 60) calls a week from all over the Country from people looking to buy Green River.'"

Flint Expatriates survives the first year

Has anyone noticed that Flint Expatriates is a year old today? I'm sure your gifts will be arriving in the mail any day now.

A birthday calls for a celebration of some sorts. Let's start with a little music.



Damn, I think I just ruined the party with that disturbing number. Regardless of the bad music, it's been a good year. We've covered everything from Village of Wolves to a brawl at Chuck E Cheese to the saga of Gypsy Jack, a legendary Flintoid whose legendary home may finally be safe in the hands of a well-meaning Canadian. There's even been a glowing profile of the site in The Flint Journal. (I'm still not quite sure how that came to pass, but I'm not complaining.)

And while blog posts are supposed to be short, snappy and nearly instantaneous, I think the best part of Flint Expatriates has been the longer posts that required some thought and reflection. Most of those items were written by someone other than myself, which should tell me something. Here are just a few of the longer items, in no particular order, that are well worth a second look:
Gerry Godin's tales of a river rat.

Stephen Rodrick's late-night adventure with conservative icon William F. Buckley.

John Mennear's return to Homedale School.

Bernard Rosenberg's friendship with Wild Bill the greaser at Southwestern High School.

Mary's journey from Flint to San Francisco and back again.

Rich Frost on Alice Cooper, snakes and Monkees.

Randy Gearheart looks back fondly on his dad and the family Grand Prix.

Redgirl's memories of love among the shelving units at Rollerworld.

Jeff Stork on the road with the Flint Generals.

Sarah Swart's rediscovery of Hidden Park, which wasn't a long post but required a true spirit of adventure. (And I spelled her name right this time.)

Mark Brewer learns to play the harp in Flint.

Pat McFarlane Young's sentimental journey. (Speaking of my mom, she's had quite a few interesting jobs.)

My thanks and appreciation goes out to Flint Expatriate readers for all the posts, comments and generous donations. It's been a lot of fun. Okay, let's be honest, sometimes it's been really depressing, but forget about that now. Instead, let's begin year two with some Boone's Farm and that Flintoid song:

Bassett Place

Jim Holbel's recent visit to Flint brought back a lot of memories of the old neighborhood. I wondered if I had any photos of my house at 2402 Bassett Place. I did a little digging and found this shot from June 1972, taken the day my older brother, Matt, graduated from Powers.

Whose idea was the orange graduation gown? Rumor has it there was a rigged election at the high school that led to the color selection. Can you say "voter fraud"? My brother asked me not to name any names. The good news is that the gowns could also be worn for deer hunting, highway construction work or Denver Broncos games.

That's me in the left corner, acting up in the looming shadow of my 6' 5" brother, and sporting a classic seventies outfit — red pants and a purple shirt. My grandpa, Verne McFarlane, is in one of the suits he wore every day except Saturday. My mom is in front with my grandma, Leone, in one of her many stylish sweater ensembles. And the house itself features the green aluminum siding that I've heard it still has today.

You might also notice the lawn chair in the lower left corner. This was back in the days when you could sit on the front lawn in the shade and watch the baseball games across the street.

Auto salvage

Pat McFarlane, who graduated from Flint Central sixty years ago,
and her highly trained attack dog, Rob Roy, check out some wreckage that originated in Buick City.

You never know when you might run across an old Buick. And like the city where they were once made, some Buick's have fallen on hard times.

I just completed a road trip from Maple Leaf, Iowa, to Tacoma, Washington with my mom, Pat McFarlane, and her very large dog, Rob Roy, in a Ford truck. (It's a long story and a long trip, but we had a lot of fun and we're still on speaking terms.) We were at a windswept rest stop in the Wenatchee Mountains when we spotted a semi loaded with crushed cars.

"I'm sure there's a Buick in there," my mom said.

I disagreed, as usual.

And, as usual, she was right.

Why Can't I Be Like Alberta Whaley?

More memories of Flint from Pat McFarlane, born at Hurley Hospital in 1930.


Why can’t I be like Alberta Whaley? As far back as I can remember that question would pop into my consciousness like a Hindu mantra.

Alberta was my best friend. She lived in the next block on Illinois Avenue at a time when blocks were cities unto themselves and you knew everyone. Some families were considered undesirable, like the Bach’s who lived a few doors down from our house. My every outdoor excursion was prefaced by my parents with “Don’t play with the Bach kids.” Of course, my rebellious nature made me devise clever schemes to do just that.
Now I realize that the Bach’s were poor. Although we were working class, my parents had high standards that had nothing to do with money. When discussing the Bach’s my dad would say, “You don’t need money to mow your lawn.”

Alberta’s parents were Southerners who had migrated to Michigan looking for work and a better life. In the thirties, Flint was a Mecca for the unemployed looking for jobs in the booming auto plants. “Go West Young Man” had turned into “ Go North.” Her dad worked the night shift at Buick and her mother was a telephone operator for Michigan Bell in the days when you dialed zero a real person answered. Alberta’s mom was a true, soft-spoken Southern lady. I had my suspicions that her dad was a quiet drinker but this was never discussed. Alberta and I knew that some things are best left unsaid.

Our friendship was an unlikely one as she always did what her parents told her and I was always asking “Why not?” Perhaps that’s why we were such good friends, each fascinated by our respective differences.

I spent most Saturday afternoons at the Roxy, a small neighborhood theater a few blocks from my house. I loved the darkness and the roar of the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer lion heralding an afternoon of previews, world news, serials and finally the main feature. It was usually a western or film noir, allowing me to escape into the Wild West or the shadows of a mysterious city. Alberta could never go with me as I think her parents considered movies sinful.

At that time, my parents didn’t attend a church, believing that God knew they were good people simply because they were Scots and had arrived in Michigan from Iowa. But I was drawn to religion. I made pilgrimages to various churches and Sunday schools. I even had myself baptized. Twice! Sometimes I would go with Alberta and her mother to their evangelical church. It was nice until the call to march up to the altar and “accept the Lord Jesus Christ as your personal savior.” In spite of the gentle hand of Alberta’s mother urging me on, my instinct was to run, so my evangelical experience was short lived. I eventually became a Catholic, where you were not coerced into marching down the aisle to communion, but it was understood that if you didn’t you would bypass purgatory and go directly to Hell. I could identify with that doctrine.

Occasionally, we would get to spend the night at each other’s house. Unlike today’s “sleepovers,” it was a special occasion and done only between families who knew each other well. It was always a quiet event at my house because my bedroom was right across the hall from my parents. But Alberta’s house had one bedroom downstairs where we slept. We giggled, told secrets, read Nancy Drew books and best of all, raided the icebox for our favorites — left over fried pork chops and banana peppers, which were an exotic food to me. I don’t think they existed in the Scottish food chain.

But like many youthful friendships, Alberta and I drifted apart. By the time we reached Central High School, we’d simply say hi in the hallway, talk occasionally, but that was it. I was reminded of Alberta when her name appeared on the honor roll every semester, while mine was often on the tardy list.

I loved history, social studies and band. I played alto sax and being in the band meant being classified as a nerd. I preferred to think of the band members as artistic intellectuals. Some of us played in jazz bands after school and a few went on to become professional musicians. The male drum major in later years became the mayor of Flint. And many, like most Flint high-school graduates, went to work for General Motors.

I still remember the thrill I felt when our band marched onto the football field playing the fight song and I knew whatever I did in life it had to be exciting. I didn’t realize exciting can sometimes be a lonely road to travel.

I became friends with a drummer in the band named Jerry. He lived a block from Central and we sometimes ate at his house. His mother had painted nails, wore red lipstick and was divorced! She was remarried to a real estate salesman that Jerry hated. Just after VE day, Jerry’s older brother, Richard, returned home from the Navy. Suddenly, lunch at Jerry’s became very inviting. Dick was going to college and playing saxophone in jazz band, and we all know the low moan of an alto Sax in a smoke filled room is the Pied Piper of love.

Forget high school! I spent all my time taking my fake ID and trying to get into bars and clubs where the band was playing. I may have invented the catch phrase “I’m With The Band.”

The bass player, Earl, was my first exposure to a brooding intellectual. He was tall, dark, handsome and involved in the socialist movement. He soon had me passing out the Daily Worker and going to Detroit to see Russian propaganda movies in secret mysterious places. I was flattered that someone so intelligent could like me. He eventually earned his Ph. D. and became an archeologist, widely published and well known for his projects everywhere from Northern Michigan to Mexico. We always remained friends. I knew he loved me and I often wonder how my life would have played out with him.

I lost track of Alberta after we graduated from high school and I left Flint. My mother sent me the newspaper announcement of her wedding to a policeman. Some years later I heard she had a son who was severely disabled. I understand she and her husband were devoted to caring for him. God knew what he was doing when he sent that baby to Alberta. She was full of goodness and love.

Now, even though many years have passed she is still a part of my life. In my darkest moments of despair, misjudgment and just plain selfishness, it crosses my mind like a banner behind a small plane. Why can’t I be like Alberta Whaley?

Is she somewhere pondering, Why can’t I be like Pat McFarlane?