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From 35th Street Ronnie Dee (c) Copyright 2026 by Ronnie Dee 
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 Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. |
The first little adventure of my life happened on Amy Avenue when I was just a few months old. I was in my Taylor-Tot walker one morning when the Donaldson man delivered the bread. They would actually open the front door and put the stuff inside. This was 1939 and bakery goods, ice, and even groceries were delivered daily. Doctors made house calls and medications were delivered. The Donaldson Bakery was the most well known in town. They delivered baked goods of all sorts all over town. They used horse drawn trucks into the mid 1950's when they switched to motorized vehicles.
I apparently spotted the colorful loaf of bread and scooted over to it, broke it open and began stuffing it in my mouth. My father was a photo bug and when he saw me, he grabbed his camera and snapped a photo of me with the bread, broken open on my Taylor-Tot tray and a slice in my hand and a mouthful, staring "Uh-oh" at the camera. He showed the photo to the Donaldson man and he took it to the headquarters. They loved it and put a blow up of it in their showroom where my darling little chubby face was on display for years. I received no compensation for this.
I was a toddler during my first stint on 35th and River Park Drive, but I can remember "the war" was always a topic of conversation. We would occasionally have black-outs and our friendly next door neighbor was an air raid warden. That sounded very impressive to me. We had ration stamps, which limited how much you could buy of certain foods. Meat was always a priority.
I remember our dog, Carter, contracting rabies. We all had to get rabies shots. For fourteen straight days, we had to ride a bus and transfer to the doctor's office and get a shot. It would be in different places. The arm, the leg, even the stomach, which I thought was funny, but we didn't get rabies.
Fort Knox was a pretty good time and I met my first best pal, Gene, who was killed in a car wreck at sixteen. I was only two then, but I remember my mother taking me to Nichol's Hospital to see the army doctors and buying me butterscotch sundaes, and then reading Lassie Come Home to me in the PX, while we waited for the bus ride home. Another favorite was Jell-O out of the box. Flavored sugar was all it was, but who cared, it was summer, 1941, I wasn't aware of what war was all about, and Gene Shea was still alive.
Back in Louisville again, my family had always been fond of partying and having fun. They loved having a few drinks, hanging out at the Black Cat Cafe and playing poker far into the night. Before my mother died, there was a floating poker game going on every Saturday night for years, moving from one house to another. That meant that I usually had plenty of time to slip away and do my own thing. Not that I did anything bad, I would just go off on my own and listen to the radio or if I was tired, go lie down on the bed with all of the coats and jackets piled up.
For a time I would have some strange visions and feelings lying there. I would feel myself getting larger and larger or the room getting smaller or I would get smaller and smaller while the room got larger. Very strange and scary. I finally grew out of those feelings, but they were very unnerving when happening. If I had an earache, my grandfather would hold me in his lap and blow warm cigar smoke in my ear while cussing out my uncle for beating him out of a five card stud pot. Good times.
Later on as a teenager and young adult, I lashed out a lot and got into trouble often, being arrested thirteen times, counting juvie. I was very fortunate to escape as easily as I did. My punishment, such as it was, consisted of a few fines, a few stern lectures and a few short time incarcerations and some misbegotten counseling, thanks to my grandmother, a neighbor (Mrs. Downs) and probably most importantly, an excellent attorney, who eventually became a judge. He was a friend of my uncle Kenny and a great guy. Nothing beats going to court with a great "mouthpiece" on your side when trouble comes knocking.
A case of mistaken identity was good for a few laughs. One night Bud and I had been out and we stopped at his house at about 10:00. The living room lights were still on, which was unusual because his parents went to bed very early.
We walked into the house and they were both sitting there looking very grim. Bud inquired as to what was going on and his father said, "Where have you all been, son?'
Bud replied, "Nowhere. Just riding around. Why?"
His dad comes back with, "Well the police came by and said your car was used in a drugstore hold up this evening."
We both looked at them with astonishment, and Bud said, "No it wasn't."
His dad said, "Well, they said it was."
Bud said, "No, it wasn't."
They were skeptical, but I think we finally convinced them that it wasn't us. Why, out of all the 1950 black Ford's around town, the cops thought it was his car, we never knew.
But anyway, that is the way it was around there. We were often targeted even if we didn't do anything. I guess the cops weren't completely unwarranted, but the west end was a big place, with a lot of kids, why pick on us?
When I was in trouble and people were looking for me, I used to go to Shawnee Park, to a certain hill and lie on the grass if the weather was decent and stare at the sky. It would take me away from the "now" and I would float along as long as I could before I knew I had to go back. I even wrote a poem about that.
For years I skirted along almost every day, somehow slipping out of a number of situations that could have landed me in big trouble. That actually scared me more than being killed and there was one particular incident where "there but for the grace of God go I," rang chillingly close to home.
I was walking down sixth street one morning going to work, when someone hollered, "Hey Ronnie, how's it going?"
I looked across the street and saw one of my old compatriots from the west end lurching along. His name was also Ronnie, and I yelled back, "Doing good Ronnie, good luck!"
He was walking with some difficulty because he was wearing handcuffs and leg shackles and he was accompanied by three fit looking men in suits and trim haircuts. They were heading for the federal courthouse.
I was thinking, "My God, Ronnie, what did you do now?"
That bothered me for a long time and I never found out what it was all about. He always was a ne'er-do-well, but I liked the guy anyway. I felt for him because I knew, with a little bit of bad luck that could have me. I did a lot of things that I am not proud of, but I did them. I am sorry for victimizing people and I am so thankful for the way my life turned out. I guess I just didn't have much of a conscience back then. I don't know what else to say about it, but I have given thanks in prayer many a bewildered night. And I will never understand why I have been so blessed.
When I was nineteen, and looked sixteen, I bought a couple of IDs from a guy at work for twenty dollars. He was twenty three. I now had a fake driver's license and a Courier-Journal ID, and Ray and I would go over to the Portland neighborhood and drink in bars. I would loan him the CJ ID and we never had a problem.
When I was a youngster, all of us kids would be outside from morning until nine or ten o'clock, except for lunch and supper. All this time it would be just us kids, playing and talking and just hanging together. We solved our own problems or resolved difficulties with each other and the world, rarely fighting and mostly enjoying each other's company. Kids of all ages, excepting toddlers, were pretty much welcome.
The last thing we wanted to see when playing ball was our mom or dad come by. If this occurred, you were sure to be in for some ribbing from the other guys. We didn't need adult supervision showing us how to get along. Television hadn't taken complete hold and the electronic gadgets were a pipe dream, so our lives were just different back then. And I think we had more fun.
There were a few oddball kids who kept to themselves. They would stay in their yards and never seek to interact with any of the normal neighborhood kids. I kind of felt sorry for them, but I guess I just didn't understand their game. Why wouldn't you want to be out there, exploring whatever you can, listening to all of this fantastic new music and meeting girls and whatever?
After high school, I was bursting with excitement and wonder, as I was at an age where I felt like I didn't have to be ordered and pushed around by parents or teachers or bosses or preachers or anybody else. I felt free.
I wasn't completely free, of course, but I vowed never to be a sycophant. I wouldn't grovel to anyone, but I have seen a lot of that stuff and I think, "Man, their families have got to be embarrassed by that. Doesn't anybody have any pride?"
No.
When we were in our midteens, some new neighbors moved in with two daughters, just our age. So Jack and I introduced ourselves before the other guys had a chance. We had some fun for a few years and then we drifted apart, but remained friends.
After high school, Jack and I even began to drift apart as he started college, was working a full time job and had a steady girlfriend. I had nothing going on for a while, but finally got a job at the Courier-Journal.
My
sister got married and my grandmother and I bought a mobile home and
moved to the Lazy Acres Mobile Home Park on Cane Run Road, still in
western Louisville, but not the official West End. My West End
residences had officially ended at age 25.