Create a Website Account - Manage notification subscriptions, save form progress and more. Recently, along with other members of the Historic Preservation Commission, I had the opportunity to go back and look inside the little cottage at Clinton Street, where I spent my childhood. It was already years old when we moved from an even smaller house on the west side of the railroad tracks where my father had a coal yard.
The depression had a firm grip on Montgomery. This enabled him to rent out our little house near the coal yard. His coal and ice business was in trouble as he continued providing coal until his money ran out.
When his suppliers insisted on payment, he was forced out of business. There was no bankruptcy for an honorable man in those days, so he faithfully made payments on those bills as long as I can remember. He held onto the hope that his customers would recognize him as soon as they could pay. Last month, before I entered the little cottage, I expected to be struck by how tiny it was, but instead, I began to picture where Mother's sewing machine was and where the table and the pot-bellied stove sat.
Despite the many changes, I could picture all of us there, and it didn't seem too small. It seemed just right, the way it always felt. There was one all-purpose room downstairs and one open bedroom upstairs. Eventually, Daddy built a partition to make a downstairs bedroom in the southeast corner of the house. At some point, while we lived there, the pump in the kitchen was replaced with a faucet and sink.
We had a gas stove on four legs with a side oven. We used this to heat our water to do dishes and carried it into the living room, where we had a big round oak table that was our most important piece of furniture covered in oilcloth.
