Making the move to Minneapolis

by Fannie Smith
Posted 11/27/02

Chicago was too big. I believed Minneapolis, a city near my home, was like a big-little town. It had to be a collection of people, like me, who came from farms somewhere in Minnesota. Maybe a few came from Wisconsin.

I found a room, with breakfast included, in a house on Chicago Avenue, near downtown, owned by a young couple. They had a finished upstairs with a bed. It had an open stairway in the middle of this unpartitioned second floor. Their one bathroom was on the main floor. Because I slept upstairs, it was warm enough. I was ready to explore Minneapolis.

I moved three more times because the places I selected weren't right for me; partly because I lived with others and had irregular working hours interrupting the lifestyles of others. Finally, I moved to the Conway Hotel, on the bottom or main floor at 11th and Marquette. This hotel floor had been renovated from daily rented rooms to seven small apartments. This bottom floor was filling up with young working girls. I took one of the apartments and lived there until I married. It was right for me because if I wanted to socialize, there were working girls living on this floor. I lived alone, kept irregular hours and was five blocks from my office.

I was a maverick

To explain, I was not like the average adult woman during my career life. I lived a different, independent life within society and at work. That was a lonesome place to be. Those first years in Minneapolis, (1947- 1967) I filled in as a substitute court reporter and learned the city and its bus and streetcar services as I was called to different places for reporting work. Now and then, I rode public transportation to the St. Paul Courthouse, a two hour trip, to be sure of being there for starting time.

Like our neighborhood, we had a one-car garage and one car. That belonged to the working husband of the household. At least that was our case - we just assumed that was right, and so that's the way it was. My husband used his car in his work. No wives worked in our neighborhood. I married in January, 1952.

After 11 years of marriage, we moved to a new house four blocks away. This house had a two car garage and we purchased a second car - mostly for me because I was traveling to county seats in Minnesota, Minneapolis and St. Paul, or taking conventions, and meetings. Now and then I was called into Wisconsin, Winnipeg, Canada, and far-away places.

Socially, I was ahead of the times, not a conformer. I followed a path that led me on. Working with two young sons, I found myself an "odd ball" in the women's world, such as in our neighborhood and volunteer time in women's clubs. Socially, it was boring because I had different interests. We had a baby sitter in the house every day who did some housework and cared for our pre-school children. Both my husband and myself were always home when the sitter wasn't there. On rare occasions we left the children at night with a sitter. That wasn't enough - not right; not normal.

When our boys were in grade school, we continued the system with Auntie Lea, a couple doors away. She was a caring, loving mother to our boys and for her own children of the same age. Invariably, in the neighborhood, if our boys got into mischief, even with other boys whose mothers had home-making careers, it was because I worked outside of the home.

The days I stayed home, my neighbor ladies had coffee times in the morning - most of them still in their housecoats. Small children and babies, naturally, were welcomed to the coffee klatz. These ladies took care of their children and kept house for their family. They were satisfied and happy. Some of them dressed themselves mid-afternoon before their husbands returned from work and their children came home from school. Soon, I stopped going to these klatches, and continued working outside the home. Their conversations were not interesting to me. I tried to stay home, but had worked too many years and didn't fit the mold. My husband Maynard, was an especially reasonable person. We had a good life together; to-date, a marriage of 50 years. I knew it was me. I was different.