It was a cold and damp wintry afternoon many years ago. The space heater was ablaze in the front room of our small, frame shotgun house. The room served not only as a living room but also as a bedroom. With only two bedrooms and seven occupants, sleeping accommodations were at a premium. So, the living room served as the third bedroom. The couch was also a bed. During the day we sat upon it; at night we unfolded the bulky piece of furniture and it became a bed for two of five siblings. At different times over the years, the five siblings, two daughters, and three sons, made that room their bedroom.
The insulation was poor and there were many cracks in the paint and woodwork alongside the windows and doors. In the winter, cold air easily penetrated these numerous, narrow openings and mixed with the heat from the open flame of the space heater. The combination of cool, moist outdoor drafts and the warm dry air of the heater produced condensation which streaked down the walls and windows in uneven lines and patterns. We would say of the streaks of condensation that the walls were “sweating.”
I was only seven or eight years old at the time, but the memory of that day is still vivid in my mind. My mother was in the kitchen, smoking home made cigarettes she rolled herself with a small cigarette rolling device. She would insert a small piece of cigarette paper into the top of the machine, pour enough tobacco to ensure a good smoke and then she rolled the cigarette by operating the lever on the machine. It was cheaper than buying a pack of cigarettes. As usual, she was drinking a cup of chicory laced coffee. It was a Monday and the aroma of red beans simmering on the stove permeated the entire house.
My father, a streetcar conductor, was between shifts. He lay in bed sleeping. Mom would wake him later and he would freshen up, dress and return to the streetcar barn located on Willow and Dublin streets in the Carrollton area of New Orleans for his second shift of the day.
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