Which came first - the blip or the dog? (MMQ)

Toto. As I ponder the name of this blip on the map, I wonder which came first - the blip or the dog. Geographically Toto centers around a 3-way crossroads of a railroad track, Range Road, and the Toto Road in Starke County, Indiana. Starke County, according to the most recent census, more or less supports a population of 23,556. My guestimate would be that less than 100 of those 23, 556 live in Toto proper. Google reveals that Toto earns a Class Code U6 designation as being "A populated place that is not a census designated or incorporated place having an official federally recognized name" but strangely enough, also possesses an unofficial name, Rye. I have not a clue why such an outlier could possible deserve two names. Some really old timers may remember Rye, but our immediate family only knew the place as Toto. Apparently our Grandfather Newman fiddled his violin at Saturday night dances in Rye at a Gleaners Hall there in the 30s, but whether our mother or an aunt related that tidbit accurately cannot be verified.

Toto, as some of you Trivia whizzes may recall, is also the name of Dorothy's dog in L. Frank Baum's Oz series. Wikipedia informs us that "the name is pronounced with a long 'O', a homonym of 'toe toe.'" That's how we natives of Toto also pronounced our home of origin and probably provides some subconscious explanation on why I so enjoyed running around Toto barefooted. What you may not know is that Baum penned some of his books in a summer cottage at Bass Lake, Indiana, 8.36 miles SE of Toto. From Wikipedia, we can also learn that Baum did not divulge Toto's breed. Baum describes Toto in 1900 as "a little black dog, with long, silky hair and small black eyes that twinkled merrily on either side of his funny, wee nose."

The funny, wee nose of Toto (the blip) also twinkled merrily as one of the original discount shopping centers beginning before 1950 and drawing customers as far away as Chicago, Illinois in its heyday. The roots of our family life truly begin in Toto; although after our parents' Toto business flourished, we journeyed to our new home, which we and our school friends then considered a mansion, located - where else - at Bass Lake. When a professor in my doctoral program at IU declared to our cohort group that "all of life is but a circle," we wondered if he either had seen Disney's The Lion King one too many times with his grandchildren or indulged in one too many hits of tequila. The tequila could be forgiven as a necessary crutch so our prof could bear facing the lily-white middle classness of his graduate students as he struggled to impress upon them his passion for multi-cultural education. Dr. Ovando, forgive me, for as I ponder the truths of your lectures, I continue to find proof of the circleness of life. See example of Toto and Bass Lake above. Perhaps I didn't give the circle enough credit and need to rethink my life's geometrical structures.

Trust me though that a major multi-cultural element of Toto consisted of my Jewish father and the Jewish Weinberg family who ran another Toto business farther east on the Toto Road. The other cultural division in Starke County existed between the "hillbillies" who settled in Toto, originally from Salyersville KY, and the town people in the county seat of Knox. Folks from Knox organized many clubs and societies, like Rainbow Girls, Elks, DAR, etc. to insure a separation of the Jews, Hillbillies, Catholics and original Christian proper Knoxonians.

Our mother, Alma Newman, grew up in Starke County and ran barefooted on her family's farm in rural North Judson, less than 5 miles SW of Toto. Thus, our ongoing battle about wearing shoes still makes no sense to me. Nine years after her death and 58 years removed from our first Toto home, I sit here defiantly drafting this memory with bare feet - sans slippers. A second after her high school graduation, out mother escaped Starke County via the nearest train station to Chicago, where she joined her older sisters looking for adventure, work, a degree in architecture and primarily to create a life away from her mother and the farm.

Opposites predictably attracted. Our pale-blond, fair-skinned, green-eyed Polish/Catholic mother married our dark, brown-eyed Jewish father, Jack Marks. Dad grew up in a family business of the general store variety in the south side of Chicago pre-Projects era. The success of a small storefront in the city early in their relationship prompted Jack and Alma to try their hand at renting a Toto store on weekends. This structure became known as the Hewlett Store in the Hoosier tradition of naming a building for its first owners. Bringing close-out and bankruptcy merchandise to the Toto site quickly erupted into a net profit much more dramatic than the Chicago store. Dad, Mom, and 4-year-old Marilynn then moved full-time to Indiana. The Hewlett store conveniently included a small apartment attached to the back of the store. Said home consisted of a kitchen with a handpump in the sink, a living room with a coal stove along one wall, and two small bedrooms.

What about a bathroom, you ask? The handpump in the sink should provide you with a hint that this humble abode lacked a true bathroom. My brother Sidney (named after our father's father in the Jewish tradition of honoring the dead) remembers a "shithouse" adjoining the store our parents later built across the street from the Hewlett Store to accommodate the growing business. His memory of the new store, called the "Big Store" no doubt is flawed. Sidney, being 5 years younger than I am, obviously blurred memories of what I call the "outhouse" by the Hewlett Store with memories of the "shithouse" by the "Big Store." It is unlikely that Steven, our brother 5 years younger than Sid, would remember who is correct. (It is important however to note the preciseness of 5 years separating each sibling and celebrate the compulsive timing and control of our mother in spite of imprecise birth control in the 40s and 50s), However recognizing that his parents and teachers considered Steven as the child prodigy, perhaps Steve might in fact shed some insight as to the number of outhouses and where they were located. Another important note at this point to contemplate: Grandmother Marks Cohan refused to avail herself of the amenities of the Hewlett Store outhouse. On the rare occasion when she left Chicago to visit the Jack Marks contingent and she needed to relieve herself, her son had to drive her to the nearest flush toilet in a civilized Knox restaurant, only a 10 minute drive north.

My remembered outhouse perched steps from the kitchen door of the house portion of the Hewlett Store. The wooden structure could be accessed by a swinging door and kept shut during usage with an o-ring and swinging latch that resembled a backward question mark. At night, our mother put an old-fashioned chamber pot in the kitchen to save us from the trip outside in the dark or when our bladders demanded instant gratification. I vividly recall sitting on the chamber pot one evening, shrieking as a startled mouse dashed across the linoleum floor. Imagine the feeling of being frozen on the pot, unable to move because urine was still flowing, and not wanting to chance the accidental encounter of rodent feet or a slimy tail swiping across my bare feet or legs. To this day I shudder remembering that trapped feeling and remain terrified of all varieties of the rodent family. At that moment, I admit, I wondered why I so resisted wearing slippers. After the scare subsided, I steadfastly remained defiant about my barefootedness though. As I headed to the chamber pot from then on, my concession was to methodically turn on lights and produce a noise (like banging on the living room stove) in the hope of frightening away an errant mouse before it returned the favor.

More about the Hewlett house in next writing...