Well, we got through Nevada Day and Hallowe’en so I’ll write a little more. I should mention here that some grownups got on my case because they couldn’t find some of the stuff I’ve written in the past, so I’ll make it easy. Below these writings on the last sheet of paper I print ‘a writer’s vignette’ and if you ‘click’ on that, whatever that means in 1947, all my older stuff will come up together and you can just scroll around, find something you want to read if there’s anything like that here, and enjoy. There’s also a ‘search box’ on the bottom of my binder paper and if you write something you want to read about in the search box and ‘click’ on it, all the similar stuff may open in the binder.
Grownups have asked me why last Super Bowl Sunday when I started writing, or for that matter a decade ago when I ‘posted’ all these stories, why I didn’t do a better job of cataloguing and indexing my ramblings. The simple answer is that I’m only six years old and didn’t know any better, plus I didn’t expect it to last very long anyway. If you’re looking for something I’ve written about in the Gazoo or here or any other site email me and I’ll see if I can find anything to help you. Email, whatever that is, is firstname.lastname@example.org .
Anyhow, this morning I’m writing about the job that Dad got when he got back to Reno after WWII, working for Charles Skipper as a real estate man. (He worked in a shipyard in Richmond, where I spent the first five years of my life.) Now I’m six, going to Mary S. Doten School and live on Ralston Street across from Whitaker Park.
Dad takes me on Saturday mornings to what his friends call the ‘multiple listing service.’ They meet at a little diner on South Virginia and Stewart Street, and trade descriptions of the new houses that they’ve ‘listed’ this past week. The number of bedrooms, whether it has a sewer or a septic tank, two bathrooms on some of the bigger ones but not too many houses in Reno or Sparks have more than one bathroom . They put whether the houses have coal or oil heat, and a few of the newer ones in Sparks with gas heat from the gas retort at East Sixth and Alameda Street (in a few years they’d change that to ‘North Wells Avenue.’) The men told each other how to show the house, where the key was hidden, and what furniture or automobiles went with the home. A lot of houses were sold ‘furnished’ and cars frequently were part of the sale. They’d write down what ‘escrow company’ the owners wanted to use. And who owned the house – in 1946 most homes were owned by ‘John Doe et ux’, for the wives’ names were seldom on the homes’ titles (nor the loans!)
Dad bought a brand-new camera for his real estate work, called a ‘Polaroid’ that would make a picture of a house for his friends. One of their problem was making enough copies of the information, because there were probably 25 real estate men in town and a good typewriter would only make about six or seven carbon copies, so they had to type these ‘listings’ two or three times. Dad’s new Polaroid camera was stolen in 1948, but the guy who stole it wasn’t too smart and hocked it in San Francisco. His problem was that there were so few Polaroid cameras in existence this one stood out to the cops in San Francisco so they caught the thief and Dad got his camera back.
I made a lot of friends at these ‘multiple listing’ meetings, the children of the real estate men – John and Jimmy Gibbons’ mom was a real estate lady, one of the few in Reno or Sparks, and had to change her name from Matilda to Mat Gibbons so people wouldn’t know that they were calling a woman broker. I got Jimmy’s picture in here somewhere. In the same token Marilyn Harvout, who drove here big sedan by Braille, used ‘Merlyn’ on her signs. My dad’s number was 9195. In about 60 more years I’d give that old phone to my friend Emerson Marcus. Emerson sent me a picture of that phone taken in 2017 with an old typewriter I got in a hock shop in Oakland. (Emerson, of course, wouldn’t even be born for about 50 more years!)
Another little friend was Dee Garrett, whose dad Bill Garrett was a real estate man. \And one of Dad’s best buddies Gene LaTourette had a son John. We all used to play together while our fathers met at the Q-ne-Q, on the front lawn of the Kit Carson Hotel across Virginia Street, which I understand later became the parking lot for a hotel called the Ponderosa, and even later a strip shopping center. (The Kit Carson Hotel is pictured above)
This might be more than anyone wants to read about the real estate business, but unless somebody objects too much I’ll write on another day about all the lady real estate agents in Reno and Sparks getting together in the ‘Trocadero Room’ of a new hotel downtown called the El Cortez, the tallest hotel in Nevada right now. They gathered to learn how to survive in the real estate business and get along with men like George Probasco, Wes Weichman, the Novelly brothers and the Ramsay brothers who were building the new houses, and the banks and savings and loans where people got their money to buy the houses. Right now it’s hard for a woman to stay in the real estate business so a trainload of ladies came up to Reno to meet and show them how to get along. I’ll ignore what Dad said about that, or what Mom said about Dad. In a few years they’d name their group the ‘Womens Coucil of Realtors.’ But not now yet.
Speaking of Dad, he says I’m going to get my tiny ass in a sling, whatever that means, for not telling people where I’m stealing these pictures for this journal. Most of the photos you see are from the Nevada Historical Society, the one of the Kit Carson Hotel is supposedly from the University of Nevada Special Collections, although it’s been on calendars and documents for many years. The painting of the Q-ne-Q is by Hilda (Hildegard) Herz, of the Herz Jewelers family, who was quite an accomplished artist in her day. I’ve written about her before, and am proud to include her art in this column.
And that pretty much wears me out for now. Soon I’ll write of the ladies with the fur coats, feather boas and hatchets gathering at the Troc to show the men who’s boss! Come back and read that, or whatever comes to my mind next….