The old neighborhood on Dowdy
During World War II, with materials for new home construction
nearly nonexistent, new home building had slowed to a crawl. In
Gilroy, newcomers often had to wait months for a vacant home to
become available. So in March 1944, when two Fresno builders
arrived in town announcing plans to put up 15 new homes, it seemed
like answered prayers.
The old neighborhood on Dowdy
During World War II, with materials for new home construction nearly nonexistent, new home building had slowed to a crawl. In Gilroy, newcomers often had to wait months for a vacant home to become available. So in March 1944, when two Fresno builders arrived in town announcing plans to put up 15 new homes, it seemed like answered prayers.
But soon, a problem arose. It wasn’t about the new homes; it was their proposed location. The contested area was bounded by Princevalle and Carmel streets between Third and Fourth streets. Home owners facing those streets were upset. They protested to the Gilroy Planning Commission that the new houses were too small and budgeted-looking for the area. The established owners claimed they had invested several times the amount of money the new houses would be worth. They felt entitled to have a better class of new homes in their neighborhood, not little boxes.
The Gilroy Planning Commission called a meeting to hear public comment about the proposed project.
At the time, my grandfather, Dr. Elmer Chesbro, was Chairman of the Planning Commission. That night, after hearing irate citizens he told the home owners that they would be justified in protesting the development, because the new houses were to be under 1,000 square feet.
The rest of the Planning Commission members also agreed with the owners. They said that the area in question was “the last best single remaining block in the city.”
The Fresno contractors’ proposal called for three-bedroom, one-bath houses with stucco exteriors and hardwood floors. The homes would be offered at a selling price of $5,500-$6,000 on FHA loans. Construction was to begin March 15, 1944 and end by May 31, 1944. To save on costs, the homes would come without garage, but concrete slabs were to be laid for a future structure.
When the uproar over the homes’ location continued, my grandfather put the two builders in his car and drove them around town, trying to help them select an alternate tract.
In the end, a deal was struck. The builders gave up the more upscale neighborhood. For a tradeoff, they chose an available block on Dowdy Street between Fifth and Sixth streets.
To show good faith with the builders and probably because they were tired of my mom and I living with them, my grandparents bought the first completed house, located at 71 N. Dowdy St. When we moved in, during October 1944, we felt grateful just for a place to live, little or not.
In between our boxy gray house and the Fifth Street corner was an empty lot. No house stood there, because my grandfather bought it. Before long, he’d put in a water line, some irrigation trenches, and a tool shed, for a huge private Victory Garden.
Mom and I lived in our house for a year before my Dad was discharged from the Navy. I still have pictures from that first year. No builders’ enticements had been necessary to lure buyers, so the house had no landscaping, just dirt for a front yard. The driveway was two concrete strips alongside the house. They led to the cement slab where a garage would go someday, when the war was over and we had some money.
Next door, Grandpa spent all his free hours tending the Victory Garden. In time, he put in fruit trees, a loganberry patch, rows and rows of vegetables and, for color, a large section of vibrant gladioli.
Sometimes he got so occupied with gardening, he’d forget lunchtime. Then, we’d hear my grandmother’s signal from their house, located kitty-corner from ours. She’d get out her old brass, wooden-handled schoolmarm’s bell. Opening the front door, she’d stick the bell outside and clang it loudly to let Grandpa know it was time to put down his shovel and come home.
For kids, those years on Dowdy Street were sweet and secure. Weekdays, at 5 p.m., when the Fire Department whistle blew at the Fifth Street station, all of us knew it was time to come inside. We’d have spent all morning on our swing sets, in our sand piles, or playing games of Statue, Hide n’ Go Seek, or Cowboys and Indians. Afternoons, we’d ridden our trikes, and later our roller skates, up and down the straight concrete sidewalk.
The postwar years were prosperous. After my father made money from his Studebaker business, in 1952, we left the old neighborhood and moved up, into a large, Tudor style house on Princevalle Street. At a $24,500 sales price, my parents fretted each month when the $150 mortgage statement arrived.
My cat, Earl Gray, missed the Dowdy Street house as well. Every now and then he’d run away and we’d have to call the new owners and ask them to hang onto him until we could come over and get him. I sometimes wondered whether Earl was trying to tell us something.
Before long, in the new big house, we got our first television set, a 21-inch Zenith in a blonde wood cabinet with doors. We hooked it up just in time to watch the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II.
In time, I grew used to the new digs. Our basement rumpus room and the black and white television set became a focus for inviting new friends over, and life took a fresh direction.
Still, I’ve always kept fond memories of those simpler days, when we kids all lived, and played, in front of our little, once-contested houses, on Dowdy Street.
