(This next series of articles is about “Home,” however you define it. . . It’s where the heart is. . . It’s where our stories begin. It’s where we belong.)
In 1876 the Congress Avenue bridge was completed, finally tying together both sides of Austin with something sturdier than a ferry. South Congress Avenue unfurled far enough to build a working class neighborhood that would not be affected by the yet untamed Colorado River - now known as “Lady Bird Lake.” By 1912 Travis Heights was born, somewhat scrappy, and just out of reach of the big city’s polish.
Fast forward to 1974. My wife Beth and I bought a small house on East Monroe Street. We paid $17,500 – an amount that felt like a moonshot. We were freshly married and had just acquired solid, 40hour-a-week jobs, and decided that adulthood might be something you could fake if you bought a house. Our house was just a half block from Stacey Park and four blocks from Congress Avenue. Back then the neighborhood was an eclectic mix of essential businesses like Dan’s Hamburgers, a feed store, The Continental Club, and a motel where rooms rented by the hour. That section of South Congress switched identities after dark when the hookers and gawkers and people buying and selling drugs came out. That was the reason we were able to buy our house for less than it would cost on the other side of the river.
Our house came with stories. Local lore had it that it had once been home to none other than Ivan Putski - real name: Jozef Bednarski, who was born in Krakow and immigrated to the U.S. with his family as a young boy. He ultimately became a professional wrestler, body builder, and community legend. But, long before the lights and turnbuckles, Ivan supposedly lived in our house as a teenager. He may or may not have had something to do with the heavy block of pink granite that was in the backyard when we moved in. The cut stone is the same type and color as the Texas Capitol and looks like the end cap on one of the Capitol walls. Whether it got there by Ivan’s hand or someone else’s remains unknown. But, it took some serious muscle to move it to the back yard on Monroe St.
“Uncle Sam” lived across the street. He claimed to have been born in a covered wagon somewhere near the Colorado River. He looked old enough for that to be factual. He trimmed his hair and chin whiskers in the fashion of the national icon. He also had an outfit similar to the “real” Uncle Sam. Every 4th of July, he could be seen standing beside city officials – a living emblem of eccentric old Austin.
When we moved in, our house needed some help. After a few years of foundation repair, painting and refurbishing, it caught fire and burned enough for the insurance company to call it a total loss. The roof and most of the back of the house was gone along with almost everything we owned, but the hardwood floor held firm and most of the three outside walls refused to fall.
After some serious debate and insurance compensation we decided to rebuild. We added a second story and central heat and air, which we had initially considered an extravagance. From the street, the house looked like a taller version of the original.
In the thirty odd years that we lived in Travis Heights, South Congress Avenue cleaned up its act and became the hip and trendy “SoCo,” while the adjoining neighborhood where we lived remained outwardly unchanged. The biggest alteration occurred inside the houses. As taxes and rent began to soar, the elders who ruled the block at the time of our arrival, died off or gravitated towards family and assisted living. A younger wave rolled in, echoing the original working- class energy in newer clothes.
We stayed put for 35 years, watching the Austin skyline swell and the soul of the city recalibrate. When it came time to let go, we gave the house one more polish and sold it for far more than we ever dreamed we’d get.
We traded zip codes: 78704 for 78676 and we got it right both times.
(Jim McJunkin has been a photographer for over 50 years and has been involved in a number of art and photography shows around the country. He has work in the permanent collection at the National Vietnam Veterans Art Museum in Chicago, Illinois, and has authored several photography related books. Jim and his wife Beth have lived in Wimberley for 20 years. [email protected] m)
