Almost Took a Bullet! (Through the Decades at 17 Edmonds St)

Lower left: a Writing Group meeting there
in February of 2024

This blog entry, which has been difficult to write, begins with an address — 17 Edmonds St, in Rochester, New York, where I have previously stayed at a cute airbnb, a Kodak-Themed apartment.   

My husband and I, and our dog, were staying there last July 17 (2024), and at about 10:30pm, as I was propped up in bed with my laptop, in a bedroom that faced the street, someone shot into the airbnb.  The bullet went through the outside wall, through an inside wall, through the TV in my bedroom, across the room and above my head, missing me by six inches, landing in the wall above the bed frame.

Bullet hole above the bed frame

I’ll never forget the sudden blasting sound of the bullet whizzing past and piercing the wall, and the TV shattering into pieces, which were strewn on the bed and the floor.  I slid off the side of the bed and crawled out of the room.  So difficult to convey the fear in those moments.  The police, who were on the street all night because of shots fired throughout the area, explained to us that a few months ago, a “drug house” had opened on the street, just 3-4 houses up from us, and that since then the neighborhood had rapidly deteriorated. In fact, just two weeks prior, the police had shut down the drug house, but the very next day, it had opened up next door.  

Needless to say, we packed quickly and got out of there.  Airbnb issued us a refund for the week and paid for us to stay in a hotel for three nights.  And what about the owners of the airbnb and the house itself?  Well, despicable.  The house was for sale and under contract, and we learned that we were the last guests to stay there.  Long story short, the owners had taken off for vacation and were largely unresponsive for problems during the week, and their lack of responsiveness continued even after the bullet experience, not calling me back for hours, and then not caring, and then never checking in.  Of course, they were not responsible for the shot being fired; however, they knew that the area had become extremely unsafe — in fact, they live just 2 or 3 blocks away from the airbnb.  They could have warned us, easy enough to send a message about what’s happening and that it would be okay if we chose some other place, which we would have done.  Fun fact:  the owners purchased the house in 2014 for $107,900, and they sold the house in September of 2024 for $255,000.  I’m assuming that they must have puttied and repainted the outside and inner walls to remove the disturbing bullet holes.  Not a good look if you’re hoping for a windfall.   

Trauma.  For the following weeks and months, I felt fear and overwhelming sadness.  Crushed by the knowledge of the growing violence in cities — what’s gonna happen next?  Crushed by a sense of loss — Rochester is my rock, my Happy Place, but how can I ever return?  Over the next weeks, I found myself suddenly crying at inappropriate places.  At the lawyer’s office, where we were finalizing estate documents, the lawyer asked, “How are you doing?” and I started crying.  Family members visited, and I stood crying at the kitchen counter, several times, my back to them so it wouldn’t show.

Of course, the truth of it is that nothing actually happened.  I didn’t get shot.  But, yet, the trauma was there, deep inside of me.  I felt so sad for people who have loved ones taken from the world in this way.  How do they continue?  How are they not consumed with anger?  Oh, my heart goes out to all of you who have lost family members and friends to violence.  I can hardly bear to think on it, actually.  

Healing began to come from telling some people that I was in trouble.  So many lovely friends reached out to me, and talked to me, and cared.  It meant a lot.  In October, I rented a tiny cottage on Cape Cod (off-season, much cheaper) for a few weeks, and continued to heal.  All I did was sit in the sun, gaze at the marsh and the birdlife, walk several times each day with my dog along the marsh and the bay, and read books. 

Those who know me, especially friends in Rochester, know that I LOVE the city of Rochester, New York.  I lived there from 2013-2020, during which I researched and wrote about my ancestors who lived in Rochester from 1872-1946.  And I look forward to my 4 - 5 visits each year to Rochester, my Happy Place.  

So I had to get my happy place back again.  For a while, I gazed at photos I had 
taken, in the direct neighborhood of 17 Edmonds St, coincidentally, earlier that day of the bullet experience.

Photos I took earlier that day on Edmonds St 
and nearby Pearl, Boardman, and Amherst Streets
and also Rising Place.

You see it — it’s a beautiful neighborhood, an urban, residential neighborhood, with historic houses, and with all kinds of good people, living their lives, hoping for the best.  

And then I did what I do best — I connected with the past, took a look back in time, largely via the Democrat & Chronicle, researching 17 Edmonds St, and the

1880 Rochester
(H. H. Rowley & Co.)

people who had lived there.  The house was built circa 1870, and by 1888 the owners advertised a “Nicely Furnished Front Room” for rent — this would be the room where I laid that fateful night.  This “Pleasant front room” is advertised over the decades in the “To Let” classified ad sections.  By 1914, the house was split into two apartments, upstairs and down, and from the rental ads, I can see that the layout of the first floor apartment was much the same as it is today. 

Residents of 17 Edmonds St sold things throughout the years, especially cars — a 1926 Ford sold “cheap for cash” in 1930, a 1939 Ford V-8 two-door deluxe selling in 1951, and a 1950 Studebaker Commander “in A-1 condition” in 1955.  Also, Coolerators, otherwise known as ice refrigerators.  In 1950 and 1951, you could buy one, “like new,” from 17 Edmonds St for only $25.  

Of course, there was tragedy there, especially while the Great War was raging in Europe.  On January 21, of 1918, a mother, Mrs. Harriet Dunham, of 17 Edmonds St, received word that her son had been killed in an aviation training exercises accident. Cadet Vincent C. Dunham, 21 years old, had enlisted just over three months ago, and was excited to be training as a bomber, hoping to “drop a red, white and blue bomb on the Hun lines.”  Imagine his mother, there, in that kitchen, drooping over the kitchen table, mourning her lost boy.  

D&C January 22, 1918

And there were lost pets too.  In February of 1913, residents of the home at 17 Edmonds St hoped that someone might find their 10-month old yellow and white kitty, answering to the name of Sandy.  They offered a reward, as did someone in 1957 who had lost their dog, Toby, a toy terrier, white with black spots and black ears — how cute he must have been!  I wonder, did they get their pets back?  Or did they have to live with the unknown? 

Of course, people died at 17 Edmonds St, and then were laid out within a couple of days in the living room, in their caskets, for mourners to see them and say their farewells.  In 1923, Mrs. Marie Luttewiler Doxtator suddenly died there, and in 1942, 90-year-old Thomas Ferran died there.  Five and a half months later, the family listed an adjustable hospital bed for sale.  

Such is life, relentlessly moving forward.  Joseph E. McCarriagher, of 17 Edmonds St, had a streak of bad luck in the early 1950s.  In June of 1950, he lost his Pocket Watch, with his initials JEM inscribed, and hoped that a classified ad might help him find it, for a reward.   And then in September of the following year, his business, the Terrace Gardens at 1151 Ridgeway Ave, a nightclub rented out for private parties, was vandalized by five boys, 12 to 15 years old, “just for the fun of it.”  Was it fun?  They set fire to a mattress, broke stained glass windows, ripped heavy drapes, smashed furniture, and pulled down a small balcony.  Ouch.

There was joy, too.  Marriage licenses were given to young, hopeful men and women, especially the Croughs at 17 Edmonds St.  Frank obtained his in 1947, and his sister, Mary, in 1950.  I hope they were happy as the years passed by.  

And here’s the article that made me smile, and gave me back my happy place.  In January of 1938, “Chilblained Rochesterians” had to endure record-breaking cold temperatures, causing car accidents, but giving a windfall to plumbing firms and automotive garages.  Even the Genesee River had frozen at its mouth so that the “carferry Ontario II was forced to batter her way through the solid surface of the channel when she left Genesee Docks for Cobourg at 2 pm.”  It was rough.

But none of this fazed little 5-year-old Larry Salman, of 17 Edmonds St, who enjoyed an ice cream cone, while others were shivering.  He was celebrated on the front page of the Democrat & Chronicle!  I like to think of the youthful Larry, puffing himself up to go out to play with his friends, and feeling his own celebrity.  I’ll bet his parents cut out the article, showed it to friends and family.  I’ll bet Larry saved it forever.  His fifteen minutes, to be sure.  

This blog is my effort at pulling myself back into the Writing Life.  Oh gosh, I LOVE the City of Rochester!  I feel myself a part of it, even from here, where I write in this very northern part of Massachusetts.  I can’t wait to return, and gaze at the buildings and streets, and see all of the good people, living today, and leaving remnants of their lives behind, so someone can find them and see them and write about them.  This is what it is all about.  

Most importantly, this blog is dedicated to people who have endured trauma from violence and its accompanying losses:  I see you now.  I send love your way.  Love and caring and peace and health for you.  There is love in this crazy world, and there is strength within you.  I know now.  

17 Edmonds St in March of 2024

Gearing Up To Write The Book

I look up from my desk, where I am clearing away this or that to-do item in preparation for the New Year, motivated by my determination to get back to work and to get this damn book written.  The second half of 2024 had some rough spots, some shit that shat, and it’s only now become clear to me how much the writing voice has left my head, the muse gone from my mind.  I haven’t written anything for months and months.  

For the last few weeks, I’ve thought about my former facebook persona, “Lisa Dossenbach Kleman.”  (I had inserted the family ancestral name as my middle name, in the hopes that descendants searching for relatives would find me — and it worked!)   Lisa Dossenbach Kleman (me, of course, reinvented) was the one who started it all — she had all that oomph and pizzazz to plop herself down in a new city and meet all those people, and to, well, make herself up:  “I’m writing a book,” I told everyone.  And everyone ooh’ed and aah’ed.  Ah, those were the days.  

Lisa Dossenbach Kleman got to do all the fun stuff, the discovery of the story, the travel, the research, the presentations, the attention.  But that’s all gone now.  Now there is just this room, and the photos, and all of the historical information carefully organized in the Macbook (my other brain), waiting for me to draw upon it and write.  

    I guess this is the hardest part, I say to myself.  Who knew.  The months go by, I haven’t written the book.  I haven’t written it, but I have endlessly worried about it (am I one of those people who never actually write their book?).  

So, now it is time for a new incarnation — Lisa Melley Kleman.  My true name, the name I was given by my parents, the name I rejected throughout my youthful years, because it was my mother’s name.   Melley.  Melley Ann Wheeler.  Melley Kleman.  I need my mother’s energy now.  She got everything she wanted; she could be ruthless, when necessary.  She didn’t appear to let feelings or fears stop her.  She would grit her teeth, harden her eyes (so much so that the left eye would twitch sometimes; oh, how I hated that), and not let anything get in her way.  I, on the other hand, have been blown by the wind, ideas scattered here and there, buoyed only by short-lived bursts of determination.  I need my mother’s energy now. 

It is Lisa Melley Kleman’s time — I really need her (me) to get this book written.    

But when those words — “get this book written” — cross my brain, I am transported in thought, and so I look up from my desk and off to the left, not at anything in particular.  And that’s when I see this guy, Beethoven, peering at me, rudely almost, imposing and maybe impatient.  “What are you doing,” he sneers at me, “you’ll never do it if you don’t become more driven.  Where is your gumph?”  

I’m taken aback.  I feel accused.  Ugh, I’ll never do it.  Horrible feeling.

My eyes slide just a bit further to the left, and I am saved by this guy, Wagner, who is also looking directly at me, but with confidence and, maybe, familiarity.   “Don’t listen to him,” he says, “you’ll do it.  We’re looking forward to it, actually, it’s gonna be fun.”  

Who knew?  Wagner for the save.  Smile on my face.  Yeah, I’m gonna do it.

And then I wonder who else is looking at me.  I need support.  I need these people to help.  For the last few days and weeks, I’ve been silently calling on them, the ones who were there, the ones whose stories must be told — please, I need your help.  

And so I look around at the hundreds of photos of places and faces on my wall.    And I see her — my great-great-grandmother, Regula.  My God, I swear she is looking directly at Me, even though her grown children in the same photo are all looking elsewhere, towards the light coming from their window.  Not Regula, she is turning away from the window and has her sights on me.  Her look is soothing; she sends love; she sends her absolute certainty that I will write this book in the coming months.   And I know that if anyone can inspire successful creativity, it is Regula; after all, she raised the musical Dossenbachs.  She knows what she’s doing.

But then I see Adeline, also looking at me. 

My grandmother.  Who I knew.  Who I remember, and not pleasantly.  I didn’t expect her.  Adeline!   Puzzlement and pleasure pour over me.  Adeline is my supporter? How can this be?  Adeline, who I’ve only recently come to love, via the old photos, if not the actual memories.  In her time, and long before I knew her, she was vibrant and happy.  

Glancing over all of the images, all the faces which I’ve seen over and over again, with eyes that are pulling me in, I am drawn to the far left, and up towards the top.  There is this woman, who essentially, maybe, doesn’t belong here, because she never knew the Dossenbachs.  She was a Worcester, Massachusetts, rich lady, who tried to help those in need, and who was painted by John Singer Sargent, who evoked her essence, her humanity.  I had noticed her years and years ago in the Worcester Art Museum, and had, for

unknown reasons, kept her photo with me, perhaps because of her eyes, her searing look, trying to tell us something real about the world, about life.  

Her look towards me, at this moment, is not necessarily charitable. “Just get to work,” she says.  “There’s not as much time as you think.  There never is.”  She takes my breath away, and so I jerk my gaze off to the right — Where is Theodore?  Where is Nellie? 

      I see Theodore and Nellie there, in their photos, but they are not looking at me.  Hermann is, though.  And not just any Hermann — 1890s, cocky, arrogant, driven, charming Hermann. 

In his 20s, he knew what he wanted, and he went after it, and he got it.  And now he is looking right at me.  His demeanor is not clear, but he doesn’t appear unkind.  “Come on, now, really, we’ve been waiting quite a while now.  Please, dig deep, do this.”  It’s hard to read Hermann’s face. is he supportive?  Impatient?  Does he think I can do it?  

Of course he does.  “Anyone can do it,” he says, “that is, if you just do it.  Do it!”  Okay, okay, okay.

This is exhausting.  I want to look back down at my much-simpler list of things-to-do-before-the-end-of-the-year.  This is all a bit much.  More than I bargained for.  I asked for support, and I got a bunch of disparate voices and people and personalities.  And they aren’t necessarily behaving in the way I would have thought.   

I want to look back down at my computer screen, but I am inexplicably drawn up and up and up, to the point where the slanted bedroom wall meets the ceiling.   And there he is. 

       While there is an expression of kindness, and sadness, in his eyes, his body language is clear.  Crystal clear.  Stop wasting time.  Get to work.  Get the thing done.   It’s now or never.  Don’t disappoint yourself.  

(Or us, don’t disappoint us, I hear some of the others whisper.)  

Yes, Mr. Eastman, and thank you.  

________________________

NOTES:  

     Busts of Beethoven and Wagner were once owned by Hermann Dossenbach, and were gifted to me by his granddaughter, Alma Faroo.

     Photo of Regula courtesy Jacque Fraser.  

     John Singer Sargent painting, "Lizzie B. Dewey (Mrs. Francis Henshaw Dewey II)," 1890, Worcester Art Museum.

     Photo of Hermann courtesy Polly Smith.

     Photo of George Eastman courtesy George Eastman Museum.