Maybe not 50 cents. (For those of you who remember Roger Miller’s “King of the Road.”) But for sure within my budget.
Ada Keifer’s red brick Civil War-era house sat at the crook of Baltimore Street on the southern outskirts of Gettysburg. She was a small, wiry, no-nonsense lady in her 70s who ran a rooming house. In 1968, when I got a summer job at Gettysburg National Military Park, Betty, the Park secretary, sent me a list of rental options. I secured my space by letter.
Actually I didn’t rent a room. I rented part of a bedroom. And another girl I didn’t know—who didn’t work at the Park—rented the other bed. I didn’t flinch at that arrangement. Nor at the fact that other families occupied other spaces in the house for a night or two—responding to Ada’s “Rooms to Rent” sign in her front window. We all shared the bathroom.
I kept milk in Ada’s refrigerator and packets of Instant Breakfast in my room. My daily walk to Park headquarters, then the Cyclorama building, took me past the Hall of Presidents and the National Cemetery’s Caretaker’s house, through the Cemetery and down a long sloping walk to the Park. I repeated the walk in the evening but headed first to a small family diner for a homey entree, two vegetables, and applesauce, always applesauce.
My second summer at Gettysburg, I scored Mrs. Kiefer’s sun room. A hexagon of glass on all but the side that adjoined her living room. Which was then occupied by her sickly sister. I loved my space. I had a sink, a mirror, a bed, a dresser, and roll-down blinds that likely—at night–provided a shadow show to tourists ambling by. During Gettysburg’s intensely hot, humid days, the room became almost unbearable. I changed into my girdle, nylons, newly-washed white blouse, and green gabardine suit in front of fan. Slept that way too. But it was all mine.
The bathroom lay beyond the living room and kitchen. I developed the important skill of responding cheerfully to Ada’s sister while still moving steadily through the living room toward the lavatory.
If I once knew Mrs. Kiefer’s story, I’ve forgotten it. And am sorry to have been so cavalier. She did not try to “mother” me or strike up a cozy relationship. What I remember most is her creation of two little bright, petunia-filled gardens between her house and the concrete sidewalk. Her faithful daily watering of those with a pitcher. And her weekly weeding and dead-heading—down on her hands and knees in the sun, still in her print housedresses. Her gift of heat-hardy color to the historic town. ©
