With the warm weather upon us, summer memories have a way of sticking together like the pages of a book. Many of us remember Milwaukee’s Walnut Street from the late 1940s to the early ’60s, which my young black running buddies and I called “the set” and “the scene.” Old-timers called it Bronzeville. It wasn’t New York’s 125th Street, Upper Fifth Avenue, 42nd Street or Times Square, but it was really something for black people—day or night—especially night; and it was all ours.
Upbeat Walnut Street, a half-block from my childhood home, started near the southwest corner of North Sixth Street with Deacon Jones’ Chicken Shack, whose name even now makes my mouth water. People came from all over town, white folks, too, to get their lips around that succulent, tender stuff. Moving on toward North Seventh Street, there was Larry’s Frozen Custard, home of the Orange Blossom, an out-of-this-world ice cream concoction. Although offering many eating delights, Larry’s mainly served as a place where teenagers and young adults listened to rhythm and blues on the jukebox and sought non-binding, boy-girl relationships, and as someone observed, a boy would have to be a monk to strike out.
For us, the sidewalk outside Larry’s was the spot to hang out in the ’50s. Anyone might show up, such as the “Brown Bomber” himself, Joe Louis, explaining how he’d whipped everyone in the ring. Also, there was the night the Five Notes, a youthful Chess Records vocal group, sang a cappella for what seemed like hours, repeating their two-sided hit “Show Me the Way” and “Park Your Love.” You could swear it they were The Moonglows.
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Back in those days, most taverns (or “joints” as we called them) on and around Walnut sponsored Sunday morning softball teams, which was something of a miracle in itself. Why? Because Saturday nights on the scene were fast and furious, and this meant each joint was the setting of some serious post-game partying. One of the set’s landmark joints was the 700 Tap at Seventh and Walnut. The 700 meant different things to different people, but for those who thrived on booze-oriented mingling, its multi-level ambience couldn’t be topped on any night, and neither could Sunday noon gatherings of its star softball team and their hangers-on.
Hard by the 700 Tap was the storied Regal Theater—our Apollo—which we called “The Flick.” The small, unassuming movie house was the most noteworthy indoor gathering place in Milwaukee’s vibrant black community of the ’50s. Youngsters and adults alike piled in to swoon for Lena Horne or tap their feet to Cab Calloway soundies. The Regal interspersed its entertainment with Saturday night amateur shows and enticed us on weeknights with a 25-cent admission for a movie-and-a-half after 9:30 p.m. Sundays were given over to triple-feature cowboy shoot-’em-ups, and everyone seemed to get totally caught up in the goings-on up on the screen. It truly was a trip.
Walnut Street: Milwaukee’s Harlem
Our little Walnut, like big Harlem, wasn’t confined to a place or activity, but the short stretch from North Sixth to North 10th Street buzzed with energy—from Manny Mauldin Jr.’s Harlem Records to the Booker T. Washington YMCA, Roosevelt Junior High School and the Milwaukee Globe newspaper, run by my late father, Sanford Carter. Like most special places, Walnut featured colorful characters. Among them were old, blind A.C., who regaled patrons at Mr. Brown’s with tales of his close ties with Jack Johnson, the fabled heavyweight champion of yore. And there was Dan Travis, called the “Bee Man” because, for years, he happily hawked a black newspaper, The Chicago Bee. Day or night, indoors or out, Walnut Street was the best place in town for black folks of all ages to be and be seen. It was something special. Those who lived it wouldn’t trade the experience, and those who are still around fondly remember it.
Tellingly, on a recent night at the corner of 125th Street and Lenox Avenue in Upper Manhattan—taking in the sights and sounds of the center of the Universe for black people in America—I found myself thinking of Walnut Street, where I grew up. There I was, in the heart of Harlem, sidewalks dripping with people, streets choked with vehicles, the Apollo Theater marquee lit-up, and the “A” train beckoning. Yet, my mind’s eye saw the Walnut Street of my youth. What a wonderful vision it was.
Granted, Walnut Street in my hometown never quite approached Harlem’s 125th Street, but Walnut was black Milwaukee. It was our street of dreams. It was the set. It was the scene. It was our Harlem. And I remember it like it was yesterday.
