Event circa 1931.
Written September 1989.
Dr. Emory Dial’s Lorain Ave. Clinic’s second floor housed the clinic surgery, recovery
room, X-ray, and doctors’ offices around one huge waiting room. It also held his
own spacious two-bedroom apartment.
The first floor was mostly commercial, with one optometrist occupying the space by the main Lorain Avenue entrance. The third floor had eight efficiency suites and one large two-bedroom apartment above Dr. Dial’s. We lived there for seven years.
Seven golden years for Robert! After his office hours, he had only to dash up one flight of stairs and he was home to enjoy his babies and hot meals.
Seven silver years for me! I also enjoyed our family togetherness, but I had to carry all the diapers and other laundry down and up four flights of stairs at the other end of the building. Also, every time our toddlers went outside, we had to escort them because of the hazardous traffic.
There was no elevator to relieve the strain. We had to lug everything we ate and wore up three flights of stairs from the West 115th St. entrance.
The main joy in living there was the feeling of security and safety in living up so high above the noisy city below. We felt so safe that we seldom locked our doors at West 115 St. and Lorain Avenue!
One night in the wee hours, Robert was called out on a house call. He slipped out quietly so he wouldn’t disturb either me or the babies snug in their beds across the hall.
I was sleeping peacefully when suddenly the bedroom light flashed on. I knew it wasn’t Robert because he never turned the light on when he came in. He always undressed in the dark so that he would not disturb us.
A tall, six-foot-four-inch man in dress clothes, a long blue overcoat, a white scarf, and a jaunty fedora stood in front of me. I screamed and screamed again. He responded in a slurred voice, “Oh lady, you wouldn’t get me in wrong, would you?” I sensed he was drunk.
I quit screaming. The neighbors would probably think it was just an accident victim in the surgery across the court. I hopped out of bed and steered him out of the children’s room and down the hall to the stairway. On the way, I rang the house phone in our hall and alerted father Dial that a drunk was coming down the stairs.
He opened his door in his nightshirt. Our intruder saw him and chased him back into his apartment, through the dining room, into the kitchen, and out into the hall again. He caught Dr. Dial in the hall and knocked him down. The culprit then fled down the stairs, jumped into his roadster, backed out into Lorain Avenue, and was off, leaving us no clue who he might be.
We called the police and gave them a detailed description of his appearance. Four policemen came and officiously took over my apartment, presuming the event was a burglary. They opened drawers in the dining room and kitchen to identify any missing items. I protested that he was not a burglar but a drunk who didn’t know what he was doing.
Luckily, one of our tenants was awakened by the commotion and looked out her window as the roadster screeched out into Lorain Avenue traffic, barely missing becoming an accident. She recognized the car and driver and told Doctor Dial who he was.
This was at a time when the Cleveland Police had a reputation for corruption, but Dr. Dial took him to court, thinking that justice would be served. This legal action proved futile because the police distorted our description of the offender, saying he was a short, fat man in a brown overcoat and slouch hat.
They were protecting a powerful figure physically and politically. Our unwelcome visitor proved to the mighty prizefighter and Mayor of Lynndale, Tom O’Malley.
Why should we get him in wrong? He was only trying to visit his cousin who lived next door to us to sober up. Her door was locked. Ours was open. Out that open door went our trusting belief that we were safe up there. Ever after, we locked up tight day and night.
Mary W. Dial
Transcribed May 1991.
Posted Sep 14, 1989 at 03:15.
Revised Jan 23, 2023 at 19:58. EDT.
Retrieved Jun 1, 2026 at 22:40.
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