One of my first jobs as a teenager was selling hot dogs at Stand 22 in Tiger Stadium. I learned a lot from the vendors and enjoyed meeting people from a variety of neighborhoods and different walks of life in Detroit. The strongest memory of the job was not the Tiger's near miss of the World Series pennant in 1967, but the day the Detroit Riots broke out.
We were trapped at our booth in the stadium, wondering if we should lock ourselves in the (unplugged) freezer for safety. I convinced the older women that we should try and head home.
We had to take Grand River back to the west-side, and saw shattered store windows, the result of the looting of stereo systems and washing machines, etc. The firemen were in civilian clothes with helmets, driving in their own cars. We could hear sirens wailing and the air was filled with the acrid smell of burning buildings.
When I arrived home, I found an empty house. My widowed mother and younger sister were still in Canada, and I had to somehow find a way to warn them not to come home via the tunnel nor the Ambassador Bridge. I called my older sister at college and told her about the riots. She cried.
I learned to trust my instincts and judgment that day.
