Frank Hall, who founded of The Diner at 2545 27th Ave. S. in 1950, passed away on July 14 from complications with Alzheimer’s disease. Hall grew up in the part of the Seward neighborhood once known as the “Hub of Hell.”

Shortly after his passing, Hall’s daughter Darlene Follese shared stories, and her hopes for her father, in an interview with The Bridge.

“I think he’ll start another Diner up there in Heaven,” said Follese. At the funeral, she placed her father’s small plastic coin purse in his hand with four pennies — one for each of his children — as seed money to invest in the new restaurant. “When people find a penny on the street,” she said, “they’ll know that he’s showering down his profits.”

In a 1997 interview with Ben Kreilkamp, Hall recalled his days working for the railroad, starting a restaurant in the neighborhood and growing up in Seward — including a firsthand account of the events of Sept. 11, 1935, the night unrest over a labor union strike near his home left two people dead.

I always raised 50 chickens every year. Sold 25 of them at Christmas and 25 at New Year’s, to relatives and friends, a dollar apiece. Minnesota Beverage Company, I worked there for about 25 cents an hour. I later worked at the Milwaukee Railroad. It was $7.06 a day. Ended up with 150 days straight, when I first started out, without a day off. In the Army ’43–’46, had two children at that time. I went into the Air Force. I had 38-and-a-half years altogether with the railroad.

[There were] two 40-foot lots, and I saw it was for sale. And I was thinking of building a restaurant. I built the restaurant with an old garage. When they put the Franklin-Cedar underpass in over there, there was a two-car garage that was owned by Midwest Coal Company. And I bought that garage. Then I sold the doors to two policemen if they’d take them off. Made a 10-stool diner out of it. This is 1950. It took about two years before I really had it under control. But I didn’t know anything about business, or how to cook. And I never did cook. I did all the fixing. We had bar runs until 2:30 in the morning. All these bars along here were full at that time. Sandwiches, ribs, chicken, steak, pancakes. I would come here and close it almost every night. Close at 2:30 in the morning. We opened up at 5:30 in the morning.

[As kids] we used to go across 26th Street and 24th Avenue into the old railroad yard there. There were old engines there, stored. The old engines had the water tank with them. We used to climb up into that water tank and swim with the mosquito larvae, with our eyes open. But we never touched the bottom — all that rust was down there. Swam with our eyes open, saw the mosquito larvae ahead of us.

We used to go there every night and pick up the grain for the pigeons. We’d pick up coal that was laying on the ground and haul it home in a gunny sack. Detectives would catch us once in awhile. One of them followed us home. We didn’t know it. Followed us right home, right into our house. My dad was with; my dad and I went to get some coal. He saw that the coal bin was empty and the pantry was practically empty. And he says, ‘Well, don’t do it anymore.’ Walked away. He had us cold turkey. But he just forgot about it.

Right about 1934, people were milling around out there, and of course, we always had to get in on all this stuff. That’s 27th Avenue and 26th Street. That’s where the old Flour City Building is, it’s still there. Now they call it the Ivy Building, with ivy all over it. We [kids] were there, running across the field there — there were big open fields there at that time — and if the strikers were running, we’d run. They’d come out with clubs and stuff.

While we were running, I saw one guy turn around; he was running the same way we were. He turned around and picked up a brick. He threw it and hit a guy in the stomach. Could have been one of the company men. We’re running, heard a couple of shots fired. We ran towards the railroad yard.

There was a truck parked there, a big dump truck of some sort. We heard the shots and then we saw a couple of guys carrying a guy. And they carried him up to this truck, and they stood on the platform there. His head was hanging down. He was dead. They lifted him up to get him in, you know: dead weight. And they hit his head on the side, not real hard or anything, if he’d been alive it wouldn’t have been too good. He must have been one of the strikers.

I skated a lot down there at Riverside Park. We’d jump over benches and stuff like that. You’d skate up behind a girl and put your arm around her and say, ‘Skate.’ She’d either turn away or she’d say, OK. You didn’t say, ‘May I skate with you?’ Or ‘Would you care to dance?’ Or something like that. That’s what you’d say at the dance hall. Here you’d just say one word: ‘Skate.’ She’d either turn away or skate with you.

The Coliseum [at 27th Avenue South and East Lake Street], I was there a lot. When I was 17 years old. You went a long ways up the stairs. It was a nice dance hall. They’d take tickets up there. Coffee and cookies. I used to dance there and it was a lot of fun.

—transcribed by Chris Steller

last revised: August 22, 2007

• Login or register to post comments