Family Life 1967 — Part II: Argyle Avenue

By Cliff Potts
Bay Bay City, Leyte, Philippines — October 22, 2026

This is a serialized installment from the autobiography of Cliff Potts.

Argyle

We moved from Helen and Gar’s house to a basement apartment on Argyle Avenue.

One bedroom for my parents. One for Geri and Lauren. The living room for me.

My bed sat against the wall in the front room, visible from the doorway. There was no door to close, no defined space that belonged to me. Privacy was negotiated moment to moment.

It was the first time I had no room of my own.

The Windows

Basement windows sit at street level.

Neighborhood boys learned that quickly. They would bend down and peer through the glass whenever they felt like it. Faces would appear without warning. My mother chased them off repeatedly. They treated it as sport.

It was exposure without consent, and it became routine.

The Soundtrack

Geri carried her transistor radio everywhere.

WLS. WCFL. Larry Lujak. John Records Landecker. Joel Sebastian. Dick Williamson.

Chicago radio defined the rhythm of the summer of 1967. It was constant — buses, kitchens, sidewalks.

“Up, Up and Away” by The Fifth Dimension still played everywhere. It had followed us from the return flight and the cross-country drive. In Chicago, it blended into the larger soundtrack.

The song sounded optimistic.

The year did not.

Foster Avenue Beach

Geri took us to Foster Avenue Beach on Lake Michigan.

Sand, concrete walkways, sunscreen, and the smell of hot pavement. The first time I wore a T-shirt into the water, assuming it would protect my back. It did not. I burned badly enough that my skin peeled in sheets.

Another trip, I rode the bus home in wet swim trunks. When I stood up, the seat was soaked. Two boys behind me announced loudly that I had wet myself.

It was the kind of moment that defines city courtesy.