Down the Road A Piece

By John Alton Brown

The family of the late John Alton Brown, founder of the Waynesboro-Staunton Region and an AACA director, gave the Region 86 articles entitled "Down the Road A Piece" written by Brown  from the late 1970's until his death in April 1991. Many of these articles were printed in our Region newsletter, "Tire Tracks," as well as the Tri-County Region newsletter. The articles follow the Index.

Index:

Introduction

#1 Probably the most memorable automobile trip….

#2 Most of my associations with automobiles……

#3 As I look backward in time, I find myself thinking…….

#4 As I walk down the road of past memories……

#5 Since the turn of the century, the automobile has continued……….

#6 Ever since the first Model T rolled off the assembly line……..

#7 I associate my college days with two cars……..

#8 In my last column, I mentioned my first car……..

#9 "Hey, Johnny." What would……..

#10 My most harrowing experience while driving…….

#11 This past June I received a surprise gift from my son Jamie……

#12 It has been pleasing to an older person like myself……..

#13 What is so appealing about an antique automobile?.......

#14 When Christmas comes again each year, we often think of Charles Dickens….

#15 Americans have always enjoyed jokes and they……

#16 A few weeks ago, I did something that an antique car………

#17 I’ve written about a lot of experiences in this column, but I ……..

#18 What was it like in the Great Depression?......

#19 If you owned a horseless carriage (also call a motorcar)…..

#20 Whenever I hear the fire alarm…….

#21 Just recently I saw a brief TV story……

#22 A few weeks ago, I was urged by my dear wife……

#23 When I was a small boy, I apparently said "I wish" …….

#24 I know that I have mentioned my many uncles…….

#25 I’m glad that I live out of sight of any of my neighbors……

#26 A few weeks ago, I had the opportunity to indulge myself…..

#27 In the past year or so, a lot of ominous signs……

#28 For almost five years, I had been looking forward to a date…….

#29 I recently saw a picture…….

#30 Just the other day, I drove down a little gravel…..

#31 Let me tell you about the car my father used to drive……

#32 When we hear the term navigator……..

#33 I know that the subject for this column should have……..

#34 Libby and I recently returned from a trip…….

#35 Did you have one of those days or weeks…….

#36 Last weekend Libby and I attended a big band……..

#37 It is said that a person is really getting old if…….

#38 A couple of thousand years ago……..

#39 It seems as though every few weeks , some prominent…….

#40 I believe that almost everyone who loves antiques……..

#41 All of the articles which I have written previously…….

#42 For the past three years or so I have been writing…….

#43 A person who grew up in the twenties……..

#44 What is an antique or perhaps……..

#45 Until I left my home in Edgewood near……

#46 When I hear the word "Christmas", a myriad…….

#47 In these days as we speed down the highway…….

#48 Last week I found a box of unopened Cracker Jacks……

#49 As I look back on my early childhood, which……

#50 Early in June, I received a note from my fifth…….

#51 Imagine if you can that you are suddenly transported……

#52 During my sojourn on this planet of three…….

#53 Everyone knows the feeling he has when he looks……..

#54 I suppose that the Old Dominion Meet is a little……..

#55 One of the sad things about our new automobile…….

#56 Amazingly simple-simply amazing………

#57 The year was 1989 and a small, balding…….

#58 I have been thinking about why people own…….

#59 The following pages are full of rambling thoughts…….

#60 This year the automobile marks its one hundredth……

#61 I am going to jot down some thoughts on a subject…….

#62 Let us suppose that you have won the Irish………

#63 If a young driver were asked today what………

#64 Today, I’m going down the road with a grab bag……….

#65 I believe that next to automobiles and steam locomotives……..

#66 Back in the 1920’s, there was a popular song…….

#67 What’s in a name? asked William Shakespeare……..

#68 The year is 1912 and it is winter……..

#69 By the time everyone reads this column…….

#70 I believe that I will entitle this month’s column……

#71 This column is going to be a treat of things that……

#72 Albert William Heeren was one of my…….

#73 About the time I was in high school……..

#74 A new year has arrived and as Libby, her son……..

#75 "Sorry I’m late. I’ve had car trouble."……..

#76 About five years ago, Libby and I ………

#77 Back in the innocent days before World War I……..

#78 Years ago I learned a phrase…….

#79 As the motorist of the 1980’s speeds down……

#80 One of the most important parts of our automobiles……

#81 Why does a person buy an old car……..

#82 Most people in the United States look……

#83 Putting the obvious physical differences aside……

#84 Editors note: Early history of the Old Dominion Meet…….

#85 I was curious about words like "garret" and "attic"…….

#86 Editors Note: Last column written. With few exceptions…….

Recipes: chili and Lentil soup

Introduction:

In the years between the late 1970’s and up until his death in April 1991, my Dad, John Alton Brown, wrote a usually monthly article for the local antique car club newspaper "Tire Tracks" which very often was also published in the Tri-County Clubs paper as well.

These are stories mostly dealing with cars while growing up, but there are also numerous stories of his growing up in Edgewood, Pennsylvania which is a suburb of Pittsburgh. He details his early fascination with cars and his desire to keep that going by kindling interest with others to form the Waynesboro-Staunton Region Antique Car Club. Throughout these articles, one can see he was VERY opinionated but also his love for his happy life he experienced is very obvious. Whether it was actually a better life as he "remembered" it as time passed or not, he felt he had been very blessed with such a wonderful life and wished that others could share in his memories and learn at the same time. Dad recalled much in detail which is a gift. He got much pleasure from writing these stories and hoped those who read them did as well.

Dad was born on May 15, 1916 and died on April 5, 1991…through these stories he can always be remembered……and because of his interest in "real" automobiles, the pleasure of owning them can always go on as well…….

Collections of "Down the Road A Piece" by John A. Brown

#1

Probably the most memorable automobile trip in my life took place when I lived in California and I was about five years old. It was in the summer of 1921 that my Dad decided to take a couple of weeks off and make a tour of some of the national parks.

Since we were planning to live in Los Angeles only a short time, we didn’t own a car so Dad bought a second-hand 1919 Chalmers which featured a "California " top-a sort of fabric- covered hard top with windows that slid up and down. I remember that it was tan in color and had a trunk on the back. I also remember that there was a special rack of three cans on the running board—red for gas, white for water, and blue for oil. We also had a couple of canvas water bags hung on the front bumper for extra water.

We started our trip, complete with cooking gear and a large tent, heading for Yosemite. We started out in late afternoon so that we could cross the Mojave Desert at night. That was the only way it could be done in the summer.

We started across the desert just as darkness fell and soon found out that the "road" was just two tracks in the sand. My mother put my sister and me in our pajamas and my dad removed his shirt. It still felt like a blast furnace and we ground along the tracks and every once in a while Dad stopped and walked ahead with his flashlight. He told us later that he didn’t want to alarm us but the tracks were drifted over and he was looking for the road ahead.

Our destination that night was Bakersfield and I don’t know how far it was but I do remember that it was long after midnight before we arrived and stayed at some motel for the night.

I’ll skip any accounts of the scenery, which everyone knows about but will mention a few of the other incidents that flash back after a half a century.

I recall us grinding up mountain roads in low gear, the smell of burning brake linings at the bottom of steep hills and how, on one occasion, the Chalmers started steaming and Dad opened the hood to find the fan belt in tatters. He took off his own belt and fitted it on the flat pulley and we took off after waiting a while for the radiator to cool and giving it a couple gallons of water.

On one occasion we left our rubber air mattresses outside the tent to "air out" and an Indian, we were told by fellow campers, put one of them in the sun for a better look and it over heated and stretched until it looked like the Hindenburg, but didn’t end up like the ill-fated German dirigible.

While we were at Yellowstone we saw a Model T Sedan that looked like it had been bombed. It seemed that a camper left a slab of bacon on the back seat and two bears decided to get a free meal. They tore the rear door off, smashed the glass and finally went in through the roof.

In conclusion, I believe that back in 1921 there were few or no paved highways in California although there were some plank roads, which were somewhat hazardous because of loose boards, nails, and huge splinters that could puncture almost any of the tires of that period.

All in all, it was an exciting trip for an impressionable youngster like me and I have never forgotten it

#2

Most of my associations with automobiles in "the old days" are pleasant memories, but there was one vehicle, an early 20’s Model T coupe that I remember with some trepidations but, I must admit, some humor also because the incident was somewhat bizarre to say the least.

The story took place in Los Angeles where my family lived for about two years. I have written about my childhood in previous columns-about cars for early movies and a trip through the national parks.

I was about six when this incident took place but I remember it very clearly. One afternoon my mother went shopping and left my sister and me with our great aunt, Anna Knontz. She was born in Germany, as were many of my mother’s relatives, and spoke broken English.

We were sitting on the front porch when a Model T coupe stopped in front of the house. A rather young, fat man got out and approached us with a long green box. He asked if this was the home of George L Brown because he had some cut flowers to deliver. Aunt Anna didn’t quite get the drift of the questioning, so old smarty-pants John spoke up and told him that this was the home of Alton Brown. Mr. George Brown was my uncle who lived about 8 miles away. The young man looked crestfallen and said that he had to make this delivery or get fired and he had no idea where to locate my Uncle George. Up spoke young John and said,"Oh, I know where he lives. I’ll go with you and show you the way."

At the time, none of us thought of the "fishy" part of the whole thing. Why would he deliver flowers to our home on Winona Avenue when Uncle George lived in another section of Los Angeles on Ventura Avenue?

However, Aunt Anna thought it would be all right for me to show him the way and my sister seemed to concur, so off we went. I remember noticing that the man’s black derby hat seemed a bit too small and that the cigar he lit didn’t smell as nice as the ones my Dad smoked.

I told him to head toward the large oil fields that we always passed on the way to Uncle George’s but when they came in sight he turned around and headed in what, I believe, was a southerly direction. I told him that he was going the wrong direction. His smiles suddenly turned to scowls and he hit me on the side of the head and told me to "shut up" and "that he was kidnapping me."

I remember asking him just exactly "kidnapping" was. He told me that "kidnapping" meant that you were taken away by someone and then your parents were notified and that they had to pay a lot of money to get you back. I told him that he couldn’t get any money from my father because he was far away in Pittsburgh on a business trip.

He seemed to be surprised at this information but then he leaned over and leered at me saying that my Uncle George had plenty of money and that he would pay plenty to get me back. I believe that it was at this time that I told him that Uncle George didn’t have much money because my Aunt Louise was in the hospital and that my Cousin , George Jr., was a policeman. (Both were lies) who would come looking for me.

To my surprise he turned the car around and headed east toward the area where my family lived. Before the days of traffic lights there were policemen every few blocks who whistled and turned around a stop and go signal to keep traffic flowing. At every one of the signals, I would poke my head out the window and yell, "help! I’m being kidnapped!" the various policemen would stare at us and then motion the car to proceed. I kept up the yelling routine whenever we were stopped but to no avail.

Suddenly, however, I realized that we were on Western Avenue, a long street that leads to downtown Los Angeles and was only two blocks from our home when it passed the bakery. I remember shouting "There’s our bakery." The fat man in the derby hat stepped on the proper Model T pedals and pulled over to the curb. "All right, you little monster, get out and run home. Don’t tell any of your folks about this or I’ll come back and get you again!"

I jumped out and headed for home as fast as I could run. When I arrived at my home, my great-aunt and my sister were on the front porch enjoying a lemonade.

I remember someone remarked that the trip didn’t take very long and that mother would be home soon. I kept the incident to myself until Mother did arrive and then when the entire story was told I received a severe scolding as did my great-aunt Anna ,-for going off with a stranger and my aunt for letting me go.

Shortly after this incident my mother captured a female burglar in the house next door who threatened to "get back" at her small children and my sister and her friends were followed home by a man who said he liked little girls, so not long after this Mother said that she would not live in Los Angeles any longer and we moved back to smoky old Pittsburgh for good. I guess I’m still the only living person who was unsuccessfully kidnapped in a Model T Ford.

#3

As I look backward in time, I find myself thinking about the many different makes of cars my father owned and find that with the exception of our 1915 Dodge, all the others became obsolete. One car that stands out in my memory is our 1926 Chandler. This car was one with a body style that might be classified as an opera coupe. It had only two doors and one had to fold in the front seats down in order to sit in the back.

I remember the aluminum stripe that ran vertically down the back of the body and the small truck shelf between the body and the rear mounted back tire. I don’t believe that he ever fastened either suitcases or a trunk on this shelf since my father used it solely for driving back and forth to work at his office downtown.

One summer afternoon, however, the old Chandler and I became closely involved with one another. I was playing out in the yard behind our house when I heard the car start down our long driveway to the garage. I rushed around the corner of the house without looking and my Dad bumped into me and knocked me sprawling---under the left front wheel. My mother who was riding beside him jumped out and ran around the car to see where I was.Well, there I was, flat on my back with the tire resting on my chest. She shouted to my Dad that I was pinned underneath the wheel and that he should back off. Dad became flustered and in shifting to reverse he stalled the car. Then he flooded the carburetor and kept hitting the starter with my mother imploring him to start the car or get out and help lift the car off me.

At last (probably in ten seconds) the Chandler sputtered to life and I was free. I don’t remember whether I was helped or carried into the front seat but I remember how quickly Dad backed the car out into the street and then roared down the three blocks to the office of our family doctor. He wasn’t in. Off we went to the office of another doctor about two miles away. He wasn’t there either.

After a hasty conference, my parents decided to take me home. I was put to bed and hovered over by my mother. About an hour later, good old Doctor Jones arrived. He pushed gently on my chest several times and asked, "Does that hurt? Does this place hurt?"

I felt a bit sore but I assured him that I felt pretty good. The good doctor smiled and said, "Oh. Hell, Mrs. Brown, he’s perfectly o.k. Let him get dressed and go outside and play." In short time I was playing Red Light with some of my friends.

I have often wondered why my parents didn’t take me to the hospital which we passed twice in search of the other doctor. They never thought about x-rays either, but I guess I was tough for a nine year old—and I’m alive today.

#4

As I walk down the road of past memories, I am thinking about some of the automobiles that were not ours but as a child these cars made a lasting impression on me. The first of these cars was owned by a family that lived in the big house next to my uncle with whom I lived until I was eight. To me it was the most beautiful vehicle I had ever seen. This automobile was a 1920 double cowl Pierce-Arrow Phaeton. It was painted maroon with lots of gleaming nickel.

When I looked out my bedroom window, I could see it parked on the sloping driveway about fifty yards away. One summer afternoon, I had been sent up to my bedroom for a nap since I was just recovering from a severe case of the measles. I remember looking out the window and seeing the family drive into the driveway with the beautiful Pierce-Arrow. The man and his wife hurriedly got out of the car and rushed into the house for some reason or other and as I watched, the huge automobile began slowly to move down the steeply sloping driveway. As I watched, it began to gain speed and then bounce over the curb near the garage, and then go crashing down the hill and into the ravine below.

Still wearing my pajamas and bedroom slippers, I ran past my astonished mother and made my way through my uncle’s flower garden. Scrambling down the hillside, I suddenly saw the car. There it was, lying on its side up against a large beech tree—its top smashed; its body battered and hot water dripping out of the radiator. At that moment, Mr. McEldowney, the owner, arrived and said something about being careless and not pulling the parking brake tight enough.

I remember the final episode in the story. A large cable was attached to the Pierce and a horse powered a windlass and pulled the big car back up the hill. It was hauled away by a wrecker and I never saw it again but for years I would stop and look at the scars on the big beech tree.

Another automobile that impressed me was the big Franklin owned by a Mr. Cummins who lived in the house on the other side of my Uncle Tom’s property. This was one of the Franklins with the "horse-collar" radiator that really wasn’t a radiator but just a grill that protected the huge air cooling fan behind it. The hood was hinged in the front and lifted straight up to reveal the engine with its huge air duct which cooled the engine block.

Mr. Cummins enjoyed raising the hood and explaining to me the virtues of an air-cooled engine. He never owned any other make of car and in the early years of the Great Depression, when he learned that the H.H. Franklin Company was going out of business, he bought two 1933 cars so that he would have Franklins to drive for the rest of his life. When he died a few years later, his son-in-law was given both of these beautiful cars which he and his wife drove all during the war years. Perhaps they ended up in some antique auto enthusiasts collection. I certainly hope so.

#5

Since the turn of the century, the automobile has continued to be an important part of people’s lives and even today, just about everyone has memories of one particular car that they enjoyed more than any other…..

During the early twenties, we had a succession of cars such as a 1920 Studebaker sedan, a 1919 Hudson touring, a 1918 war-surplus Liberty, and a 1925 Chevrolet coupe. Along with these venerable vehicles my father also purchased in 1923 my favorite—a seven passenger Marmon 34 touring. It was painted a dark blue and had dual side mounts and a five –suitcase trunk in back.

The Marmon Company, located in Indianapolis, was one of the first to make use of aluminum in their car bodies and in the engine. One part that was not aluminum, however, was the hubcap. These hubcaps were about six inches in diameter and were made of cast bronze with the Marmon oval emblem in the center. The standard model 34’s had huge wire wheels but for some reason our car had natural wood wheels that looked quite sporty to our family.

This car immediately became our summer trips vehicle and I can still remember the excitement my sister and I felt when Dad announced that he was getting the Marmon serviced for our first trip of the summer. These preparations also included packing the five suitcases and the preparation of the picnic lunch which also included hot cocoa in one of the big black thermos bottles and ice water in the other.

We would always leave at sunrise in order to beat the heat and Dad would have on his linen driving coat, linen knickers, golf socks, and a white linen cap. There was also a box of Pittsburgh stogies on the floor which he enjoyed smoking as he drove.

I recall that placed below the black dialed Stewart-Warner instrument panel was a cigar lighter which pulled out on a cord. When we traveled, my sister and I took turns with my mother in sitting up front. We usually used one of the jump seats in the back so that the other person could stretch out on the back seat.

For some reason or other, I used to put on my amber-tinted sunglasses, lean out over the front door, and pretend I was a railroad engineer. Other diversions on the trip were games involving the spotting of animals, reading those wonderful, Burma-Shave signs (backward when we were going in the opposite direction) and looking out the back window at the tarred-over cement road cracks that wiggled like snakes when looked at from a low angle.

In that old Marmon we drove to Maine at least three times and visited many interesting and historical sights in Pennsylvania, New York, and many other states. On certain occasions we would have a flat tire and we would each have a job to do when the big Goodyear Double Eagles went flat.

When a shower was imminent, we would stop and get out the rain curtains, insert the metal rods in the doors, and snap everything shut. The windshield wiper had a round nickel knob on it which Dad would grab and work furiously while steering with his other hand. On these occasions the cigar would have to be thrown away and the passenger would have to use a rag to wipe away the fog on the inside of the windshield.

There are fond memories of the old Lincoln Highway which still had many covered bridges to cross and detours that took us through small towns with hay wagons which we would pass and grab a wisp of hay for making a secret wish.

We kept the Marmon until 1930 when it was traded in on a Jordan Airline Eight. It almost broke our hearts when we spotted our beloved car with the back cut off and a towing crane installed by a wrecker service in a neighboring town. I saw the Marmon there for several years and used to stop and look at it. She is gone now but she gave us some of the happiest moments of my childhood.

#6

Ever since the first Model T rolled off the assembly line in 1908, the "tin lizzy´has been the butt of hundreds of jokes, cartoons, and photographs. The movie industry was quick to realize that just having a few T’s in a movie would make an audience laugh.

The famous Keystone Cops drove, were run over, and smashed up hundreds of them. Many of their movies were made on the roads leading to Santa Monica beach, a few miles from Los Angeles. My family used to drive to the beach on weekends and I saw many movies being made there.

I remember how we would gather near the foot of the high cliffs above the beach and watch as they shot scenes of Model T’s plummeting from the tops of the cliffs with dummies in them. Sometimes the director would shout up through his megaphone that the crash wasn’t spectacular enough. They would then get another car and send it crashing down. I recall that on one occasion they used four or five flivvers before the director was satisfied. It was a thrilling afternoon for a bunch of small kids in knee-length bathing suits with eyes wide-open with excitement and wonder.

The movie companies also used the dusty roads near the beach for their chase scenes. They would have two or three "fugitive" cars and several "cop" cars full of actors in their old-fashioned helmets, driving intricate patterns of circles and cross-overs. They drove them about 15 miles per hour, but by taking only about eight frames per second the finished films made them look like they were going about fifty. They were really hilarious, as most of you know.

Today a good car chase is still exciting and often funny. They are more refined and realistic but I still like the old ones I saw them make at Santa Monica, when I was a small boy of six. Yes, folks, that was show biz!

#7

I associate my college days with two cars; both of which I bought second hand. My very first car was a 1930 Model A Standard coupe with a rumble seat. It was painted Kewanee and Elkpoint green and I paid $180 for it. I doubt if Cinderella was more thrilled with her pumpkin coach than I was when I started the A and headed for home.

I drove the car about two years between Pittsburgh and Bethany College in rain, snow, and fair weather without any major problems. On one occasion I was traveling between Bethany and Wellsburg, West Virginia when the ice jam in Buffalo Creek suddenly broke up. The water rushed over the roads and huge cakes of ice came floating down towards me. I managed to keep away from the ice cakes which must have weighed twenty tons or more but I was concerned when the murky waters rose over the running boards.

The only way that I could guess where the roads were was by watching the fence posts on either side of the road and hoping that I was in the middle. I also remember that the high water forced hundreds of rats out of their lairs and several hundred of them began swimming my way. Some of them tried to clamber up on the running boards but I was able to go fast enough to wash them off.

I soon reached higher ground and the only problem that I encountered were a set of four very wet brake bands that took a while to dry out…To make a long story short, I kept the Model A for about two years and then "traded up" for a 1933 Dodge coupe. It was painted black, had the famous Dodge ram on the radiator cap, crank out windshield and natural varnished wood wheels.

I went overboard by purchasing a Motorola radio which had the dial attached to the steering column. What a luxury! As soon as school was out, my roommate and I loaded up the car and took off for a transcontinental trip to California.

The summer of 1936 was characterized by drought and extreme heat. On most days the temperature was near 100 degrees and we managed to survive by dousing ourselves with water and propping open doors which hinged from the back (often called suicide doors)

As we drove through Nebraska we saw hundreds of dead cattle beside the fences that were seeking a few blades of green grass but the worst sight was the swarms of grasshoppers that flew at the car and mashed themselves on the windshield.

We had to stop every fifteen minutes or so to wipe away the mess so we could see.

We arrived in California after eight days and stayed with my Uncle George Brown, had a nice stay, met some cute gals, visited Yellowstone and Yosemite National Parks and headed home. The only casualty on the whole trip was a flat tire on the ramp leading to the Oakland ferry which we changed in four minutes flat with 200 cars behind us tooting their horns. All in all, it was an exciting trip for a couple of 22 year old boys and we had nothing but praise for that old Dodge.

In 1938, I traded it for my first new car---a 1938 Business coupe with a boot that was about 4 feet wide and about 6 feet deep which made sleeping in the back a lot of fun---but that’s another story that took me down the road a piece.

#8

In my last column I mentioned my first new car—a 1937 Dodge business coupe. It was a beautiful color, called "Stratosphere Blue" by the Chrysler Corp. The trunk space was about 5 week wide and over 6 feet deep.

When July rolled around my dearest friend and roommate, the late Jimmy Harrison and I took off for a two week trip to New England. We had no special route planned so we drove leisurely and stopped wherever a place seemed interesting.

I recall that we visited many auto junk yards and I could kick myself for not making a collection of the wonderful enamel radiator emblems we saw on many rusting relics of the 1920’s- Chalmers, Pierce-Arrows, Paige, Cord, and many other names that are just memories today. In several yards a Model T could be bought complete for about 10 dollars.

We stopped at many antique stores in Pennsylvania, New York, Connecticut, and in other states and bought such things as pistols, muskets, books, pipes, Indian relics, and a pair of "tater bug" mandolins on which Jim and I learned to play duets.

We slept on air mattresses placed in the boot of the Dodge with mosquito netting draped over the trunk lid. It was quite comfortable and very easy to get ready. We had a large rooter jug with a spigot that we used for washing, and tooth brushing in the morning.

On one occasion in New Jersey we obtained permission to park in a farmer’s pasture. That night we were "entertained’ by a large group of German-American Nazi Band in a camp nearby who sang all the Nazi songs in German. After they calmed down we went to sleep only to wake up the next morning to find half a dozen Holstein cows sniffing at our mosquito netting!

We drove all the way up to Maine and stopped at Camp Winona where I spent many happy summers as a boy. At a little New Hampshire town named Center Sandwich we were invited to join in the music for a wedding party and we obliged with me playing my accordion and Jimmy playing his saxophone.

We had a wonderful time in that Dodge with no flats or other troubles-no traffic tickets and no high prices. When it rained, we stopped at small motels with charges of about $5.00 double and gasoline for 21 cents a gallon. Well, those days are gone forever but not forgotten. I’d still like to find a 1937 Dodge coupe again…does anyone have a lead I can follow up????

#9

"Hey, Johnny! What would you rather do today—fly in an aeroplane or go fishing?" this question was asked of me by two young college men while we were vacationing in the Poconos way back in 1920. That was quite a choice for a four year old boy to make but since I had been fishing with my Dad a few days before I told them I would like to fly in an aeroplane (that’s the way it was spelled in those days) if they had one. Well, they didn’t have an aeroplane but they did have the most beautiful red speedster I had ever seen.

I was a bit disappointed that we were not going up in the air but we really did fly. This, I remember, was a Stutz Bearcat and I was held on the lap of one of the young men and we roared away down a dusty country road with the wind blowing in our faces and the trees on either side of the road seeming like a blur. That ride probably only lasted about ten minutes but it was so exciting that I have never forgotten it although the passage of almost sixty years has made me forget many other things that perhaps I should remember.

My second memorable auto ride took place in London, England in the summer of 1935. My sister and I met an Englishman named R.A. Driscoll while on board the German ship Bremen. He invited us to visit him in Croyden where he managed a department store called Kennards. When we arrived he asked us if we would like to drive to Brighton for tea. Of course we said yes and he took us to the parking lot and introduced us to "The Yellow Terror". It was one of the famous Vauxhall 30/98 speedsters. This particular car was painted bright yellow and the body behind the front seat had a flat deck of mahogany like a motorboat and had a small hatch-like opening called a "dickey seat".

I crawled into it and Mr. Driscoll warned us to "hold on to our hats" and off we roared. I was fortunate that I had no hat because it would have blown away as we sped down the high crowned road toward Brighton. My sister Adele was scrunched down in the front seat as far as she could go and I don’t remember whether her eyes were closed or not, but I do remember glancing at the speedometer that hovered around the high seventies most of the way.

I believe that my hands shook as I tried to lift my tea to my mouth but Mr. Driscoll remarked that THAT speed to a 30/98 Vauxhall was just cruising although the vehicle was about ten years old at the time. Upon returning to Croyden, we thanked our host and took the bus back to the hotel in Central London. One of my suppressed desires is to ride in an "old crock" with some Englishmen in a London to Brighton run some misty November in the future, but if I never do that—that first Brighton run will partly compensate for that famous annual event.

The last memorable ride took place about 10years ago at Hershey. Some of the National Directors and I had been told that Bill Harrah wanted us to come to the back of the Hershey Stadium. I don’t know the reactions of the other directors but I was really astounded because in front of us was the famous New York to Paris Thomas Flyer of 1908 round the world fame. I had read about this car and its drivers; I had met George Shuster, the mechanic-driver in the race but I had never seen this legendary vehicle. There it sat-with its crimson wheels and French gray body partially filled with lanterns, ropes, camping gear and fuel cans—just as it looked when it arrived triumphantly in Paris to win the race. The sides of the wooden body were covered with people’s carved initials—carefully reproduced from photographs. Everything was as closely reproduced as possible.

At that point, Bill Harrah told us that any of the directors who wanted to take a ride in the Thomas could do so. We went in groups of three because there wasn’t a lot of room with all of the gear in the back but as we whizzed around the cinder track inside the stadium, I felt that it was one of my most memorable automobile rides. Bill Harrah is gone now but that historic automobile reposes in his great museum to be enjoyed by thousands of people now and in the years to come.

#10

My most harrowing experience while driving an automobile occurred back in 1934. The car I was driving was a 1930 Jordan "Airline Eight" sedan painted tan with crimson artillery wheels. My father had purchased it new and drove it for two years before he passed away and I found myself becoming my mother’s chauffer at the age of 16.

It was early in December that my grandmother became quite ill and my mother wanted me to be at her bedside. We arrived at my grandmother’s house which was in the Oakland section of Pittsburgh about six miles away from Edgewood where we lived.

I stayed and visited for about an hour with my grandmother and then prepared to leave. Imagine my surprise when I opened the front door to find it snowing heavily with over an inch on the ground already. It was at this moment that I realized that the chains were hanging up in our garage.

With the cheerful optimism of a seventeen year old I decided that I could make it home safely if I drove up and down the streets slowly.

All went well until I arrived at Wilkins Street which was three blocks long and quite steep except for a short level space where each cross street intersected. I started down the first hill and decided to shift into second gear. Well, that did it. As I braked slightly to shift I felt the old Jordan begin to slide. Before I reached the first cross street the car was already going sideways. I started honking the horn and looked anxiously for approaching headlights. Luckily, there were no approaching vehicles and by this time the car was sliding down the street completely backward. I might mention at this point that at the end of the third block there was a blinker light mounted on a steel pedestal in the middle of the street.

I could see it blinking as I looked through the back window and I was sure that I would hit it squarely. As I continued sliding down the last block, all I could think of was how I would tell my mother that I wrecked the Jordan. I never once thought I might be injured.

At this point I felt the car beginning to veer toward the curb and I pulled on the steering wheel in desperation. The left front wheel hit the curb and the car stopped-just about ten feet away from the blinker. Getting groggily out of the car, I looked for damage and finding none I drove the rest of the way home without incident.

The next morning I examined the wheel more closely and discovered—believe it or not—a slight dent and several scratches on the aluminum hubcap. I decided that I wouldn’t tell my mother about the three block slide downhill in a snowstorm. She had enough troubles raising me.

#11

This past June I received a surprise gift from my son Jamie. It was a card telling me that I would be transported to Pittsburgh to see the Pirates play three games and that we would stay at a hotel near the Three Rivers Stadium. True to his promise Jamie and grandson Matthew arrived on a Friday morning a few weeks ago and we arrived at the Pittsburgh Gateway Hilton in just a few minutes over five hours. It was hard to believe because this trip used to take almost eight hours in the days before Route 81 and the expressways that lead off the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

The stadium was on the other side of the Allegheny River, so in order to get there, we walked through the Gateway Park, climbed a long series of stairways to the top of the Point Bridge, walked across the bridge, climbed down the steps on the other side, and then finally reached the ballpark. When the game was over, we retraced our steps back to the hotel. It was good exercise for all of us but I must admit I enjoyed stretching out on my bed when we returned.

My grandson Matt wanted to see the town where I grew up and some of the things that my son Jamie had been shown when he was a boy and I was very pleased to have the opportunity to return to the scenes I associated with my childhood. The borough of Edgewood, which is celebrating its centennial this year, is divided into two areas by the main line of the Pennsylvania railroad. In order to visit some of the places I wanted to see again, we had to drive through the "tunnel" on Race Street which is the lone artery that connects the two divided parts of our small town. Ah! The tunnel! This is where we used to gallop along the narrow sidewalk shouting at the top of our lungs to hear the echoes that magnified our youthful shouts and the exciting sound that was created as our high school band in maroon and white uniforms struck up a few bars of "Semper Fidelis" as we marched under the railroad and down Race Street to Koenig Field for a football game. Yes, we thought that we sounded pretty good—all twenty-eight of us!

Race Street went up hill on the other end and connected with Swissvale Ave. At the top of the hill was the Edgewood Presbyterian Church, which was the only church in town and was attended by many people of different sects because it took a very broad view of what Christianity was all about. We went inside and looked at the huge organ which I still think is the most beautiful organ I have ever seen. It’s silver pipes are enclosed by soaring Gothic woodwork of Italian walnut imported and installed almost eighty years ago. Up in one of the twin towers is a 26 bell carillon which was donated by a wealthy resident who bought the bells in Belgium and paid the bell foundry to send an expert to our Church to install them. They play the Westminster Chimes four times each hour and special music on Church Holidays.

I paused a moment to remember the Christmas programs that took place in this beautiful sanctuary and then at their conclusion I joined a large group of young people who would go to various addresses in the community and sing carols and hymns outside the homes of those who were ill or elderly and then end up in the Church social hall for sandwiches and hot chocolate.

Just across the street from the Church is a little park with a few beautiful trees and shrubbery which set off the statue of the World War I doughboy standing relaxed with his right hand on his hip and his left hand holding his Springfield rifle in a relaxed manner. Around the base of the statue are bronze plates with the names of the young men of Edgewood who served their country in the war. Other plates were added after the end of World War II and on a separate stone marker were the names of those who fought in Korea and Viet Nam. I looked at the names listed and recognized many of them. Some names had a bronze star which indicated that they had made the supreme sacrifice.

As I stood there, I could vividly recall when the statue was first unveiled in 1928. There was a parade that featured several bands and about 40 or 50 middle-aged men in khaki uniforms that seemed a bit too tight who marched with pride behind several Packard touring cars which contained about a half dozen white haired men in dark blue uniforms who had fought in the Civil War. It was a scene that I will never forget—a memory that made me proud of my community and my country.

Just a few yards away is an old building built about a hundred years ago—red brick with a slate roof built in a style that is called "railroad Gothic". This was our railroad station. I say "was" because it is now part real estate office and part antique store. This is the place where one could buy a commuter ticket to downtown or, going in the opposite direction, "shuffle off to Buffalo", Boston, or New York City. It was here also where my senior class of 1934 assembled with suitcases, raincoats, and juvenile excitement to await the arrival of the Capitol Limited, snorting steam and black smoke which stopped briefly for us to get on board on our way to Washington.

What a thrill it was to be seated in the dining car with its white linen covered tables and railroad silverware and to order lunch and stare out of the windows as the train slowed down for the famous Horseshoe Curve near Altoona, Pa.

When we passed the railroad station, son Jamie made a left turn and drove up Maple Avenue. We glanced at the old grade school, the high school, and paused briefly to look at the three houses where I dwelt in early childhood, early puberty, and what today is called "being a teenager". When we were in the time period from 13 to 19 we were not singled out as a special age group that needed special attention. We were just called "kids" and then "young ladies and gentlemen" and we were expected to act accordingly.

As we drove up Maple Avenue, I pointed out the 3 houses in which I lived from birth until college graduation and marriage. I noted that the houses that I knew in that period are still the same. I know that the people inside them are not the people I knew, but the street is no wider, the same trees grow along both sides, and the sidewalks are unchanged. It was a pleasant feeling to see things almost unchanged except that there were no Model A Fords, Pierce-Arrows, or Packard parked along the shady street. Yes, I think that I liked that very much. It was a great trip to nostalgia.

#12

It has been pleasing to an older person like myself to see the products that have made a come-back during the "nostalgia kick" that has swept the country during the past few years. Once again, we can buy "long-johns", cast iron stoves, cast iron mechanical banks, and reproduction Model A Fords, boat-tailed Auburn speedsters, and other automobiles and accessories of the past. These things are great but there are a number of "old –timey" things that I believe should be made and sold again to this generation of youngsters.

Wouldn’t it be great for certain stores to hire a patient, elderly person to work behind a large curved candy case and bag a selection of candies picked very selectively by young buyers with a small amount of change to spend? They could ponder over selecting such goodies as chocolate babies, sour balls, fireballs, root beer barrels, orange slices, spearmint leaves, Boston baked beans, candy corn, and little licorice tubes sold ten to a box. Or how about Mary Janes, starlight kisses, jaw breakers, or cinnamon imperials?

I know that there are so-called "Country stores" here and there they sell some of these candies but they are few and far between and the candy prices would send little kids away in tears. Where, in these times, can a child stand for five minutes to make a choice of something he would like to buy?

I was looking through a book that I’ve had since I was a child. It shows all kinds of wonderful toys and games that could be made with things found around the house. Where today can one find a soap box, a nail keg, any empty sugar sack, or a Log Cabin syrup can? Soap and nails come to stores in cardboard boxes and maple syrup stands on the supermarket shelves in look-alike glass bottles. How can a boy make an Indian tom-tom out of a cardboard box when directions call for a large wooden cheese box which was not square but round?

Television promotes the myth that vegetables are still sold by a man who comes around in a truck. We see "Mom and Pop" butcher shops, candy stores, and general stores where folks are invited to sit down for a cup of coffee or a bowl of soup.

I believe that we would have less trouble with kids if they could go to the store and get a sack full of damaged lettuce for their rabbits or guinea pigs, meat scraps for their pet alligators or turtles. I had many pets and my trips to the grocer or butcher were rewarded with copious supplies of damaged vegetables or meat scraps for a few pennies or for no charge at all plus interesting questions about the welfare of my animal friends.

I know that youngsters of today can talk their moms or dads into buying radio-controlled racing cars, Star Wars robots, or talking baby dolls but wouldn’t it be nice if they could find wooden laths used for plastering walls to make swords or boomerangs and the wooden hoops from old barrels to hit with a stick in a hoop in a hoop-rolling contest across a vacant lot? Electronics have helped modernize our culture I agree, but I believe they have taken a lot of the joys out of childhood creativeness and imagination. A battery operated space hero can vaporize a space villain but a half-century ago a lead soldier with his lead sword could conquer all villains and save the world!

#13

What is so appealing about an antique automobile? Is it safer to drive than the latest offerings from Detroit? Is it more comfortable to ride in? Is this object of our affections more economical to operate and keep in show-room condition? The answer to all these questions is a responding NO. Well then…why do we lavish our time, hard earned money and affection on these automotive "has-beens"? The answers are as varied as the persons who own them.

I will attempt to explain why I like antique cars; knowing that my reasons will have little in common with the younger members of our club who own and have restored the "Detroit Iron" of the later 40’s and 50’s. I must be frank and say that cars of that era have little appeal to me since I remember them as just necessary transportation that took me to work and back or, perhaps a trip with my growing family to visit relatives or a new vacation spot. I know that I am joined by many club members in looking with nostalgia at a car or cars that figured prominently in my childhood days, or the period in life when a person requires his very first and very own automobile. That was a real thrill and many of us have tried to recapture that feeling by finding a car just like it. That is why I have owned a 1930 Model A coupe for the past twelve years. It is almost identical to my first car which carried me back and forth from Pittsburgh to Bethany College in 1935. I also look with excitement and a bit of envy at every 1923 Model 34 Marmon touring car which I encounter a t A.A.C.A National Meets. The Marmon looms largest in my memories of childhood motoring experiences.

Of course, I do recapture some sensation of the past when Libby and I take a ride in our newly-restored Jeffery. We have the cooling breezes, the flying insects, the smell of freshly cut hay, and yes, the effort to keep dry while driving in the rain.

Speaking of rain---what rhymes with rain? Why, Wayne, of course. I have driven that 1906 Wayne in more drizzles and rainstorms than any other antique car I have ever owned. I’m sure that Gene Kelly didn’t get nearly as wet when he was "Singing in the Rain" as I have gotten driving the little Wayne to a meet in Gypsy Hill Park or from one side of Roanoke to another. The rain hits me in the face, runs down my neck, and gradually seeps down to the only dry spot left….the seat of my pants. I can’t sing in the rain because I’m too busy working the controls and listening to hear whether the coils are still buzzing, and hoping I won’t have to make any sudden stops. Yes, it would be a hair-raising experience except that my hair is much too wet to stand up. But, in spite of experiences like this, the Wayne has a mystique about it that is shared by other cars of the Early Brass era. It not only drives and rides differently, but it has an aroma that sets it apart. This aroma is a combination of different odors that come from freshly polished brass hubcaps, steering column, bulb horn, and side lamps. It is also the smell of hot oil, a near boiling radiator, old leather, and raw gasoline.

These olfactory delights are supplemented by the sounds of a pioneer Brass Era car…the rhythmic buzzing of the coils, the chugging of the tiny two-cylinder engine, and the humming of the high pressure tires. Usually there is the additional sound of an unlocated squeak or rattle somewhere back of the driver’s seat. Yes, that is what early automobiling was like except for the absence of dust, rutted road, frightened horses, and tire-biting farm dogs. The gnats and angry bumblebees are still with us, and the air blast from a passing trailer truck almost blows us off the road. In spite of these hazards, driving and early "horseless carriage" is fun….even when it rains. I feel that I must take some of the blame for the severe drought these past few months…I didn’t have the Wayne out of the garage all summer!

#14

When Christmas comes again each year we often think of Charles Dickens and his classic "Christmas Carol". The main theme of this story is Christmas present, past , and future. If we put this story in our memories of Christmas past we might go back in memory to a time forty, fifty, or even sixty years ago.

In spite of my gray hairs and frequently aching joints, I remember quite vividly some of those annual celebrations of the Lord’s birthday in the years long ago. This holiday was strictly a family day which included aunts, cousins, uncles, and my Grandmother. The things we did each Christmas became what every family calls their traditions.

During the weeks before Christmas, my father would bring home mysterious packages in large boxes or brown paper, which were ceremoniously put in the downstairs closet and were referred to as "lay-overs for meddlers." This meant no handling and no shaking of anything thus designated. My sister Adele and I carefully saved our nickels and dimes all year and usually accumulated about fifteen or twenty dollars which were earmarked for holiday spending. We spent our money very carefully and the few gifts we were able to purchase were carefully wrapped and placed under the bed in the spare bedroom.

Dad always went by himself to buy the Christmas tree—a balsam fir and as long as he lived the tree was never decorated or seen in the house until Christmas Eve. When my sister and I were young, we had to go to bed early and listened with great excitement to the sounds from downstairs—the crackling of paper, the tinkling of small bells being placed on the tree and soft conversation between our parents.

I am sure that our house was not really colder on Christmas Eve, but Adele and I shivered under our blankets all night and kept getting up to check the mantel clock, whose hands seemed to scarcely move at all. When six o’clock finally arrived, we would knock on our parent’s door and get permission to rush downstairs and get our stockings, which were hanging from the living room mantelpiece. We tried to look through the French doors of the darkened dining room, but without success. Rushing back upstairs, we would plop ourselves down on Mothers and Dads beds and reach into our stockings to retrieve such things as a new toothbrush, a small toy, English walnuts, a mesh bag of chocolate coins covered with gold foil, and a dollar’s worth of new pennies, nickels, and dimes. And then, of course, there was always an orange in the toe of the stocking.

After a breakfast that was never shortened even for Christmas morning, we all burst into the dining room after Dad went first and turned on the tree lights. Our gifts were placed in separate piles in the same place every year so we knew where to look for them.

Most of our gifts were books or articles of clothing, but I still remember the excitement I felt when I looked under the tree to find a gleaming oval truck and a Lionel electric train with half a dozen cars and a locomotive. On succeeding Christmases, I often received another car or a couple of track switches.

After a brief lunch Dad would head for the garage to warm up the old 1923 Marmon touring and with rain curtains in place and a couple of warm lap robes, we would make the trip to my Grandmother’s duplex she shared with my aunt, uncle, and three cousins. Gifts were exchanged during the afternoon and then we all went upstairs to Grandmother’s dining room to enjoy a turkey dinner with several more aunts and uncles. After the blessing Grandmother proposed a toast for many more Christmases together (the wine my uncle obtained from a bootlegger) but Grandmother never knew that.

As the years passed the group around her table became smaller when loved ones passed away, but it was an occasion I will always remember with warmth and fondness. The final ceremony of those Christmases past was the drive home along the streets that were known for their homes displaying outdoor lighting—a practice that began in the mid nineteen-twenties. Then we arrived at home to savor our gifts and our joy of being together. When we jumped into bed, sleep came quickly to a couple of tired but happy children and even more to two exhausted, wonderful parents.

#15

Americans have always enjoyed jokes and they seem to tell jokes about things that cause them concern one way or another. Most of the clean, humorous stories can be classified into these categories: spouses, doctors, churches or ministers, Pearly gates, teachers, minor ethnic groups, automobiles, and money. Election year and outer space jokes are actually just variations of some I have mentioned but I believe that whether they are joking or not, people seem to talk most about cars and money. As an example, just talk with an elderly man and he will tell you about the wonderful car he had sixty years ago which he gave to the junkman. If he still had this vehicle it would be worth a fortune today.

Now when it comes to money it seems that years ago nobody, especially children, had much at all. Just listen to any comedian, country singer, or self-made millionaire and you will hear how dirt-poor their families were. It really must have been rough since they had no government agency to find them another home, nobody to find them a job, "relief checks", or food stamps. It is increasingly difficult for today’s children to understand some of the old proverbs or sayings about money. For example, you must now say "a nickel for your thoughts", or "I was so embarrassed I felt like two quarters" or even "a dollar saved is a dollar earned" if you want to impress youngsters these days.

When I tell some of my grandchildren about my childhood money problems, they listen in polite silence as I recall some experiences of the "good old days." My father did me a great favor by requiring me to earn the money for certain things I wanted, such as a new bicycle, a football helmet and pants, or a Saturday excursion on the streetcar to Kennywood Amusement Park. I had several options for obtaining cash, depending on the season. In late spring and summer, I could dig dandelions and plantains for ten cents a pound or in winter shovel out the walks and the driveway (it was a double cement track with gravel in between and about fifty yards long) for a dollar.

I learned a valuable lesson about the weeds. They were tossed into a bushel basket to await Dad’s arrival to be placed on the kitchen scales and after my first mistake of leaving the basket in the sun, all future baskets were covered with newspaper and kept in the shade which doubled their value. I had one factor in my favor-we had several large lawns and a basket of non-dehydrated weeds weighed about fifteen pounds so it took only one summer to have cash on hand to purchase my red and white American Flyer with a rear fender rack and a fancy odometer which I attached to the front wheel. I almost forgot to mention that there was a built-in tool box that contained several wrenches and a small tire pump. Many years later I brought this bicycle to Virginia and sold it to a man for thirty dollars which included teaching his young son to ride it.

The football uniform took a longer time to obtain since I had to make a vegetable garden and sell the produce to sympathetic neighbors and several nearby relatives. But by the end of September, I had enough cash to purchase my leather helmet, blue jersey, and canvas pants with sponge rubber knee pads and bamboo rod thigh protectors. My mother surprised me by buying some shoulder pads and I was allowed to take a pair of my old high top shoes to Patsy Bonaccni, the shoemaker, to nail leather cleats on the soles and heels .Needless to say, I wore my new football shoes back home, clomping loudly on the sidewalk in hopes that a certain young lady who lived in the house across the street might hear me as I went by. (she didn’t)

I might mention that there were no teams or sponsors for little kids and the only reason I was included on the team was because, although I was the smallest player, I could nearly always hike the ball to the right person at the right time. Another reason I was the center is because one of the players that played in the backfield owned the football we used and he ran the team. Also any lineman was allowed to catch a pass and I was occasionally used to surprise our opponents by taking a short pass in the middle.

This was not intended to be an account of my success in the financial sector, but to point out the simple financial goals of children in the "roaring twenties" who didn’t hear the roaring of the adult population nor were they pushed by their parents into wanting to do things adults do….dating, sipping bootleg booze, or smoking cigarettes. No, we were satisfied with playing cowboys and Indians. The guys that had the cap guns and a supply of Kilgore caps, of course, were the cowboys, but a willow branch split at each end to insert a knotted string, a bird feather or some sort, and a loud verbal POW! POW! were all the props needed to be a full blooded Comanche or Apache brave.

I wish that I knew where my old single shot or my repeating cap guns were. They are going for fifteen or twenty bucks at the big auctions these days. I wonder if the Football Hall of Fame would be interested in a genuine old-time football helmet.

#16

A few weeks ago, I did something that an antique automobilist tries not to do, or if he does, he hopes that his friends won’t know about it for quite some time….Yes, I’ll confess. I bought myself a new car and with it went my plans to someday acquire a 1913-1920 Pierce-Arrow touring car from an ancient chauffeur, who inherited it from a wealthy tycoon for whom he worked for over a half a century ago. I suppose that for someone my age, this new vehicle is just what I need. It will take good care of me. It will remind me when I ‘m doing something wrong, something right, and will attend to certain details in case I forget.

Ah yes, I remember driving my first car- a 1930 Model A deluxe coupe –painted Elkpoint and Kewanee green-rumble seat-cowl lights etc. If it was quite cold and I had to drive back to college on a winter afternoon, I would check the thermometer outside my home and make sure I had enough denatured alcohol in the radiator and make sure that the large piece of cardboard I wired to the radiator was still in place and then check the firewall near the floor on the passenger side to make sure that the one and a half inch hole was open to bring in a certain amount of heat form the auto-lite-gadget that fitted over the exhaust manifold.

Now, all I had to do was wear my heavy mackinaw, four buckle goulashes, toboggan cap, and warm gloves. I was ready to drive through the city of Pittsburgh: across the Monongahela River; drive through half a dozen small mining towns and several rural villages, and see the lights of Bethany College—my old alma mater shining just a mile away.

What a contrast today, to driving in those days in the middle of the Great Depression. I open the door of my Chrysler New Yorker Landau, settle down in my light blue upholstered seat, fasten my safety belt and turn on the ignition. Suddenly on the da--, I mean instrument panel, images appear and move back and forth calling my attention to oil pressure, battery power available from the fast working alternator, water temperature, and the amount of gasoline in the tank. As I back out a large number tells me how fast I am backing out of the garage—just what I’ve always wanted to know! Then as I move forward, I push a button on a panel next to the rear view mirror and an image formed by pale green lights tells me what day, what time, and what year it is. I push another and learn what the outdoor temperature is and the direction I am heading. I push another and learn how many miles I can go from the amount of gas in my tank and another tells me how many miles per gallon I am getting. One other button informs me that all systems monitored are O.K. I drive away with a big smile of relief on my face. But wait---if I leave my turn signal on too long, a chime begins to ring and when I brought the Christmas tree home in the partially closed trunk, a lighted message on the da—(there I go again) instrument panel informed me that either a door or the trunk was ajar. I mumbled that I was sorry to upset my monitor but it did no good and the message stayed on.

Another great feature on this vehicles goes into action whenever the car is moving more than 15 miles per hour. Suddenly there is a loud thump and all four doors lock themselves. This prevents large dogs, small fidgety children and senile adults from jumping or falling out of the car. It also makes life more challenging when returning to said vehicle with two large shopping bags. The front door must be opened after resting the bags on the hood or trunk and then an unlock button must be pressed. Then the back door can be opened, the bags retrieved and then placed on the rear seat or floor. I’m not quite sure what the value of that electronic safety device is but all in all, I like it. The radio and heater are quite an improvement over Henry’s 1930 wonder machine and it is a good vehicle for senior citizens who make daily short trips and occasional long journeys in the summer to visit children or relatives. I know that one of these days, I’ll start the engine and an electronic robots voice will say, "Don’t touch that wheel, just sit aback and relax—leave the driving to me. I’m going to take you to a place that you’ll just love to see!!!

#17

I’ve written about a lot of experiences in this column, but I have never told you about my chance to take part in the famous London to Brighton Run which takes place in England during the first week of November. I was especially pleased because the person who invited me was a Mr. R. A. Driscoll who lived in Croydon-a town near London, and the little car in which we would ride was his little one cylinder Vauxhall of 1902 vintage. I was thrilled also because I thought I might have to ride in a Peugeot, a Panhard , or a Renault driven by a Frenchman who couldn’t speak English or, even worse, an Italian driving a F.I.A.T. Yes, all of us in the U.S. of A. can understand the English---or, can we? Let me tell you what happened.

When he called me at my hotel, the Regent Palace, he informed me that at the moment he was fixing up his flat but that he would be "round for me at 7:30 am". I was glad that he was getting all his tires in shape for the trip but I was puzzled when he suggested that I wear wool socks with suspenders, bring along a Brally, and try to find an Inverness and deerstalker for to be dressed for the period of the vehicle in which we would be motoring. I was also reminded to leave my shoes outside my door so that "Boots" could take care of them for me and not to forget to leave a "bob" in one of the toes for gratuity.

I arose early next morning and crept down the hall in a bathrobe and slippers to be met by an unhappy-looking maid who began apologizing that my bath water might not be as hot as I like it because they had been having early morning trouble with the "geezer". I don’t know who the old guy was but he really did use up most of my hot water.

Well, after a hasty breakfast of weak coffee and cold toast, I was at the hotel entrance before 7:30 and very soon heard a gentle put-putt sound. A beautiful little Vauxhall with Mr. Driscoll at the wheel pulled up to the front entrance and we were off to the starting point at Hyde Park where we were assigned a starting number and given some instructions that were quite clear to my friend but entirely unintelligible to me. Mr. Driscoll asked me if I have ever seen so many "old crocks". Seeing no drunks, I really didn’t know how to answer his question. I could tell that he was disappointed in my outfit which consisted of a ski costume with a parka, mittens, and engineer boots. I had a pair of bright red suspenders over my outfit as instructed but he seemed amused and asked me why I was wearing braces. I was about to tell him that what he thought were braces was just my partial plate but I thought better of it and just smiled.

I saw dozens of beautiful little cars as each took off at a given signal and headed for Brighton by way of the Westminster Bridge and we were finally waved off by an official and made our way through the park.

My host was in good spirits as he guided our little voiturette across the Thomas River Bridge and we waved to the crowds that would line the entire route to Brighton. Every now and then someone would shout "hooty hootah!". Not understanding this strange order I just waved as we passed. I wasn’t going to let those people know that I was an American if I could help it.

Suddenly the engine of our little car began to sputter and Mr. Driscoll signaled that he was pulling over to the curb for a stop. The crowd backed up discreetly as we got out. Mr. Driscoll asked me to look under the bonnet to see if anything looked amiss. I pretended I didn’t hear him so he did the checking himself and lifted up the hood.

"I know that it’s not the accumulator because this early model doesn’t have one." He said, "but I hope that it’s not the big end because if that is gone we’re out of the run."

I just smiled again and tried to look wise. My host asked, "Would you hand me my tool box, please? I need an eight millimeter spanner. If we don’t have what we need we’re still in luck because I see an ironmonger’s across the street."

As I leaned over with the toolbox he warned me to "mind the wings".—they’re a bit brittle since they’re made of patent leather and very old."I didn’t see anything that looked like wings so I just moved very carefully. In a minute or two my host emerged from under the vehicle with a smile and said, "It was just the mixing valve and I’ve fixed it. Let’s be off again. By the way if you get hungry I have a tin of biscuits and some Porter in the hamper."

I told him no thanks and after a turn of the crank, the little motor came to life again and we pulled away as the crowd cheered.

"I hope that you don’t weigh more than thirteen stone. We have a few hills ahead and this Vauxhall won’t pull more than thirty stone on a steep grade!"

I assure him that I didn’t although I began to feel a bit weight conscious as I wondered how many stone I was.

Mr. Driscoll told me not to worry about people running along side because they were being careful but he said we might encounter a dustman’s lorry now and then some places still hadn’t taken up their old tram lines. I nodded and said I’d keep my eyes open for anything that looked like a potential danger.

After about four hours we both were feeling the effects of the damp air. Noting my condition, my host remarked cheerfully, "Hold on, we’re almost to Brighton. When we pass the checkpoint and park we can head right for the hotel. It’s tea time and they serve wonderful scones and buttered Hovis. By the way, do you prefer China or India?"

I was about to remark that I did not know much about either of those countries when he spoke up again.

"No matter, the dinner menu is tickety-poo. They have marvelous joints of lamb, Dover Sole, and white bait. You can eat all you want for about ten quid!"

I was about to ask if they made good hamburgers and fries but I decided to eat what the British ate even if it killed me.

#18

What was it like in the "Great Depression" that lasted from 1930 to 1940? What was its effect on the automobile industry? That great cowboy humorist, Will Rogers who spoke for most Americans said that "America was the only country in the history of the world that went for the poorhouse in an automobile." He was exactly right. Most American families whose breadwinner was unemployed would cut down on food, clothing, and nearly everything else so that they could keep the family car. It might be used to take a short drive on a hot summer night, a visit to see relatives or friends, or perhaps a trip to another part of the state to answer an ad for a job or business opportunity.

As a young person ( we didn’t hear the word or know that we were "teenagers) I remember a number of things that affected the auto industry in the years from 1930 to 1934 when I was fortunate to graduate from Edgewood High School in the bottom half of my class. I remember very clearly going to a dance by calling on my date and walking five or six blocks to our high school! These young ladies we dated understood that our parents needed the family car for business and shopping and that we did not have access to this vehicle. We were "kids" and were still supposed to be "seen and not heard" by our grandparents and other elderly people.

I recall going to a Saturday matinee with several of my close friends and then when leaving the theater we were fascinated by demonstrations on a street nearby. These people showed us that you could add water to your gas tank and get ten or twelve extra gallons if you used their special carburetor . The crowds around the demonstration were quite large but my pals and I being only sixteen were not really interested because we were not permitted to use the family Ford, Chevy, Franklin, Jordan, Essex, Dodge, or Buick.

Most of my classmates and I were really excited when told that we could have the family car for the Junior-Senior Prom. This meant that we were permitted to drive to the prom and later to an acceptable establishment for a sandwich, an omelet, or a soft drink at the unbelievable hour of 1 o’clock in the morning. Who could ask for anything more? As far as I know, all family vehicles (Fords. Chevys, Plymouths, etc.) were returned to their garages in perfect shape without a dent. At this period in U.S. history, the Volstead Act was still in effect and we had no access to alcoholic beverages or narcotics of any kind. We got "high" on dancing with most of the girls at the dance and a short but passionate embrace with our prom date at the front door, or if we were lucky, a few minutes on the living room couch before her dad turned on the hall light and suggested that our date was terminated.

During those Depression days from 1931 to 1938 the average price for a Ford, Chevy, Plymouth, Terraplane, Hupmobile, Willys, Jordan, Pontiac, and some other marques was about $800 and the gasoline to make them go was usually about six gallons for a dollar! No, I am not senile although I am now over Jack Benny’s age of 39!

A driver could buy a complete set of new tires (Firestone, Goodyear, Fisk, etc) for about eighty dollars. But----they were only guaranteed for twelve thousand miles! I believe that is was Kendall that had a logo of a hand holding up two fingers suggesting that their oil was good for 2,000 miles. That was a good selling point when one had to shell out a dollar for five quarts of oil!

I wonder if anyone in 1986 would take off on a trip to the West Coast and back in a 1933 Dodge Coupe. The trip I took with a college friend was in 1936 and has been well documented in the past few years in this column. The point I wish to make is that motels, family homes, and small hotels charged only three or four dollars for a night’s lodging. Of course, there was no TV, no air conditioning or McDonalds. Some of those places had a radio but that was an extra that was unexpected. Most of the travelers just counted the flowers on the wall, read the local newspaper and went to sleep.

Then there was the standard price of five cents for a hamburger which included a couple slices of sweet or dill pickle, all the mustard and onions you wished, a napkin, a glass of water, a toothpick (optional) and big smile from the waitress. Now that was a real value. From about 1931 to 1937 a driver could often get six or seven gallons of regular for a dollar and "high test" was about two cents more per gallon. But then to keep everything in perspective, we should keep in mind that those persons who were gainfully employed took home only an average of thirty to fifty dollars for a six-day work week.

Even so, many families were able to set aside a few dollars and put a down payment on a new Plymouth, Chevrolet, Ford, or Dodge which were then selling for prices ranging from $475 to $900. Still a small number of marques such a s Packard, Cadillac, Pierce-Arrow, Lincoln and Franklin were sold to wealthy people and such public characters as Al Capone, "Pretty Boy Floyd",, and "Machine Gun Kelly."

The depression years were rough, sad, and discouraging but the American people were equal to the test and they were ready for World War II which ended our economic struggle in 1941.My last thought on this subject is, "Aren’t we lucky that so many people stored or saved their Model A’s, Chevy’s, and Packards so that we could restore and enjoy them in these past forty or fifty years?" I think we are.

#19

If you owned a horseless carriage (also called a ‘moto-cycle’ and an ‘ipsometer’) in 1894, you would keep it in you car stable, carriage house, or auto barn. Of course, the
French academy of Science made the name "automobile" the official name of this wonderful contraption in 1895 and the word garage for the building in which it was housed. They also decided that the hired driver would be called a "chauffeur".

The word "garage" has always conjured up fond memories for me as long as I can remember. I am thinking of the building in which the family auto was kept, serviced, and sometimes repaired. Each of these buildings was unique, reflecting the personality of the owner and perhaps, the make of the cars they contained. With these ideas in mind, I would like to tell about my favorite garage---the one at 408 Maple Avenue where my family lived for ten eventful years.

It was built about 1903 when our house was constructed. It was a perfect square about 20 by 20 feet; built of dark red brick and its slate-covered roof looked like a pyramid with an ornamental brass ball at the peak. I remember crawling up one of the sides of the roof just to touch the ball which was covered with the green patina of age. Why did I do that? I suppose that it was a challenge to a ten year old boy just like Mt. Everest is to brave men in these times. I won’t use the famous reason "just because it was there," but I did let some of my young pals know of my daring act and, of course, when adults were not around they had to match my accomplishment.

But it wasn’t the outside of the building that fascinated me, but the inside. To enter a person could open a small door cut into the large doors which folded up accordion style. There were no overhead garage doors in those days. This garage was large enough to accommodate two vehicles and had a long workbench on one side. There were double windows on each side and several overhead electric lights with green metal shades.

I remember the large vise and the small hand turned grindstone attached to the workbench and my father’s small collection of tools. I should explain at this point that my mother was the real mechanic of the family and had her own collection of tools with which she laid carpet, fixed the washing machine, the vacuum cleaner, or a leaking faucet. I still fondly possess a few tools from each of their collections.

On the right side of the garage there was a large metal drum with a hood, a shelf with perforations for drainage and a hand turned pump which, when turning the handle, produced a stream of oil to be caught in a one quart oil can with a spout that could be poured into the crankcase of one of the cars in the garage.

I can still remember the aroma of that thick green-yellow oil that was pumped from the lower depths of that red painted metal barrel. My father sometimes let me pump the oil up and let it run down again through the drain holes to the oil supply below.

I also remember the small collection of license plates nailed to the wall. I still have several of them today—some tags from our 1923 Marmon, the 1928 Jordan, and perhaps, a pair of plates from our 1930 Jordan Air-Line Eight which was my father’s pride and joy after he decided to sell the Marmon for a newer car.

In this same garage there was a small closet. It was probably built to contain the uniforms of a chauffeur in a day of the dim past and on the north side there was a door leading to a small room which housed a small gas fired boiler that heated the four radiators in the garage.

All in all, it was a place of wonderment for me and I enjoyed being there and helping or watching my father attend to the needs of our Marmon, the Studebaker, the Chandler, or the two Jordan automobiles we owned during that period of time.

I also enjoyed visiting the garages of our neighbors and seeing the big Packard, or Cadillacs at rest and inhaling the aroma of oil, gasoline, new rubber, and old leather.

Every few years, I journey back to Pittsburgh and while there I stop off in Edgewood where I spent most of twenty years of my life. I stop at the house in which I lived and asked the present owners for permission to walk down the steep driveway and view again the familiar garage. The brass ball is still intact on the top of the roof. The slate roof is undamaged after years of protecting everything from Pierce-Arrows to VW’s.

Perhaps, it is just a place to park the family cars to a young boy today, but to me, it was a place of wonderment and excitement that no garage of the present can match. Perhaps you have memories of a similar place that holds a special place in your treasury of fond memories.

#20

Whenever I hear the fire alarm wail its mournful sound from atop the old schoolhouse, I immediately feel uneasy and start hoping the fire will be a small one or even a false alarm, but at least I know that it isn’t a warning to begin a "black-out" to darken our little town as a protection from enemy aircraft. What you have just read may seem a bit corny or perhaps amusing but back in the dark days of 1942 through 1944, black-outs were frequent and were mandatory in Stuarts Draft and many other small towns and in town on Route 11. Why?

Because we were told these clusters of lights would serve as a beacon to German bombers that would be seeking the important munitions factory at Radford. Who in these days would believe that Germany had bombers that would carry a load of bombs over three thousand miles to drop on the Radford Arsenal? Nobody. But back in 1942, the Japanese had shelled the west coast from a submarine and U-Boats were sinking our tankers off the Virginia coast. Also it was believed by our military "experts" that the Nazis still had in operation the LZ130 and the LZ131, which were giant airships even larger than the ill-fated Hindenburg that crashed in flames at Lakehurst, New Jersey in 1937. Actually these two giant dirigibles had been dismantled on the orders of Adolph Hitler, who hated the leaders of the German Air Service, but the Germans were building planes capable of bombing the United States.

This is why in the autumn of 1942, I was contacted by a government official and was asked if I would serve as chief control officer of Civil Defense in the Stuarts Draft area. I agreed and began making plans to put a crude warning system into effect. My two wardens were Mr. W.A. Bussey and Mr. Crawford Brooks. My badge of office or authority was a World War I helmet painted white with the letters "CD" inside a triangle. Now, since this information is no longer "classified" and I will not be called to explain anything before a congressional committee, I will tell everyone how we operated.

On cold winter nights our telephone would ring two longs and one short. The caller from Staunton would identify himself and say that "condition yellow" was in effect. I would then put on a coat, cap, and gloves and head for the garage and my faithful 1929 Model A touring car. I would then pick up my flashlight that I had covered with red cellophane around the lens. Heading down the driveway and onto Route 12 (now known as 340), I would pause by each house, blow my "aah-oogah" horn, and shine my red light in a window. If no one blinked a light in recognition, I would go to the door and knock and holler, "black-out".

My area of coverage was from the area of what is now Broadmoor to the intersection of the highway and Rt. 608. I was then to proceed down Main Street to the home of Cliff Forbes. By that time, hopefully, Crawford Brooks had warned everyone from Calvary Church to the corner and Bill Bussey had contacted everyone as far out as Justus Cline’s place and the folks on Flory Avenue. We would then go back to the Bussey home and wait for my number to ring on his phone. A voice would say "the condition is red". That was our cue to go back to the Forbes home, and, after stuffing cotton in our ears we would activate the town fire alarm, which was by pounding on a large locomotive wheel rim with a sledge hammer. We had been told that this alarm could be heard from almost a mile away if the conditions were right.

As this awesome signal began, all lights would be turned out or "black out curtains" would be pulled shut. I then proceeded to drive back to where the stoplight is now; turn off my car lights and wait for the car of the official coming from Staunton to check our efficiency or lack thereof. While waiting I sometimes was obliged to stop the few trucks or cars on the highway and tell them to pull over and turn off their lights. Some of the truck drivers refused to pull over even when I told them I had to get their license plate numbers, but once in a while the cars contained a young high school couple and they were always happy to comply with our regulations! When the official arrived, I was told that we were back to "condition yellow" and that we could go back home and wait for the "condition green" telephone call.

Additional civil defense regulations required that I make a survey of all homes in this area and find out how many rooms were available for housing refugees from the Washington area in case the Capitol was bombed. Courses were also given which explained how to extinguish fires started by thermite bombs… which burned at several thousand degrees and could not be put out with water. Buckets of sand were the suggested solution to the problem.

Yes, that was civil defense in Stuarts Draft from 1942 through most of 1944. It seems almost funny and it sounds a bit unreal to us today, but back then people were worried, co-operative, and patriotic. We had a war to fight, and a war to win ,and we believed that somehow we too were working toward that end.

#21

Just recently I saw a brief TV story on the new children’s toys that will hit the market around Thanksgiving. These space vehicles will be activated by signals from the cartoon show commercials and will make the wheeled vehicles move around and the spaceships will be activated to emit rays that will "destroy" people and enemy ships shown on the screen. Isn’t that exciting? And just think, these great new toys will cost ONLY $250. How lucky can this new generation get? How LUCKY! How lucky…..I begin to think back to earlier days ….1940, 1930, 1920. Were there any great toys in those days? Yes, there were and I remember them.

The first toys I remember that were actually mine were a cast-iron horse-drawn fire wagon pulled by a pair of black horses and guided by red coated, gold helmeted fireman who could be removed from his high seat by twisting him to one side to release the small hook on the seat of his pants. I put out many an imaginary fire with that trusty vehicle and I cleared the way with the tinkling of its tiny bell and the siren, which I supplied with my own childhood treble. As I recall, I was pretty good with the cho-choos and the whistle on my cast iron train which consisted of an engine, the tender, a passenger car, and a red caboose. A caboose on a passenger train? Not realistic but who cared? That train didn’t need a track. It ran swiftly on the floor, in my sandbox, or on the sidewalk. When it wrecked, the cast iron cars didn’t break. It didn’t need batteries and it went where I wanted it to go. Yes, that was railroading at its best.

A year or two later—perhaps about 1924, I was given a heavy sheet metal racer that was really exciting. You skimmed the wheels sharply on the floor several times and then let go of the vehicle. Wow! It zoomed forward all by itself! The secret was a heavy fifth wheel that was hidden under the racer’s body and it spun like a gyroscope. It moved forward without being pushed. All I had to do was supply the sound of the engine.

Then there was a collection of Schoenhut circus animals that belonged to my sister and me. These wooden animals had elastic inside the joints of their limbs and deep slots on the ends of their hooves of their feet. This enabled us to place them on tight ropes and ladders and to put hoops and other small objects in their grasp. What exciting circuses we had! We were the directors and the audience and thus had few complaints about the quality of the show. I recently saw photos of those Schoenhut animals which sold at a toy auction for about $150 each! This says to me that they were very well made, they had great child appeal sixty years ago, and will never lose their glamour to plastic space age creations of the 1980’s.

One of my fondest toy memories concerns a long cardboard box that was a gift to me from a grandfather who died when I was about one year old. On my sixth birthday my mother presented me the box which contained a breathtaking collection of toy soldiers. These soldiers consisted of a flag bearer and an honor guard, which consisted of an officer with a sword and a soldier with a gun on shoulder. Each group was correctly uniformed for the country it represented. I remember some from Japan, France, England, Poland, Italy, Germany, and the United States.

I was permitted to take them from their elastic restraints and line them up for an exciting parade. Music was supplied by yours truly. It was an interesting way to learn the different flags of the world. As time passed, the elastic wore out and each of my tiny warriors was individually wrapped in tissue paper between parades and forced marches.

It must have been about 1924 that our family went to see the first full-length classic western entitled "The Covered Wagon". It was, as I recall, full of Indian attacks on the circled wagons, sandstorms, running out of water, treacherous white men, a fire arrow attack on a wooden fort, and some damsels in distress. The result of seeing this movie was a change in the actions of my leaden troops. Large wooden flat blocks with a curve of white paper glued to each side became covered wagons. Wheels and horse power were not needed. My sister and I placed the troops inside the "wagons" and the cross-country trek was accomplished by moving then one at a time up the steps in my Uncle
Tom’s front hall stairway. Encampments and wagon circling occurred on the two landings.

A recent conference with my sister Adele failed to uncover the reason for selecting the Swiss troops to lead the expedition, but we recall that the Swiss officer became one armed when his sword-bearing arm became lost and he was known forever afterward as "Captain Switzer".

When my family moved into our own house in 1925 alas, the troops were scattered and the wagon trains never moved again. The block "wagons" became fortress walls in which German troops cowered while my male chums and I bombed and strafed them from home-made wooden Spuds, Camel, and Newports. We could make machine gun and bomb sounds that would have brought a nod of approval form the late Capt. Eddie Rickenbacker himself. It didn’t matter that the cowardly Huns were not uniformed in German green grey. They were actually ole miniature dolls, lead soldiers with missing limbs and even heads but in our youthful imaginations they made a good enemy.

We didn’t have creatures that could be turned into trucks or tanks. We made our tanks out of a large spool, a button, a couple of carpet tacks, a lollipop stick and a rubber band. They were fast, almost unstoppable, and a lot of fun.

I just learned today that this Christmas little girls can have dolls that talk to EACH OTHER. I wonder if they were able to THINK they might just long for the good old days when their little mother picked them up and did all the talking. Yes, years ago we moved the vehicles, the soldiers, and the planes. That’s why the old toys were best and always remain that way.

#22

A few weeks ago I was urged by my dear wife of many years to make a frontal attack on my closet which contained both suits and shoes that had been gathering dust for several decades. I could hardly refuse because she was making the same attack on her wardrobe which occupied the other side of our mutual apparel and footwear repository. It was amazing to see how many bags were finally filled with clothes and shoes. I, however, did not give up any of my suits or slacks without a struggle, which included trying on a large number of suits which were too small when purchased and slacks that had shrunk several inches around the waist since I bought them.

The shoes, however, were harder to put aside since most of them fitted almost perfectly. The problem was what could be done with "white bucks" made popular by Pat Boone in the 1950’s and several pairs of wing tips and Weejuins that just didn’t seem to look right in 1987! However, as I placed them in the plastic bag, I thought of Sunday afternoons in the early 1950’s when I wore them while driving a 1913 international high-wheeler, a 1923 Willys-Knight touring or a 1906 Wayne runabout to meets of our young club that took us to Sherando Lake, Grand Caverns, Wilson Memorial hospital grounds, the District home, or the Staunton fairgrounds for a race around the old track and the picnics which followed.

When the bags were almost full I turned to look at my rack of neckties. Some of them were just as old as the clothes and shoes, but deciding which of them had to go was a much more difficult task. I had quite a collection of hobby related neckties which included somewhat faded four inch wide club ties which sported portraits of Bugattis, Stutzs, Fords of several models, and numerous vehicles of unknown makes. Several ties were emblazoned with maps of forgotten small towns and logos of automobiles that vanished before I was born.

I tossed several of these away along with some atrocious ties in purple, pink, orange, and army green given to me as gifts by relatives and friends who meant well, but had forgotten my conservative taste in ties. Most of them, however, seemed like old friends and I just could not part with them. ….that was one I took on my honeymoon, I bought that one in Philadelphia at one of our national meets etc. I know that these three are too wide for today’s style but if I keep them a few more years, they’ll be back in style again. I’ve seen ties get narrow and then wide again quite a few times in my life.

I carried the sacks out to the shed where we keep our trash cans. On the way back I stop and look around the garage. There is a box of Model A old parts. I guess that those old spark plugs ought to be tossed out but no---they might come in handy one of these days. That manifold gasket looks OK. I’d better keep that too. What’s this in the bottom of the box? That’s the old brass horn that was on the Wayne when I found it. It needed a brass reed and a new rubber bulb but I kept it on the car when we had that run to Ingleside in 1952. I guess I ought to fix it up. Gosh, there are a lot of valuable things I’d almost forgotten about! There’s that brass fitting that Jeff gave me as a spare for lubricating the rear axle. Allen Cary gave me that odometer gear to fit on the left front wheel on the Wayne but I never figured out how to make it work. Maybe I’ll work on that this fall when it isn’t so hot outside. That 1931 license plate in the other box is still in good shape. Let’s see now----when is the next flea market???

Libby is calling from the house. "Yes, honey, I put all those things in the shed with the rest of the trash. I will be in soon." I’d better see what’s in the bottom of that other box. It might be something very valuable that I ought to save.

#23

When I was a small boy I apparently said, "I wish" many times and my mother would usually counter with that saying that has stood the test of time, "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride." It took me a while to figure out what she meant but when I did I realized it was true. However, at a tad over three-score and ten, I still wish for things but mostly for someone other than myself. I will mention some things I wish my grandchildren and young members of this club and other clubs could experience with me.

First of all, I wish I could fill up the old Jeffrey with kids and take them down a dusty country road where we would suddenly come to a stop. I might even shut off the engine and we would sit quietly in the car as a large flock of black-faced sheep flowed around us and a farmer and his young sons would guide them by us heading for a new pasture up the road. After a cheerful "thank you" from the farmer we would start the car and be on our way again answering a dozen questions about sheep.

Before long, the excitement would mount as we approached a long covered bridge. There might be a sign warning, "Motorists-speed limit of 5 miles per hour strictly enforced. Weight limit 2 tons." Of course , as we crept inside the semi-dark interior I would be anxiously questioned whether the Jeffrey weighed more than two tons and I would assure them that it weighed just about a ton and a half. We might see some pigeons fly up from their nests on the rafters or enjoy the boom-boom sound of the loose boards on the bridge floor as we rolled over them. It is a sound that once heard will never be forgotten. Ask anyone who has had that experience.

A mile or two down the road we slow down once more as we encounter a wagon piled high with sun-dried hay and we look up to see the driver in his straw hat motioning for us to come by. Then I tell all my young passengers to grab a small wisp of hay and hold it tightly. As we wave after passing, I tell them all to close their eyes and make a wish and don’t tell anyone what their wish was.

When I was small I was encouraged by my parents to make a wish and I recall it was always the same wish. I wanted to find a five dollar gold piece in a haystack! Don’t ask me why because I can’t give you a logical answer. My sister Adele had a much better chance of getting her wish as she grabbed some hay. She wished that we would stop at a country inn where we would have a real tasty dinner. Smart girl!

As my young passengers settled down in their seats, they would smell a strong, sweet odor like fresh honey and I would tell them that they wee smelling the wonderful scent of buckwheat in blossom. If we had been in a fast moving closed car, we would have missed this experience altogether and later we might have missed the exciting smell of cider just being made. Of course, we pulled onto the dirt driveway and stopped. Everyone was given a generous sample of fresh cider in a jelly glass. This would be followed by a chorus demanding a second round and then the purchase of a gallon jug to be taken home. There would be a brief exchange of names with the farmer’s children before piling back into the car and waving goodbyes.

Just a few miles further down the road, we see a man waving a red flag and a line of cars stopped on our side of the road. Ahead of us we can see a plume of black smoke and we know that there is a coal-fired steam roller at work. We don’t mind waiting a few minutes because we know that we will see the steamroller and the tar truck in action. Suddenly, the first of the line of cars appears and finally the last car comes by with the driver holding the red flag out of his car window. We are in luck! Our car is the last in our line and we get to carry the red flag to the other end of the detour.

The problem of who gets to hold the red flag out the side of the car is solved by letting the youngest have the honor. Besides, it will be a good topic for discussion at the dinner table. Of course, we might also talk about the flights across the Atlantic Ocean by Lindbergh, Byrd, Earhart, or Chamberlain. What exciting times we live in! Great radio programs and now talking pictures. It seems to us that everything great has already been invented by now. What’s left to explore? Fly a plane to the moon? That’s impossible!

Once again we get up speed because we have a mountain road to climb. We are almost up to fifty and then we slow down for the winding curves that get steeper by the minute. I look at the motometer in front of the hood and see that the red liquid has climbed to the circle which indicates boiling. However, things will be better soon since we see a wide level spot and a sign which reads "water". The spring above flows into an old horse trough and since the sign says "safe drinking water" everyone scoops up enough to slake his thirst and to wash his dusty face. Well, almost everyone washes his face! Our collapsible canvas bucket is retrieved from under the back seat cushion and water is poured in cautiously while the engine runs slowly.

Suddenly, we hear a sound in the sky above us that sounds like a squadron of airplanes. It’s coming closer and there it is! High above us is a silver giant airship as long as two football fields. We can see the white star with the red center and letters spelling our U.S. NAVY. Also we can just make out a long name painted on one side. It spells "Shenandoah". Wow! What an unbelievable sight! I answer a multitude of questions. Yes, there are sailors up there sailing the airship…about 25 or 35 of them and they are probably heading back to Lakehurst, New Jersey where it will be tied up to a mooring mast. No, they probably didn’t see us waving but if someone did, they surely waved back.

Now we head for home---tired, dusty, hungry, and excited with plenty of stories to tell. Yes, those were exciting days in the 1920’s and I wish---but there I go again---we can’t turn back the clock except in our minds.

#24

I know that I have mentioned my many uncles from time to time and have written about them in connection with the automobiles that they owned, but I thought I would share with you my impressions of the two that I knew best; my paternal Uncle Thomas Brown and later my maternal Uncle Albert Heeren. My father had four brothers, but Uncle Charles and Uncle John died before I was born and Uncle George lived in California most of his adult life, so I saw the most of him when I was a small child living in Los Angeles and saw him only twice after 1922.

Mother had three brothers named Harry, Ralph, and Albert but Uncle Harry lived in Florida and was a vegetable and orange grower and Uncle Ralph lived on the Isle of Pines which is located off the coast of Cuba and also raised tropical fruits, so I only met him three or four times when he came to visit my grandmother in Pittsburgh. Only Albert stayed in Pittsburgh so I knew him well and will write about him next time.

Uncle Tom was a bachelor and took care of my grandparents in their old age at his large, quaint-looking house on Maple Avenue in Edgewood. When they came to live with him they brought their housekeeper named Sudie Cuppy. By this time (1903) my parents had married and lived in a small bungalow about a block away. They always wistfully referred to it as their "honeymoon cottage" and when my grandparents passed away in 1902 and 1905, Uncle Tom was concerned about what people would think of a bachelor with a "live-in" housekeeper, so he asked my folks to move in with him and it was at Uncle Tom’s that my sister Adele and I spent most of our early years.

The house itself was an ideal place for small children because it had so many rooms and even the four rooms in the attic were wall papered and had the unique fireplaces that were made of cast iron pierced with many holes and covered (note, EPA) with asbestos. When lit with a match, the gas flames danced up and down on the stovefront giving instant heat. We used two of the attic rooms for our play rooms and both the living room and dining room had sliding doors that pulled out of the recessed wall on both sides, making them an ideal place to plan theatricals for friends or tolerant relatives on occasion. There was also a butler’s pantry between the kitchen and the dining room and a wonderful back stairs filled on one side with old magazines and papers for our enjoyment.

Uncle Tom had his conservatory; a large room he built on to the house facing south and it was filled with blooming plants of many varieties. In the room was also Uncle Tom’s desk, his bookcases filled with volumes on plants and other large, leather –covered books and I was permitted to look through time to time. On a large table, there was a tiny crystal radio set with 2 pairs of earphones where my sister and I wee introduced to a new form of entertainment from station KDKA, which was the first broadcasting station in the world. The transmitter was located on top of the Westinghouse building about 4 miles away.

Uncle Tom’s property was about five acres in size and was filled with gardens of flowers in front and on the side. At one time he had about 75 thousand tulips and a rose garden with over five thousand rose bushes. There were also many blooming shrubs and flowering trees. The house overlooked a ravine and on the lower levels of the property there were many stone wall terraces where the vegetables were grown and several large cold frames where many plants were started. As his hobby grew in size Uncle Tom employed two full-time gardeners; Tony Mateo and Tony Pascarelli whom I admired greatly and with whom I spent many hours listening to their stories of World War I on the Italian front.

They taught me how and when to plant tulips, roses, and vegetables of all kinds, and I would talk with Uncle Tom about the finer points of gardening. It was from him that I acquired my interest in gardening that has given me much pleasure for more than sixty-five years and I always think of him as I start my garden anew each spring.

I remember during the spring and summer months that several hundred people of all ages would come to visit his gardens and he would take each group for a tour and there was usually a rose, a Shasta daisy, or a tulip for those who showed special interest.

Uncle Tom never learned to drive an automobile and the Studebaker he bought in 1921 sat on jacks in his garage while we lived for a year and a half in California. When we returned, he sold it to my father and it became the first closed car we had ever owned. Since his house was only two blocks from the Edgewood station of the P.R.R., Uncle Tom usually walked there and caught the local to downtown and then walked about 10 or 12 blocks to work. I can see him now with his black derby hat and umbrella in the fall and winter walking down Maple Ave. to the station. When warm weather came, it was the old-fashioned straw hat that was in fashion from about the turn of the century---I believe they wee called "boaters." A cheap copy is made today for people to wear to political rallies and special occasions. When he played golf, which was his favorite sport, he wore a tweed cap and knickers and then he had an old tweed hat like the stores still sell today as :Irish country hats." I don’t recall him going without a hat except when it was very hot and he was showing visitors his garden.

Dad and Uncle Tom took me to many baseball games to watch the Pirates at Forbes Field and when football season rolled around it was almost a ritual to go to the stadium and root for the Pitt Panthers who won frequently and had many All-Americans on their team. I have been a Pirate and Panther fan ever since. Uncle Tom and my father were contrasts in many ways; Dad was out-going and loved to drive cars and take us on many trips. Uncle Tom was rather shy and was content to stay at his home and oversee his gardens except when he took time off to play golf! He won numerous trophies but refused to have his name inscribed on them and the only trophy he really enjoyed was a silver plated water pitcher which was always on his dinner table. Today I own it and think of him when we bring it out for special occasions.

Tom was seven years older than my dad who died at age sixty while I was in high school. When mother died two years later he became a second father to my sister and me; helping us make financial decisions and helping us solve many other problems that we suddenly had thrust upon us since neither of us were of "legal age".

After I graduated from college with a major in journalism and a minor in history, I had no saleable skills in a country still in the Great Depression. Uncle Tom was one of the owners of a large apple orchard in Virginia and found out that a new manager was needed.. so off I went to the little town of Stuarts Draft to seek my fortune in the apple business. There was no fortune to be made with a nation-wide bumper crop of apples and Mr. Hitler starting a war closed down the export market. Shortly thereafter, I took a teaching position at Fishburne Military School and when I informed Uncle Tom that I liked the Shenandoah Valley and wanted to stay, he couldn’t believe his ears. I still recall that he reminded me that the Browns had come to Pittsburgh in 1830 and I was a part of the third generation to live there and I should come back. I told him that although I was the first Brown to leave Pittsburgh in over a century, I was going to become a Virginian. I came back to visit him many times and he met my wife and several of my little children. He came to visit us twice in his old age, but I don’t think he ever became reconciled to the fact that this area was now my home.

When he was 82 years old he awoke one night and accidentally fell down the stairs breaking his hip. In a few days he developed pneumonia and suddenly he was gone; leaving an empty place in my life, but he taught me to love gardens, sports and the outdoors. Whenever I go back to Pittsburgh, I drive to Edgewood and turn up Maple Ave. which has remained almost unchanged in nearly a century. The large, old houses are still there, the trees still line the street on both sides and offer friendly shade. I always stop in front of Uncle Tom’s house, which was changed in appearance some years ago by a modern architect, but the old front porch is still there and I can almost picture him coming out of the door saying, "John, it’s great to see you again! Have you come home to stay?"

#25

I’m glad that I live out of sight of any of my neighbors because they might wonder about my sanity when I open my garage door about six a.m. and then don’t back the car out. The reason for this daily ritual is a small brown Carolina wren who built a nest on a shelf in my garage between the case of car polish and some paint thinner. She is raising three little ones in a nest about the size of a soccer ball which is constructed of leaves, twigs, paper, and string.

It set me to thinking about how the automobile has changed and endangered the lives of all non-human creatures since the turn of the century.

First it was the runaway teams pulling wagons and buggies. Soon chickens and other poultry began to become victims of the ever faster running "devil wagons" and then, of course, family pets such as dogs and cats. The deaths of skunks, opossums, rabbits, and squirrels have soared into the millions. Some people have complained when their cars were damaged or wrecked because of a deer or occasional bear running across in front of them. But let’s be fair folks, we are running across THEIR road or trails—not the other way around.

Then, of course, we have the big tired high rise pickups that join the trail motorcycles and ravage our woodlands. Let’s not overlook the noisy, destructive snowmobiles that tear up the woods in the winter and leave scars on the land that show up when the snow melts and we have "spot-lighters" who keep our game wardens overworked and often in peril with their lives. They are joined by the kooks who shoot game from their pick-ups and hope they won’t get caught.

I won’t expound on the oil spills and the pitiful sight of dying sea otters, seabirds, and salmon, but we should all pause to think of all the living things auto drivers kill besides each other. Then, there is the constant battle of the bugs and our windshields. I use the term "bugs" loosely because most of the creatures that exterminate themselves are beetles, butterflies, grasshoppers, and moths. True bugs are aphids, stinkbugs, and cicadas that rarely venture near our roads and turnpikes.

I must admit that I don’t feel bad about squashed insects but it does cause us to buy extra windshield washer fluid in warm weather. But I think we should slow down when we see deer crossing signs, stray dogs, free running livestock and some of the "varmints" that venture out unexpectedly. Of course, when we are driving our beloved antique iron, we can usually see them in plenty of time and on the rare occasions I venture out in my old Wayne all I need is a little spit and a tissue for my sunglasses.

#26

A few weeks ago I had an opportunity to indulge myself in a bit of nostalgia as my son Jamie and I drove back to Pittsburgh to watch my beloved Pittsburgh Pirates play three games with St. Louis. I am not a sports reporter so we will omit all further references to score, plays made, losses, etc. In a word, the Pirates were at their worst and I couldn’t believe that they had been in first place almost all the time since early April but I did enjoy being at a ballgame instead of watching a game on the "boob tube".

I guess the first bit of nostalgia was to see the large statue of a bowlegged giant in front of the stadium with the inscription "John Peter Wagner". Old Honus, baseball’s greatest shortstop, and my father were life-long friends and played ball together for the "Alleghenies" at Sportsman’s Park which one stood almost where the Three Rivers Stadium in now. The old "Alleghenies" became the Pittsburgh Pirates and Honus went with them and wrote his name in baseball history. My dad became an accountant for a bank and finally made a good enough salary as a future son-in-law. He and my mother, after a two year engagement, married in 1903. The wedding was held at her home which was large enough to hold all the friends and relatives. There were over 100 in attendance , I was told.

I told my son about numerous visits to Honus Wagner’s sporting goods store with Dad where I listened to their talk of baseball in the old days.

I was pleased to note that Pittsburgh has finally re-awakened to the advantages of the electric trolley car once more and we took a ride which started in the new subway under the "Golden Triangle" part of the town and then emerged to cross a bridge over the Monongahela River and get off at the entrance to the old Monongahela Incline, known affectionately as the "Mon". It was built in 1870 and still hauls thousands of people to the top of South Hills. There were once about 15 of these inclines built to haul workers to the steel mills by the river below but there are only two left and it is exciting to sit in the old car and move to the top and pass the other car on its way down.

The steel mills are mostly gone but we saw barges being pushed up the river by diesel tugs instead of the steam I remember. They still haul coal, sand, gravel, and other cargoes to someplace up the river. One day we had lunch in a restaurant that is part of a shopping complex built around old buildings of the Pittsburgh and Lake Erie Railroad. Later we boarded a boat made to look like a paddle wheel steamboat, but I noticed that the paddlewheels just spin around from the water stirred up by the twin propellers of the craft. Nonetheless, it was fun to go down the Monongahela, enter Ohio, and then go up the Allegheny to land near the baseball stadium. Again, no report on the games we saw.

We also had time to drive out to Edgewood and stop at the Edgewood Club which was probably one of the very first community centers. Built in 1912 by a group of interested citizens, it contains a three lane bowling alley, a kitchen, a reception room, a great dance floor and a stage. On the second floor is the town library. Outside there is a swimming pool and four tennis courts. Here we met an 87 year old man who was my tie to the past. He was a friend of my uncle, my father, and the father of a son whose daughter I dated in high school. This man plays tennis every day when the weather is good and has won many national championships for Senior Citizens for over 20 years.

It was at this same club where my class and others held proms and we were entrusted with the family car---if we promised to be home by 1:00 a.m. We looked again to the bronze marker that stated that here, in 1920 a group of people gathered to hear a radio broadcast from station KDKA. This was a report on the Harding-Cox presidential election. That was an exciting evening for my parents and about 150 others who sat and listened to a radio voice broadcast amplified by a Westinghouse engineer. The broadcasting "studio" was a tent on top of the Westinghouse Manufacturing building. The reports were received by telegraph and then broadcast to that group of excited adults in a building about 4 miles away. Yes, folks, that was real entertainment at the beginning of the "Roaring Twenties."

Jamie wanted to see the house his mother lived in and after some difficulty we located it looking little changed, except that the trees planted by his grandfather were much taller than I remembered. We later drove to a suburb named Murrysville to visit my cousin and her husband. Their house is surrounded by their own woods and as we had a delightful lunch in a garden gazebo. It was hard to believe that a large thru-way was just a few blocks away. My cousin Betty keeps track of family and husband Jim is an expert flower gardener, wood-carver, and photographer and we enjoyed a slide presentation of their travels in southern Europe.

When we left for home Sunday afternoon, we saw signs announcing that this year is the golden anniversary of the opening of the Pennsylvania Turnpike. The first segment that was built on the right of way of a railroad, that was started by steelmaker Andrew Carnegie but abandoned in the early 1900’s. When it was first opened, there was no speed limit and all curves were designed to be negotiated at 80 miles per hour. The road surface was concrete with a twenty foot grass median strip. After numerous accidents and blown engines, the speed limit was set at 55 and after World War II was over, the concrete was re-surfaced with black top and a heavy wire fence replaced the grass strip when the roadway was widened. Today the Turnpike looks its age but it was the first superhighway in the United States and all the interstates we have today are modeled after it in one way or another.

We left the turnpike at the Breezewood exit which is the beginning of Route 522 and had a late supper at the Gateway Restaurant. Although it is surrounded by fast food places, the food is still the best. I have stopped there since it opened 50 years ago and I recommend it. The Gateway and I are growing old together.

#27

In the past year or so a lot of ominous signs or conditions have begun to appear on the stretch of road between the &quo