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 "new outskirts" of Waynesboro and the so-called "Hub of Augusta County."These signs consist of wooden stakes with pink streamers attached, lines of orange paint sprayed on the edge of people’s lawns, teams of young men with poles and transits measuring and jotting down figures of clipboards, buildings becoming suddenly deserted, and a large number of for sale signs in front of homes that have been part of the roadside scene for almost a century. I haven’t been asked by anyone in authority but if I am, I will tell the person that I don’t like the way things are changing.

Perhaps I should turn the clock back fifty years to when I first drove into Stuarts Draft to look over the orchard where I was soon to be employed. I remember that it was unseasonably warm for early January with the temperature almost sixty degrees and I was so excited to think that Virginia had climate similar to that of Florida and in spite of the farmer I visited telling me that this was freak weather., I could not be shaken in my belief that the Old Dominion was an extension of the Sunshine States. Of course, soon after my arrival in March I found that Virginia weather in the Shenandoah Valley is almost identical to the climate of Pittsburgh without the smog.

I first lived in an apartment on Wayne Avenue when I married and drove daily to the orchard in a 1929 Model A phaeton which I purchased for sixty dollars. What a pleasure it was to drive on Route 12 (now Rt. 340) seeing the grazing sheep and cattle and inhaling the aroma of clover in bloom or freshly mown hay! The farmers along the way knew me because of my venerable Ford and, since in 1939 there were only about 800 people on the postal listing in Stuarts Draft, I was soon known as "the new boy in town."

I would stop at the corner drugstore on my way home from work and treat myself to a chocolate ice cream soda or a malted milk shake and enjoy talking with many of the school teachers and others my age and a number of friendly people much older than I. Across the street was the bank where I did banking for the apple company, two grocery stores, a feed store and the post office. Since the orchard used two large Percheron horses to pull the sprayer and haul apples in the fall, I made frequent stops for feed and occasionally accompanied old Mr. Painter to the blacksmith shop of Mr. B.B.Kube, who kept them properly shod and also sharpened and repaired shovels and picks.

Yes, Stuarts Draft was a small town---a very small town and I loved it and the friendly people who held out a friendly hand to welcome a young Yankee from north of the Mason Dixon Line. I bought my gas at either the Esso or the Texaco stations on the corners and when heading from Waynesboro, after a half a mile, I was out of town and in the countryside. Sometimes I would be stopped by a person waving a red bandana handkerchief on a pole and was asked to stop and shut off my engine as a large herd of sheep or cattle were moved down the road to pasture in another field. I found it to be a pleasant rather than an annoying ten minute wait to let the world go by.

Alas, that pleasant world has disappeared along with 600x16 tires, running boards, ten cent milk shakes, and nickel packs of chewing gum. Farm tractors on the highway are honked at and given dirty looks by drivers of high-rise pick-ups, having chrome roll bars with non-functional spotlights attached. It isn’t relaxing to drive between Waynesboro and Stuarts Draft, which, if one notes where the town signs are located now are only some five miles apart instead of seven.

I recently figured out that I have driven that distance on an average of twice a day for five days a week for almost half a century. This figures out to be over two hundred thousand miles or at least eight hundred times around the world at the equator! In just a few weeks, the big yellow bull-dozers and earth movers will start tearing up the green grass and trees that have bordered the road for many decades and there will be young men with flags stopping traffic. Houses and some places of business will be knocked over and become piles of rubble. But, then, think of having a beautiful four lane highway between Waynesboro and Stuarts Draft! Add to all that an extra lane at the stop lights. A lot of young people can hardly wait. Well, I can wait and those narrow back roads that meander along side and across the South River will see a lot more of me in the future. Perhaps I’ll have to stop while some cattle are being moved to another pasture—perhaps I’ll have to drive a mile or two behind a big John Deere. That’s all right with me..I like the slow lane.

#28

For almost five years I had been looking forward to a date on my calendar—September 22, 1989. This was the date that my high school class would assemble at the Station Square Hilton for a two-day 55^th reunion. We were informed by our class president, who organized the reunion and who kept us in touch with one another, that forty-five of our class of sixty-five graduates were still alive and kicking and that there would be thirty-one there for the festivities which included a trip down the Ohio River on a sternwheeler complete with dinner and dancing. I was all set to go—bags packed, plane ticket from Charlottesville to Pittsburgh, hotel reservation, boat trip ticket—everything. Then came Hugo. I received a call from US Air that my 11:30 am flight was cancelled, the 2:30 flight was cancelled and the 4:30 flight was the earliest possibility if Hugo calmed down.

The winds of Hugo blew things around Stuarts Draft and made me thankful that my house wasn’t "built on sinking sand." About a half hour before I planned to leave, I thought I’d check to see how Heidi, our Weimaraner hound, had weathered the storm. Well, she had and then again, she hadn’t. The huge 50 year old Rambo apple tree in the middle of her fenced enclosure had uprooted, just missed landing on her doghouse and landed on the wire fence and the gate, making it impossible to get her out. Luckily, I had a chain saw in the shed that I hadn’t used for over a year and a young man living close by, was able to coax the saw to life and cut away the huge old branches. After escorting a thoroughly soaked and frightened pooch into the house, I jumped into my car and headed for the airport.

After passing my suitcase through security I checked in for the 4:30 flight. The plane arrived and people got off the little 18 passenger Fairchild turbo-prop, which then "gasses up" for the return flight to Pittsburgh. I was munching on a $1.25 hot dog hoping I would get there on time to catch the paddlewheeler and recapture some memories of those Saturday night dance cruises we used to take when we had a pretty date and $2.50. No, we didn’t have a car to drive. We took the trolley car and walked a few blocks to the pier.

I was awakened from my daydream by an announcement on the loudspeaker that the plane was having engine trouble and the flight was cancelled!! I went to the desk and the man in charge began to push computer buttons and then informed me that there might be one last flight at 7:40pm. "Do you want to wait?" Did I! I could picture my classmates enjoying their prime rib dinner as they gazed out at the lights on the Ohio River as the band played "our kind of music."

To make a long story short, we finally took off at 7:45pm and an hour later landed in a drizzling rain. All I had to do then was to look for the limousine that went to my hotel. The "limo" turned out to be an old city bus with only one other passenger who also paid nine bucks to ride for half an hour beside a "no smoking" sign just beside the driver who consumed at least three cigarettes before we arrived. After checking into my hotel room, I had just a few minutes to wash up and then wait a few minutes in the lobby for the "gang" to disembark from their pleasure cruise. Well, they came in and after a few hugs and handshakes they all wanted to know what had happened to me since there was an empty seat by my name card. We talked until late in the night and prepared for a lot of visiting on Saturday.

The day went by quickly and the banquet and short speeches and singing that night came to a happy end and we voted unanimously to have our 60^th in 1994. We would go back to our homes and watch color tv, watch our grandchildren work with computers, and take our medicines to try and stay healthy. Yes, we were young people who danced during the Depression, danced to the big bands on the radio on Saturday nights, drove Model A’s, Maxwells, Jordans, and Studebakers without safety glass, defrosters, heaters or car radios. We didn’t have vitamin pills, flu shots, or beer. We were the last generation to be raised with the Victorian morals and ideals of our parents. We have come "down the road" a long way and with a little luck and the good Lord’s help, we’ll meet again. We will talk about growing up in a drugless society, five-cent hamburgers, twenty-five cent movie tickets, being warned by our teachers at school dances to stay "six inches apart", and growing up in homes with two parents who sometimes thought that "nothing good could happen after midnight, so be home by twelve." They were probably right, though sometimes I wonder if I missed something.

Now Libby and I go to bed about 10:30…so I guess I’ll never know.

#29

I recently saw a picture and short write up about several youngsters who were cashing in on the temporary hot spell we had by selling homemade beverages to cars passing by. Their sign stated that the Kool- ade was 25 cents a cup. There was no indication of a homemade stand. The modus operandi seemed to be to rush toward the curb with the sign when a vehicle approached and if the car stopped someone would come to the car with a paper cup of kool-ade and, according to the article, the boys had taken is a sum of over thirteen dollars in an hour or two. What an easy way to make money these days! I suppose that we will always have some version of the old lemonade stand with us and it took me back to those simple peaceful days of the twenties I enjoyed as a child.

A decision to sell lemonade called for a lot of planning, a certain amount of skill with tools, and a pooling of resources to purchase the sugar, the lemons, waxed paper cups, if mothers would not loan glasses, and arrangements with the ice man to leave off a ten pound piece of ice. An ice pick was also necessary and some scrap lumber to build the stand and temporary use of a brush, and some second hand paint from someone’s garage. The stand and sign painting might take half a day, depending on the number of kids involved. Of course, it also meant that the more people involved, the less profit per capita, so the work force was usually just two or three.

The last problem that stood in our way was the weather and I remember that after everything was done, except for the squeezing of the lemons, we would listen for a weather report on the radio which might be given once or twice a day or checking to see what the Pittsburgh Press had on the front page of the paper my father brought home from work about five o’clock. I would also ask Mother to check her faithful barometer for the prediction which was almost always correct since she planned or called off picnics and hanging out the laundry on her readings. Incidentally, I have her barometer on my dresser still and I check it every day because it is working as well as it did three quarters of a century ago.

The only other factor we had to consider in our lemonade business was the temperature. If it started out hot and humid, we might do well because people would be thirsty and we had to rely on those who were walking along the sidewalks on either side of the street. They were nearly always people who knew us; children, men who drove the bread wagons, the coal wagons, the department store delivery men in their auto-car panel trucks, an occasional vendor, such as the scissors grinder or the Fuller Brush man. Then we often made a sale to friendly adults, who probably weren’t thirsty, on their way to catch the train to work downtown, but they would stop, tell us that the lemonade was delicious and give us a dime, because they said they didn’t have and nickel, and that we could keep the change. What a windfall that was!

I don’t remember how many hours we stayed open for business but it seemed like a very long time and when business was slack, one might read a story or two in a second hand copy of the Country Gentleman, Colliers, or Popular Mechanics. Yes, it was work and it was fun and when the stand was put away and everything was cleaned up, the money was counted. The expenses were deducted and profit was then equally divided. If memory serves me correctly, the average share was about a dollar or a dollar and fifty cents, but we went to bed that night happy and drifted off to sleep deciding what we would do with our nickels—buy something we had been wanting or put it in a cigar box in the closet. It was a good lesson for children of those times and we grew up knowing that if we really wanted something, we could find a way of earning money to get it. This was before the days of Mr. Roosevelt’s New Deal, with its welfare programs that produced a generation that was told that the government would take care of them from cradle to the grave. Yes, we learned those many years ago, there is no such thing as a free lunch.

#30

Just the other day, I drove down a little gravel road off the White Hill road to take some snapshots of a house I have glanced at for half a century. It was built possibly in the very early 1800"s and was last owned by a man whose name was Luigi Petti. I often said that I would like to meet him since I grew up listening to Italians at work at my Uncle Tom’s home. I could speak a little "Italiano" and I wanted to meet Luigi Petti. Somehow, I never drove down his little road to his house, nestled between two steep hills. I never ran into him in Stuarts Draft and nobody ever pointed him out anywhere I went. People told me that they knew him so I knew he existed as surely as his name was painted on his mailbox. One day a year or so ago I looked at the obituary column and there was his name, Luigi Petti. Somehow I felt very sad that I had never stopped to see him—to talk about the "old country"—Italy and tell him I visited Italy when Mussolini was dictator and then years later when he was gone—shot to death by his own people and hanged by his heels in front of an old gas station with his mistress.

No, Luigi and I never met to talk about these things, but there were moments in my life when I took the time to write to some of the pioneers in the automobile industry and automobile history. On that trip to Pittsburgh with Hyde Kerr in 1951 for the start of the Glidden Tour and the idea of a three-region meet, we met and talked with Col. Augustus Post. This distinguished gentleman was a pioneer aviator, a cross-country balloonist, and a participant in the early Glidden Tours. It was he who helped found the AAA and the idea of numbering highways and promoted the campaign for better roads in the United States.

Later that same year, I wrote to Colonel Post and he wrote to me about his problems driving to the Jamestown Exposition in 1907 and getting his big white steamer stuck in Virginia mud with no signs to follow. I treasure his letter very much and I enjoyed knowing this man who was a pioneer automobilist and whose name appears in most every book about automotive history.

I also wrote and received short letters from Montague Roberts, the early race driver who piloted the famous Thomas Flyer on the first leg of the race to Paris in 1908. He was so pleased to know that he was not forgotten by my generation and he told me about his early race. He invited me to stop in to see him if I got to his town in New Jersey and I said that I would try. Well, I never made the trip and I later read that Monty Roberts had died. We never met but I have his letters to treasure.

Another experience I had many years ago was meeting Mr. Louis Clark at the AACA Spring Meet in Yorklyn, Delaware. This old gentleman had restored his Autocar number one after it had gathered dust in the Autocar Truck museum in Ardmore, Pa. He brought it to the meet and I was one of the lucky young men he invited to ride around the field with him. I asked him why many of the pictures of his first car showed it with tires made of huge, thick hump ropes. He was surprised and pleased that I had noticed that and he told me that the original tires had rotted away and the company didn’t want to spend the huge sum of money to have replacements custom made. When he decided to restore his first love to running order, the Firestone Rubber Company, then run by Harvey Firestone, Jr; and antique car buff, had them made up as a gift for this elderly pioneer, who made automobiles and later a line of wonderful trucks.

Later, when I returned home, I wrote him a thank you note which he acknowledged with a postcard even inquiring about my sons, Jay and Jerry who shared my interest in the hobby. I’m glad I didn’t put off writing to him as I did to several other pioneers. I was too late in finding the address of Ransom E. Olds before he died and when I wrote to Charles Brady King, I received a note from someone who handled his affairs who informed me that Mr. King was senile and unable to correspond with anyone. Mr. King drove the first automobile in the streets of Detroit and later built the King automobile and the Northern, which inspired a group of men to copy it closely and name their car Wayne which is why I wanted to know more about Mr. King and his automobile.

The other pioneer I was honored to correspond with was Charles F. Kettering, who developed the self-starter and later developed the process of adding lead to gasoline and called it Ethyl. Of course, now we have taken all of the lead out of our gas to cut down on pollution. Mr. Kettering, who was affectionately known as Boss Kett, sent me a card and a note for several Christmases and I suppose mine reached him. In spite of his fame and accomplishments, he seemed to be a very humble man and his last years he teamed up with Mr. Sloan of General Motors and co-founded the Sloan-Kettering Cancer Research Foundation which is doing outstanding work today.

I guess the central idea of this sermon-like article is "Don’t put off writing or visiting those you might know that were associated with the early days of the automobile." You young folks---listen to your Dad’s stories or your Grandfather’s….you will never regret it.

#31

"Let me tell you about the car my father used to drive. I can remember riding in it when I was a kid. It was really something and I’ll never forget those trips we took." This is a comment all of us have heard or made ourselves. It is probably one of the chief reasons that we like antique cars, isn’t it? But then we usually hear or say, "Gee, I wish I had a picture of the car, but if there ever was one, it is lost or no one ever took a snapshot of it." This is a question that I keep asking myself from time to time as I write about cars that we had in the family or those owned by friends or relatives---why didn’t anyone take a picture of that great vehicle since it was such an important possession and a part of the family activities? I wish that I could send our editor a snapshot to go with the story.

Let me illustrate further what I’m thinking about. Our first family automobile was a 1914 Dodge touring, which was purchased before I was born, but I know what it looks like because someone, perhaps my grandfather, Otto Heeren, took it. "Grosspapa" (as he liked to be referred to as a German grandfather) was an excellent amateur photographer and I have a collection of his work. These photographs made with a large camera on a tripod are mostly about people, family, relatives, or friends, but not cars or carriages. We have just one great picture. Seated at the wheel is my 43 year old father, Alton, and sitting beside him is a man wearing a cap and light jacket. I have been told that he is a professional driver hired by my father to teach him how to drive. It seems strange that he waited so long before buying a car because he married my mother in 1903—but then they lived in a large city that had a great network of electric trolley cars and also they were just a short distance from the Pennsylvania railroad line that had many local stations along its main line. So, an automobile was not necessary at that time.

Now, back to the photograph. Seated in the back seat is my mother, Nelle, with a small child on her lap, my sister Adele. Since my sister was born in July 1913 and appears to be a toddler, the photo was probably taken in 1915 during the summer since the car top is folded down and a picnic basket also appears on the back seat. This picture tells a story of something that happened before I was born and it is part of my memories of my parents. It also makes me ask why Grandfather didn’t take pictures of our second car, a 1917 Liberty which was built during World War I and painted in military olive drab. I know why he didn’t photograph our 1918 Hudson since he died in 1917… although, I have a beautiful birthday card written to me in his hand-lettered style and a little silver cereal bowl inscribed with my name, I only know how he looked because of family photographs.

I do vaguely remember the Hudson before we moved to Los Angeles for about a year and a half. While we were there my father purchased from a cousin a Chalmers (perhaps a 1920 model) with a California top. We took several trips to the national parks in this car but I have only 2 snapshots of it. When we came back to Pittsburgh to stay, Dad sold the Hudson and bought the 1921 Studebaker sedan my Uncle Tom had bought new when seized with the urge to drive at age 57. However, he lost interest and had the car on storage jacks in his garage. I remember this car well because we had it for ten years but nobody took a picture of it! Why? My Dad took a lot of photos with his Graflex but he didn’t photograph any of the cars he loved so well.

I’ve repunted my experience in being run over by Dad in our 1926 Chandler opera coupe and also, we had briefly a little boxey 1924 Chevrolet coupe but again, no pictures. I’d give my right arm---Correction---I wouldn’t go that far because it is a part of my body that makes my hand available to write things, but I would give something valuable to have a few snapshots of our fabulous Marmon 1923 model 34 passenger touring car. I see pictures in a car magazine of children sitting on the running board or seated in the back seat of the family Model T; the gas headlights and massive radiator of a 1908 Maxwell framing a couple of small children or their proud father.

I really envy the man who sent in the picture as he points out that HE is the small boy or the baby in the picture. I wish Dad had taken a picture of me beside or inside or in front of the Marmon. Perhaps he might have persuaded Mother to get his picture, as he sat at the wheel wearing his white linen driving cap and black linen jacket, holding between his lips one of his favorite ten inch long "stogies", but of course, she did not.

We have one photo of his 1928 Jordan sedan which he gave to my mother and hired a handy man to drive her around shopping. It is this man, Thomas Floate, who is standing beside the car—not one of the family and then the last car he bought before his death, the beautiful 1930 Jordan Air-Line Eight…there is not one picture of it! I learned to drive using the 1928 car but it was that tan bodied, black fendered, red-wooden spoked Air-Line Eight that I was privileged to drive my mother, sister , and a friend to the 1934 Chicago World’s Fair in. Did anyone take a picture of it as we drove to the Fair? NO!

Now I do have a few photos of our new 1934 Dodge sedan—a side view and a picture of me washing it, thanks to my sister. In spite of it being my very own first car, I seem to have only one or two pictures of my 1930 Model A Coupe and just a couple of shots of my 1933 rumble seat Dodge coupe I drove to California in 1936. While there, I had several rides in my Uncle George Brown’s 1931 classic Marmon V-16, but did I stop to take a picture? The answer to that is obvious and I have only mental snapshots of that great car.

When I purchased my first new car, a 1937 Dodge business coupe, I did photograph it, but I had no color films to show that beautiful Stratosphere blue color. I have a number of shots of our trustworthy 1941 Chrysler Windsor four door sedan which carried my growing family on short trips to Church, Waynesboro, or Staunton. No long trips could be made after early 1942 when gas rationing went into effect and cars such as mine with a green "A" sticker were entitled to small amounts of gasoline, ranging from 5 gallons to perhaps 8 gallons, based on how many oil tankers had been sunk by German subs off our Virginia and Carolina coasts. This measure was also to save tires because no natural rubber was available for civilian use and butyl rubber was not yet in production.

When I was finally able to turn in the faithful Chrysler with its patched-up blue leather upholstery, the original 1941 Goodyear tires, that had been re-capped just before Japan surrendered in August 1945, were still on it. Expenses for repairs for all those years were less than $100. What a car that was!

Of course, I have snapshots of our first new post war car, a 1941 Nash Air-Flyte Sedan with fold-down seats and the first one-piece curved windshield in the industry. The other cars that followed were photographed one way or another so I have pictures that my children can show their children of "Daddy standing beside the big blue Nash" or "There’s your mother leaning out the back window of the 1953 Chrysler."

Well, that’s the saga of autos in the Brown family from 1915 to present. The lesson I wanted to teach or convey is this: Please take photos of each family car you have and have your descendants keep clicking away for the enlightenment of posterity; and remember to write on the back the name of the car, the names of the people in or around it, and the year. Remember, our present family cars are our grand and great-grandchildren’s antique cars of the twenty-first century.

#32

When we hear the term "navigator" we think of a person who is instructed to steer or chart a true course. In history we might think of Columbus or Magellan or perhaps those brave young men who guided our planes to specific targets in World War II. With their instruments they sighted on the stars or the sun and plotted the course to be taken. When I think of a navigator, I am reminded of a lady in her forties who guided an automobile during the 1920’s; a lady who nursed people with contagious diseases; a lady who taught her husband the art of paddling a canoe so that they could traverse the Allegheny River on their honeymoon, a lady who guided my first steps and shaped my life---a lady I called "mother".

We took many trips in the summers of my early childhood. Our ship had four wheels and a leatherette top. It was a 1923 Model 34 Marmon that was my father’s pride and joy and we had many exciting journeys to most of the middle Atlantic states, where I was first introduced to places like Gettysburg, Niagara Falls, Boston, and New York City.

Now in those long ago days, the roads were poorly marked and detours were as expected as flat tires. There were hay wagons on the road and Burma Shave signs that competed with "Chew Mail Pouch-Treat Yourself to the Best" painted on hundreds of barns along the way.

Before we took any trip, my father would stop at the AAA headquarters and get maps of our intended route. The AAA man would mark all detours with a red pencil so we always knew what to expect. When the day for our trip arrived, we always rose before sunrise and made our final preparations which consisted of putting our five special suitcases into the customized trunk at the rear of the big Marmon; eating a hasty breakfast, locking up the house, checking to see whether we had all the maps, and that the thermos bottles were full of coffee and cocoa. Also checked was the hamper full of sandwiches, fruit, first aid supplies, and amber colored celluloid sunglasses for my sister Adele and me. Mother and Dad never wore or owned a pair of sunglasses as well as I can remember.

The sun was usually just rising as we left home but I recall that even in midsummer the air was chilly, especially in a touring car. Dad knew all the streets leading out of Pittsburgh and we would take either the William Penn or the Lincoln Highway, but once on our way, Dad relied on Mother to read the map and chart our course.

She might say, "Now, Alton, there is a six mile detour just before we get to Lignoier. The road is just a thin black line so it is probably dirt and it will be dusty."

My sister and I often became excited at the prospect of being the last in line and having the "honor" of carrying the red flag to the man at the detour’s end. We knew that the cars going in the opposite direction would not be waved on until we arrived with the flag. Or, perhaps, we might meet a loaded hay wagon from which we might snatch a handful of hay and then make a wish as we passed. I’ll never know why, but I wished that I would find a five dollar gold piece in a haystack. In case anyone is wondering—I never did.

When it was near lunchtime Mother would study the map and announce that there was a small country church about ten miles ahead and that we might stop and have our picnic in the Church yard. In those days there were no state-maintained picnic table or rest stops. Sometimes we sat on the porch of a little country store so that we could take advantage of a drink of cool water or the use of the little "convenience building" out back. I might add at this point that we always carried a roll of bathroom tissue in the side pocket on one of the car doors.

As the day wore on, my father would ask my mother how many miles we needed to drive before we reached the hotel at which we intended to stay for the night. I often asked Dad when we would arrive at our destination and he would usually reply, "We HOPE to be there in about half an hour." I didn’t realize that he was thinking of a possible blow-out, radiator trouble, or another unmarked detour.

Before we hugged each other and retired for the night, my parents would check the map to determine how far we might go on the morrow. We children would soon drift into an unworried, peaceful sleep knowing that Dad would drive us safely and Mother would "navigate" us to our next destination.

#33

I know that my subject for this column should have been discussed in the Christmas issue since my thoughts are mostly about toys and children which seem to go together, although there are a large number of adults who are interested in toys of all kinds but mostly as collectors and most of the toys are classified as antiques. These toys are usually of the period of time that the collector was a child and often the very same toy or toys he or she once owned. I find that when I have attended the AACA meets in February through the years, I always make sure I attend the seminar on antique toys; and when I see a slide of an early "Buddy L" truck or an early Lionel train, I am thrilled as my thoughts flash back to the very early 1920’s.

Recently I read an article in the magazine I receive from time to time that is all about life in Colonial Williamsburg and I found that some toys seem to be ageless in their appeal to children. They may change in appearance and perhaps material of manufacture, but children still want balls, tops, pull toys, dolls, and board games. These toys are shown in pictures painted in the 18^th century and some of them such as girl and baby dolls, wooden horses on wheels, and rocking horses are closely replicated and are good selling items at our colonial capital. I was also interested to learn that even the wealthy children had just a few toys and that if confined to indoors because of weather, that they amused one another by putting on charades, short plays, or reading poetry or literary classics aloud. Try to picture that in the average household today! No, dear friends, such educational pleasures have succumbed to the "boob tube" and battery powered games of all sorts that do not stimulate the imagination or the intellect and we are all poorer for that.

I am so thankful that no one who made toys when I was a child thought of making trucks that turned into robots, dolls that engage in conversation with their owners and had to have their diapers changed, or cars and animals that stopped moving because their batteries were worn out. Yes, I’m glad that we made our own voices become auto horns, sirens, machine guns in our home-made airplanes as they engaged in battles with the Red Baron’s Flying Circus or even became squeaky when conversing with our teddy bears.

I’m also glad no one thought of sweatshirts with kooky comments, off-color slogans, fake college names, and advertisements for some brand of beer or soft drinks. I’m also thankful that we did not know about artificial Christmas trees with blinking lights and objects to hang on our rear view mirrors or to occupy the space behind the rear seats known as the shelf.

If anyone who takes the time to read these ramblings of mine happens to know where I can find a "Buddy L" steam shovel, a wind-up Toonerville Trolley, or a Tootsie Toy bulldog Mack Truck, please give me a call…I’m still a kid at heart.

#34

Libby and I recently returned from a trip to New York State via Interstate 81 to Binghamton and New York Route 88 to Schenectady, where my sister lives.

On our way we passed near many towns and cities that I associate with my youthful years…Wilkes-Barre, Scranton, Cooperstown, Chambersburg…We also came near Pennsylvania Route (U.S.) 30 which was known as the Lincoln Memorial Highway for over fifty years. To me this highway was the road to adventure and new things to see because Pittsburgh was one of the cities through which this first coast to coast highway passed.

When my family left for a summer trip in the old Marmon Model 34 touring car at sunrise, it was always reassuring to see a telephone pole with a red, white , and blue band encircling it just above eye level. They would lead us to and through small towns like Ligonier, Bedford, Stoyestown, and others that pointed the way to Philadelphia and New York. This was the eastern end of our first coast to coast highway which began as an idea of a few prominent men many years (correction—a few years) before I was born!

In 1912 Carl F. Fisher of Presto-Lite Gas, Henry Joy of Packard, Frank Sieberling of Goodyear, and others decided that what this country needed was an ocean to ocean interstate highway. Soon a tremendous publicity campaign was begun and the whole country became excited about the idea. A caravan was organized which included cars from nearly all of the car makers of 1913, photographers, doctors, newspaper reporters, and mechanics. This large caravan of motor cars and a few primitive trucks rolled out of Indianapolis headed for San Francisco. It is interesting to note that hundreds of towns many mayors, and even Governors of states deluged the highway committee with requests to pass through their area. They wanted the caravan because it had been announced that the route would become the route of the finished Lincoln Memorial Highway.

A short time later the entire route was laid out. It ran from New York City to Jersey City, Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Fort Wayne, South Bend, Chicago, Omaha, Denver, Salt Lake City, Sacramento, and San Francisco. I have omitted a few cities but all of them along the route joined in the dedication ceremony for the highway that existed only on paper. It was to take over a dozen years before the highway was completed. A lot of publicity made it possible to collect pennies from school children and money from car dealers along the route. A motorized unit from the U.S. Army made the trip accompanied by movie cameramen and soon theatre goers knew all about the scenic wonders to be found along the Lincoln Highway which , incidentally, was not completed until 1927.

In 1936 I decided to drive to California to visit my western kinfolk and to enjoy some national parks along the way on good old Route 30. I remember that there were sections of Mr. Lincoln’s highway that were still unpaved. They were, however, well graded and the gravel seemed to be well packed. I don’t know how these roads would have reacted to a downpour because when my friend and I made our trip in the little 1933 Dodge coupe, the country was in the throes of a national drought and our main concerns were grasshoppers and gritty dust on the windshield and blast furnace heat. But then, the rest of the story of that trip, I have told before.

There is one other highway that is the grand-daddy of them all. It is the old National Road that started from Lancaster, Pennsylvania, passed south of Pittsburgh, crossed the Ohio River by ferry near Wheeling and passed through other towns that became cities and ended at Vandalia, Illinois. It was our first interstate highway and later was designated as National Route 40. It had many inns and hotels visited by such notables as Henry Clay, Lafayette, and several presidents of our country.

Today, alas, Route 40 carries mostly local traffic and the inns have dwindled in size. The old inns stand empty or have become convenience stores and most of the young people have followed the interstates to greener pastures. So here we have two famous old highways that helped the westward movement of America in the 19^th and 20^th centuries. I have traveled over both of them in my youth and if anyone enjoys "shun-piking" while on an unhurried vacation trip, I would heartily endorse both of them.

#35

Did you ever have one of those days or weeks that make you feel like shouting, "Stop the World! I want to get off." but nobody listens? After reading and hearing about all the scandals and violence, I often long for the "good old days’ when things moved at a slower pace, but then realize that a lot of the things really weren’t that good in the old days after all. One of the things that does make me feel better, however, is the sight and sound of things past.

For example, I just saw a special display advertising Barnham’s Animal Crackers at two boxes for $1.09. When I was a child, the box looked the same and the cookies tasted the way they do today, but they used to cost a nickel. Putting price aside, it is interesting to see children getting Mom to buy a box as kids have since 1902.

The little girl on the Morton’s salt box has undergone some changes in her attire but she still grips her umbrella to remind us that her salt will pour out in spite of the rain. Then there is the familiar Bon Ami cleanser with the chicks reminding us that "it hasn’t scratched yet" and the young lady in her cap and apron about to serve us some Baker’s Cocoa.

When I see the animal crackers I think of trips to the Highland Park Zoo with my mother and sister. The trolley ride was great because we had to transfer to a second street car that stopped at the zoo gates, but even then it seemed like a long walk before the elephant house came into sight. But then the excitement of seeing all the other animals made the long walk worthwhile.

I view Bon Ami and Baker’s Cocoa with mixed emotions because on occasions when I misbehaved(very frequent) I was given several blackened pans to scour or a bathtub that could use a second going-over with the chicks that "hadn’t scratched yet."

In the later days of my youth, I enjoyed coming home after sled riding and having several cups of Baker’s Cocoa but when my sister and I were small, we looked with apprehension when mother approached with a cup of unheated cocoa… because we knew it contained a large amount of milk of magnesia. In those days, milk of magnesia was very thick, chalky, and unflavored so Mother was trying to make life a little more pleasant for us but NOTHING could disguise the stomach-wrenching taste of Mr. Phillip’s leading product.

It is also reassuring to learn that Cracker Jacks are still being produced. I always seemed to be carried back to the twenties and being at a baseball game with my father. This childhood treat also used to cost just five cents and the prizes found at the bottom of the box were made of lead and featured whistles, small battleships, primitive airplanes, racing cars, and other small objects that delighted small boys. I don’t recall any items for little girls. Oh, well, it was a man’s world then. Now Cracker Jacks are more expensive and the prizes are sleazy little plastic items, but I’m sure that they are still enjoyed by little boys in 1987.

Another reassuring sign that some old things are still good is to pick up a jar of Wright’s Silver Polish. The label has been changed but when the jar is opened that familiar odor of sassafras greets your nose. Some other silver polishes come and go but Wrights still seems to do a good job. I can remember helping my mother polish extra silverware when company was coming. Here at home today when I smell the sassafras aroma, it is usually a sign that someone will be a dinner guest very soon.

I have discussed some sights and smells that seem to speak of times long ago so I will mention something about the sounds—the sound of music. Hey, that would be a good title for a movie musical, wouldn’t it?

When I hear people singing "God Bless America", I always think of the remarkable man who wrote it. He came to the United States as a child with his immigrant parents from Russia before the beginning of this century. He began to sing and dance in the streets of New York for pennies and soon began to write tunes. His first big seller was "Alexander’s Ragtime Band" and while in the army at Camp Upton at Yaphank, New York, he sat down and wrote a little ditty that was the hit of the army show because all the soldiers could relate to it. The song was, "Oh, How I Hate to Get Up in the Morning."

He also wrote another song for this same camp musical but after going over it a few times decided that it just didn’t "fit". The verse began, "While the storm clouds gather far across the sea, let us pledge allegiance to a land that’s free." If that is not familiar, then consider the chorus which began,"God, Bless America---land that I love." Yes, it has become our unofficial national anthem and it was not sung again until 1936 when Kate Smith introduced it on her radio show. It became an immediate success and made its author even more endeared to the American public.

As the years passed he again became a spokesman for the American G.I. with his tunes for the musical, "This is the Army." Also at this time he wrote the music for a movie entitled, "Holiday Inn" and a young man named Bing Crosby sang a song, "I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas". As the war in Europe continued Bing, known to the Germans as "Der Bingle" sang to our troops and "White Christmas" brought tears to the eyes of American G.I.’s from generals to lowly buck privates. Americans at home had tears running down their cheeks too.

After the second World War, this great man became a recluse of sorts. His kind of music did not appeal to the youth of the 60’s and 70’s. I must interject here to say that I didn’t like the so-called music of that period either. I know that at this point our younger club members will think, "that old goat doesn’t know what good music is!" That may be true but I will conclude with several mind boggling facts.

I am proud to share my birthday with the man who brought much musical pleasure and patriotism to all of us. I am thinking about Irving Berlin who celebrated his 99^th birthday on May 15^th along with me .I hope that he had as happy a day as I had. (Editor’s note: I didn’t realize that John was that old!)

#36

Last weekend Libby and I attended a big band concert at Orkney Springs and really enjoyed ourselves. The bus trip included a cafeteria-style supper and the two hour performance of "our kind" of music from the 30’s and 40’s. We were pleased to see a large number of young adults who were born decades too late to see the big bands in person, but who looked forward to hearing some great music from that period influenced by the Great Depression and World War II. The buildings at Orkney Springs are mostly frame and were constructed in the 19^th century and have been restored and preserved by the Episcopal Church. Like most antique car lovers, I enjoyed everything old and I was surprised to see suspended on the wall behind the registration desk, a large cross-cut saw. The elderly man at the desk informed me that it belonged to him and his father used it for many years. I told him that I also owned one just like it and had taught my oldest son Jay to use it and help me cut up fallen trees in the days before the family-sized chain saw was introduced to the public.

It set me to thinking about the things that now appear in antique shops as antique and historic items. I never dreamed that the cheap colored glass that flooded the market from 1930 to 1938 would be called Depression Glass, and now would be so eagerly sought by collectors. I subscribe to a weekly publication called "Antique Week" and I never cease to be amazed at the articles that people collect.. such as old lace, kitchen utensils, old tools, metal signs, paper dolls, and especially almost any kind of children’s toys. Cast iron toys were still being made when I was a child but old "tin" toys, actually stamped metal toys, such as dancing minstrels, comic book cartoon characters such as the Toonerville Trolley, a powerful Katrina lifting a kid in a wheelbarrow, Amos and Andy in their "fresh air taxi", Little Orphan Annie and her dog Sandy, Uncle Sam, a group of monkeys playing musical instruments and many others of these wind-up toys were bought for a dollar or two and are now selling for hundreds as are lead soldiers. If they still have their original box or carton, a seller can almost name his price.

All of us who love antique cars have seen these items for sale at Hershey. Since they are not automobile related, they are not supposed to be on display but they are. I recall when I was still a National Director, I spent hours with other directors patrolling the "streets" looking for illegal items but it was impossible to find these vendors and shut them down. I did enjoy riding in one of those golf carts and seeing three times as many vendors than I would have had I been walking. Since almost anything old is a collectible, most of us hate to throw things in the trash, don’t we? Tell your grandchildren to hold on to those trucks that turn into monsters and the Flintstone mugs for a few more years. They might bring enough money that it will be possible for them to buy a 1981 license plate for that Mustang II that they rescued from a nearby junkyard. Yes, it is really true that one generation’s trash is the next generation’s treasure.

I bought myself a straw Panama hat that young people today associate with the Chinese detective "Charlie Chan" and I have several fedoras that are borrowed at Halloween when someone wants to be Elliot Ness, Indiana Jones, or Al Capone! I was going to throw out that 30 year old trench coat that leaks like a sieve when I wear it, but then again, I might have an occasion to wear it with one of my fedoras and say, "Here’s looking at you, sweetheart," or "Play it again, Sam."!

#37

It is said that a person is really getting old if he or she thinks the "good old days" were a lot better than those of the "eighties" and the decade we are now entering and I will probably be viewed as an old fuddy-duddy, a cranky curmudgeon, or an old coat . Nevertheless, I am going to point out some things I think are "going in the wrong direction" and I am both annoyed and alarmed about them.

First of all, I would select the antique car "market." Now we have magazines and weekly reports on what antique cars are worth. We are bombarded with reports of recent auctions and upcoming sales. These practices have caused our beloved hobby to be almost out of sight for young people interested in an old car and we have a class of people who buy a classic for several hundred thousand dollars so they can sell it later on for a large profit. They don’t want to own, to treasure, or drive that beautiful Packard. They see it as a way of making a quick buck---or several thousand bucks. What is happening to the fun side of having an old car? I’m sorry that Kruse bunch got into our hobby. Why didn’t they pick our horses, yachts, or real estate?

In the same vein I must protest the way the Hershey Meet has and is still going. The Flea Market is far too large, the restroom facilities and food prices are atrocious. Unless a person knows where his friend’s spaces are, the chances of meeting someone he knows are becoming more remote every year. I long for the days when they had the Chocolate Inn on the corner; the cars all gathered in the stadium or even on the old baseball field for the vendors. I didn’t know how lucky I was to be a National Director and know I had a place to stay. Well, time marches on and those halcyon days are gone with the exhaust fumes of old cars and the voices of early members now stilled forever.

I’m also somewhat disgusted with television. First, for ruining radio by causing people both young and old to forget the pleasure of listening to stories instead of watching them. There was a time when we old-timers could listen to "Lights Out" mysteries and sitting in the dark, we could really frighten ourselves so badly what we would turn on a hall light or insist on listening with a friend. Who gets frightened watching TV? They might get disgusted, bored, or prodded into a chuckle by the taped "canned laughter" on sitcoms that aren’t funny but just unreal and silly. Where is that wonderful "big band" music? Where are you Fibber Maghee and Molly?

All that change was inevitable but what really gets to me is what television has done to football. While in college I "attempted" to play football and had a bench-warmers view of most of the games during my first and only year on the team, but I did learn some rules or ethics that have been forgotten today. For example, when a player made a good tackle he didn’t stand up and hold up both arms like a singer finishing a wonderful solo or pound the ground and fall to his knees in agony so that everyone would notice him if he dropped an interception. We would have been "benched" by our coach if we held up the ball like the torch of the Goddess of Liberty for all to see after scoring a touchdown. We touched the ball on the ground after scoring because that is what a touchdown is supposed to be, isn’t it? If a player was hit on his elbow he jumped up and rubbed the injured joint. He didn’t fall to the ground , lie on his back as though he were knocked senseless, and have the coach and trainer rush out on the field, and then slowly get up and get helped over to the bench….our coach would just shout, "Rub it some more and you’ll be OK."

Of course, we also played offense and defense wearing leather helmets, no face guards of any kind, and hot, woolen jerseys that itched. Well, at least we were called a "team" not a "ball club". Who ever heard of a cheer such as "C-L-U-B- club! Club! Club!" One other thing I notice is that so many hot-shot ball carriers carry the football like a loaf of French bread and they either fumble it or get it knocked out of their grasp. We were taught to cradle the ball against our chest with one hand and two hands if carrying in on a line plunge. If a player had the ball knocked out of his grasp or fumbled it, he was given an old ball to carry to class all week "so", as our coach said, "we can get used to holding it while moving around."

Yes, TV has made actors, prima donnas and cry-babies out of a lot of young athletes when they know that the game will be televised. I suppose that this generation is used to all that foolishness on the astro-turf but I’ll never get used to it. So, on with the rising antique car prices, expanding flea markets and un-funny situation comedies. I’ll echo the famous line of the movie magnate Sam Goldwyn, who said of things he did not like, "Include me out."

#38

A couple of thousand years ago, some wise Roman first coined the phrase, "Tempus Fugit" which we translate as "time flies" or "time flees". Even though they had only the sundial to mark the passing of the hours when the sun was shining, they noticed as they looked into their polished copper mirrors that the wrinkles were appearing along with the gray hairs and that they had only a few years left to live. The life expectancy in those days was about 35 years so those who did reach LX were indeed old and the word senator they bestowed on long-lived political leaders who derived from "senex" which meant "old man". This past Sunday, we had a guest pastor who was a student minister in our church in the summer of 1946. I met him before the service and noticed how old he looked and I’m sure that he had the same observation about me. He asked me how many of the present congregation would remember him and I listed exactly three others besides myself. That really hit me hard when I looked around to see that the church was almost full and that there were probably two dozen infants and little tots in the nursery.

It reminded me of the strange feeling I have when I see cars of the fifties and sixties referred to as antiques. Antiques? Why these were the cars everyone was showing off as the new family car when our club was founded. Then I thought of my 1906 Wayne and the fact that it is was only 44 years old and most of the un-restored but cherished vehicles that turned out to our meets were barely old enough to be classified as such, but we really had a lot of fun and excitement driving to distant places while keeping in sight of one another in case of temporary breakdowns which were frequent. I usually had the fun of awarding the "Order of the Golden Tow- Chain" at the end of the outing to someone who had engine or tire trouble en-route.

I know that my Wayne had frequent stops because of either ignition or carburetor trouble, but some of our most mechanical club members stopped to help and in all those years I never had to be towed or pushed back to my garage. Now, if I spend all day getting the Wayne, the Jeffery, or the Model A ready for out annual Fireman’s Parade, I worry about whether they will make the short trip without trouble. I must face the fact that I have become an automotive coward when it comes to antiques. I guess I’ll just enjoy them vicariously by writing about old cars and in trying to recapture their unique appeal with my paint brushes. If I can please others by doing this, I will feel happy about the whole thing. (Jan. 1991)

#39

It seems as though every few weeks some prominent person who has been a "role model" for millions of young people for a number of years turns out to be a rascal of some sort. These people seem to be found in sports, movies, religion, politics, and several other assorted categories. All of a sudden, thanks to the vigilance of the so called "media" something unwholesome is brought to light about some person’s past or present personal life and they plummet to the bottom of the popularity chart.

Now when I was a child, I never had such a traumatic experience because the people I admire (we didn’t know the words "role model") were just ordinary folks doing things I longed to do when I grew up. Long before Charles Lindbergh crossed the Atlantic Ocean, I admired airplane pilots and the craft they flew—especially after I had been taken for flight in Junkers low-wing enclosed cabin plane owned by Cecil B. DeMille, who was a friend of my Uncle George in Los Angeles, where we lived for several years. I can remember running our of the house every time I heard a plane passing overhead and I always waved in hopes that the pilot flying at probably 1500 feet would see me and waggle his wings. I suppose some of those pilots took a couple of drinks after they landed or shouted at their wives or kids ,but I never knew any of them personally, so I kept on admiring their daring life.

Now I liked policemen and was befriended by many kindly officers in my youth and my parents never threatened to call a policeman if I didn’t do what they expected me to do. I admired policemen because I didn’t get into any kind of trouble that would make it necessary for me to meet them professionally.

There were several years when I hoped that I could be the driver and delivery man of the Haller’s bread wagon, the Polar Ice wagon, Wilson’s Dairy, or Keller Brothers Coal wagon that was pulled by a beautiful team of Clydesdales of Percherons depending on the weight of the load. I suppose that there weren’t any strict company policies of "no riders" or worries over lawsuits because I was often told to "hop up and take the reins" for awhile by some of the drivers and I enjoyed filling the now outlawed nosebag that was slipped over the horse’s head when the driver stopped for lunch.

I once aspired to be a professional gardener, because my bachelor uncle employed two Italian immigrant war veterans to tend his large collection of roses, tulips, shrubs, and vegetables. I would sit spellbound while Tony told me about fighting the Austrians in the Alps and looking with awe at the half a dozen shrapnel wounds in his lower legs. I learned how deep to plant tulips, to know when melons were ripe and how to make a whistle from a willow branch. Also, one didn’t have to dress to be a gardener.

I remember how much I enjoyed going to baseball games with my Dad to watch the Pirates play and the Warner brothers were my heroes but I didn’t want to be a baseball player because I was very small and un-coordinated at most sports.

My first football hero was Gibby Welch, a halfback who played for the Pitt Panthers and I followed his every move at the games and read all I could about him in the newspapers. I know that he went on to play professional ball with the Chicago Bears but then I lost track of him. I did aspire to play college football because I was too small to play in high school until my senior year.. but one season of sitting on the bench at Bethany College convinced me that I must pursue some other means of making a living in the Depression Days.

I had some movie stars I admired such as Wil Rogers, Douglas Fairbanks, Ramon Navarro, Gary Cooper, and Charlie Chaplin but they didn’t get involved in any scandals that I know of and the beautiful actresses such as Clara Bow, Janet Gaynor, DeLores Costello, and Mary Pickford managed to keep most of there escapades at low key so I never was shattered by learning something unsavory about them.

About the time I was in high school, the sound of the big bands came along with Russ Columbo, Rudy Vallee, Bing Crosby, and Perry Como sang great songs, but just in the middle part of the recording, which gave equal time to the band and the singer. Now all of the great band leaders are singers or all dead except for Perry Como and Mel Torme, but I can put on their recordings and enjoy thinking about times past when life was much less complicated. I must confess, I didn’t know any famous educators and becoming a teacher never crossed my mind; but then Perry Como started out as a barber and Rudolph Valentino was a second rate auto mechanic when they were discovered. I didn’t have any idea I would write about antique cars either but I’m still trying to improve on that.

#40

I believe that almost everyone who loves antiques automobiles might occasionally dream of what it was really like in the early days of the automobile in the United States. I am thinking of that sweet, dim, wonderful decade before driving an automobile was an adventure, a large investment, and a mark of social status.

Let us imagine that we are Mr. and Mrs. Lottabucks who have just purchased a beautiful Brewster green Winton touring car. Our 1910 model is complete with a windshield, tan mohair top, Kelly-Springfield tires, all brass lamps, and a complete set of tools. We even had a chauffeur sent by our local dealer to show us how to drive it and make minor repairs and adjustments. Of course there are no front doors to keep out dust, but the seats are real diamond tufted leather and since we will wear our new goggles, driving gloves, and dusters we won’t notice those small inconveniences. Gee, that smell of new leather, fresh paint, and gasolene( correct spelling until about 1918) is exciting. Let’s get the picnic baskets packed and heed the call of the open road!

I crank the engine while the spark is retarded and pull on the choke at the same time. I am careful to keep my thumb from hooking around the handle. There is a loud pop, a buzz on the coils, and a hissing sound. It didn’t do like that when the chauffeur did it. I try again and again, and ---it starts up with a roar so I jump in over my wife’s lap and push on the clutch pedal, the footbrake and then ease it into low gear. We creep down the driveway to the street and notice those nosey Brewers are watching us. Boy! Are they jealous! Perhaps we may invite them for a ride one of these weekends—we’ll see.

Now we are leaving those bumpy city cobblestones and are running on the sandy, unpaved road to Tareytown. Wow! Look at that cloud of dust we’re making. If we pass a wagon we will be sure to shout what all the ritzy folks say---"Hey Mac! Excuse our dust!"

This is the life! Twenty-three skidoo! My wife is yelling something and pointing to the front left wheel but that four cylinder powerhouse is making so much noise I can’t hear a word she is saying. The car is becoming a bit hard to steer so I reach over for the emergency brake and then throw the gears in neutral. She says one of the tires was beginning to look funny. She was right. The darn thing is flat. Guess I’ll have to use that new jack and the tire removing tool.

The car is jacked up, the tire comes off the rim in about 15 minutes and then I find the cause of our problem...a big horseshoe nail! I wish those hick farmers would keep their horses off this highway! Well, we have our vulcanizing kit so I scrape the tube around the puncture spot, put the patch on, and light it with a match. It sizzles and smokes a bit and then the repair is complete. Pretty neat. Now to get that clincher tire back on and pump the tire up to eighty pounds pressure. My wife says I look tired and I’m getting sweaty. She’s right. My knees and my back are weakening. I’ll never be able to walk upright again. There! The tire is filled with air and I put the tools away and lower the jack. The tools are nice but I didn’t think I’d have to use so many of them so soon!

This time the car starts on the second pull of the crank and we’re on our way once more. Golly gee! Look at those blisters---on both hands. Well, that’s part of the price you pay for being a motorist! I like the sound of that word—motorist. It sets you apart from the common people.

We come around a curve in the road and see a fellow dressed like a policeman riding a bicycle. He waves and signals for us to stop. We are told that the speed limit in this county is 15 miles per hour and that by his reckoning, we were going at least twenty-five. He writes out something on a little tablet he has and tells us to pay him twenty dollars or appear in court one week from today. I give him a ten and a five and the wife found five ones in her pocketbook. We get a receipt and a warning to obey the signs that are posted every ten miles and to notice the sign on the outskirts of Hicksville that says, "Drive slowly and see our town---drive fast and see our jail." Fat chance that we will visit Hicksville soon!

I turn the car around and I notice that the sky is getting darker by the minute. We stop briefly and snap on the glass rain curtains as the rain hits us in full force.

I keep driving and wish that someone would invent something to keep the windshield clear of rain drops. All of a sudden we find ourselves deep in mud and the rear wheels begin to spin. I give it more power but nothing seems to happen. Let’s face it. We are "stuck." That’s one of the worst words that go with the new sport of motoring.

I see a farm house just ahead to our right and I walk up the lane and knock on the door. A man (obviously a farmer) answers and I tell him about our problem. He tells me that he will get his team and pull us out for twenty-five dollars. I am about to say something but I swallow my pride and tell him it is a deal. He says that the price is twenty-five dollars in ADVANCE. I pay him and actually ride one of his big Percherons back to the car because my legs gave out when I arrived at his house.

The team is hitched to our beautiful new Winton and we are pulled free of the mud hole. I try to start the car but nothing happens. I try again---and again. What did the Winton salesman tell us about Winton reliability??

The farmer strikes a deal. He will pull us and the silent, muddy Winton back to our home for just fifty dollars. I thought that all the highway robbers had been killed off before 1900 but I bit my lip and extracted my last bills and placed them in his rough and greedy hand. We arrived home just about dusk. I surely hope that the Brewers were not looking out of their window. They are such nosey people!

#41

All the articles which I have written previously have dealt with my memories of automobiles during my childhood days. This time, however, I would like to honor the predecessor of the horse-less carriage----the horse itself. Although I lived in a large city for the first two decades of my life, I was aware that the automobile or, more specifically, the truck, was still not a very reliable vehicle for certain types of customer services and it was because of this, that horses were a familiar sight to me on Maple Avenue in Edgewood where I grew up.

I remember the Haller’s bread wagon, the Polar Ice wagon with its side panels picturing a ship locked in polar ice and a group of Eskimos shooting a polar bear. Then there was the magnificent team of matched black Morgans which pulled the chocolate colored delivery van of the Lightning Express which functioned in a way much like our modern UPS. The zig-zag lighting motif was also seen as brass lightning bolts on the leather collars of the team.

On various occasions I was permitted to climb up beside the drivers of these vehicles and ride with them on to their next destination. At the age of eight or nine, these men were my heroes and I used to dream about driving a team pulling the milk wagon, the bread wagon, the ice wagon or the express.

I could not end this narrative without mention of the teams of sturdy Percherons used by the Keller Brothers Coal Company to deliver their five ton loads to various customers on my street and other streets nearby. The huge wagons opened at the bottom and left huge piles on the side of the street for the man of the house or two boys to shovel into wheelbarrows and dump down the coal chute to the basement bin. If the job was not completed by dark the only requirement was the placement of a red lantern on the top of the coal pile.

The company owned four teams of Percherons and housed them in a barn located across the hollow from my home. I frequently ran over to the barn when the teams came in from work and climbed up the ladder to the feed bin so that I could shovel some oats into the chute for the huge horses so that they could have their dinner on time.

One last incident stands out in my memory. That was the fatal day when Big Red, the Haller’s bread wagon horse, slipped and broke his front leg. Our only town policeman, old John Mumford, had to shoot Big Red and we children on our way to school saw our old friend lying in the street with glazed eyes and his blood running down the curbside gutter until it disappeared in to the storm sewer on the street corner. Whenever my high school class has its reunion every five years (this year it will be our 45^th) someone always brings up the story of Big Red and how we all felt that our policeman was a villain for killing a big friendly horse we all claimed as a pet. (March 1979)

#42

For the past three years or so I have been writing about automobiles and my experiences while driving them or riding them, but this time I have some reminiscences about toys. Some of these toys were given to me as a child and some of them I made myself. Perhaps some of our club members had similar experiences in their childhood.

Two of the earliest toys I remember were given to me at Christmas. We were living with my Uncle Tom at the time and the Christmas tree and presents were always put in the plant conservatory behind closed doors. On that particular Christmas in 1920 I was allowed to go in first and there beside the tree was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. It was a dappled gray rocking horse with a teddy bear seated in the middle of the saddle. He had life-like brown glass eyes, a mane of real horse hair, gilded horseshoes, and a blue corduroy saddle with gilt stirrups. I remember grabbing the teddy bear and climbing into the saddle. Well, perhaps I was "helped" into the saddle but I do recall that I sat there and rocked until lunch time.

That same year we moved to California and Teddy went with me but the rocking horse had to remain in Edgewood at Uncle Tom’s house. My trusted teddy bear slept next to me every night and when we left Los Angeles about a year and a half later, I kept asking my parents was we were speeding eastward on the train if they thought that "King" was still safe at Uncle Tom’s. Well, he was and a few minutes after arriving home I ran upstairs and hugged my wooden steed and climbed on his back to be carried away in childish imagination to places in the west I had left a few days before.

"King" traveled with us when we moved into our own home and reposed in the basement where I shared him with my friends. As the years passed, I felt that I was too old to ride a rocking horse so I was persuaded by my mother to give him to a nearby orphanage---a move which I still regret. And what of Teddy?---Teddy whose fur is worn down to the cloth from thousands of childhood hugs and kisses? He is still resting in a safe place in our attic in Stuarts Draft to be loved, perhaps, by one of my grandchildren.

I owned my first automobile at age seven and the name "Dodge" was stamped into the space above the painted radiator. It was orange in color and could move at great speed if I pumped the pedals fast enough. It was crude by today’s standards—having spindly wire wheels without fenders, a steering wheel, a painted on instrument panel and a small wooden seat -----but I was "king of the sidewalk" with my dependable Dodge for several years.

The vehicle was superseded by a special type of Irish Mail. This marvelous toy was made in England and featured a steering wheel which you could use to pump and steer and a nickel-plated gear shift lever which would have thrown the vehicle out of gear when a button on the handle was pressed. This put the Irish mail in neutral and made it possible to coast down hills or on level ground. The ‘regular" Irish mails had a wagon handle which you held to pump and which had to be held on to----thrashing back and forth when going down hill.

A few years ago I saw on e of these great toys at Hershey and wondered whether it might have been mine but my curiosity was cut short when the flea market vendor said that he couldn’t take less than $300 for it.

The only vehicle which I recall building myself was what we called a soapbox scooter. This was made by taking a four foot length of 2x4 and nailing a soapbox (try to find a wooden soapbox today) to it with the open end facing the driver. A roller skate was taken apart and one end was nailed to the front of the 2x4 and one on the rear. A small board was nailed on top of the box with the overlapping edges whittled to form handles. Two tin cans were nailed to the front of the box for headlights and, if a person whished to be exclusive, a coat of paint and a name such as Barney Oldfield or Green Dragon was added. Power was obtained by standing on the board with one foot and pushing on the sidewalk with the other.

These home-made scooters were inexpensive and easy to build and could "go like the wind" if the sidewalk was smooth.

I also remember building a close replica of a 1903 Springfield rifle, complete with a broomstick barrel, metal sights and a genuine leather shoulder strap. I was thrilled when I was told by a carpenter named Wallace Wilson that it looked almost like his. The made my day because I knew that Mr. Wilson had been a war hero in the "Big War" and that he had mowed down dozens of Germans with his rifle. Playing war was a popular boy’s game when I was young but the battles never lasted long because nobody wanted to be a "Hun" and if they did agree they were soon wiped out by us Yanks.

And, finally, when I see children today playing with their sophisticated "walkie-talkies" I am reminded of the simple but exciting two-way communication sets of my childhood. All that was needed to make one of these sets was a pair of tin cans and about fifty feet of waxed string. A hole was punched in the middle of each can and the knotted end of the string was inserted in the holes. Then when the string was pulled tight, the person at one end would shout in to the can while the other person would hold the other can to his ear…Simple?, but it worked and it was especially good to talk around the corner of a building.

I suppose that children today would laugh at this crude no-cost toy but when I was a kid we had fewer toys and even the simple ones were exciting in a child’s world without electronic space-age entertainment. I wouldn’t trade my memories of those simple days for a wagon load of "Star Wars" gadgets.

#43

A person who grew up in the twenties and the thirties was fortunate to see the development of the automobile in that period , but can still see those vehicles of his childhood at our meets and tours. However, there was another phenomenon of those days that will never be seen again—the giant airships that sailed the skies from the period of the First World War to the tragic end of the Hindenberg in 1937.

My first sight of one of these gigantic ships in the sky was in 1923 when America’s first dirigible, the Shenandoah, flew over my hometown of Pittsburgh. I remember my uncle calling me to come outside and see what was approaching the house about two thousand feet up in the sky. What a thrill I had seeing that gigantic silver cylinder moving above me and hearing the drone of its engines sounding like a dozen bombing planes. I remember the Shenandoah was the main topic of table conversation for several days.

Several years later, one of the girls in my fourth grade class showed us a piece of silver fabric, about a foot square, that her aunt had sent her family from Ohio---a macabre remnant of the covering of the Shenandoah which had crashed in a windstorm over Ohio with a loss of many of her crew.

In 1924 we were treated to the sight of the Z-R3, a German built Zeppelin given to the United States as a war reparation payment. This ship was renamed the Los Angeles and was emptied of its explosive hydrogen gas and refilled with the helium from the Shenandoah which, of course, had to be grounded. Later the government appropriated enough money so that the U.S.Navy , which operated our airship program, could buy enough helium to keep both ships in the air at the same time.

The Los Angeles, incidentally, was our only airship that never had an accident and it was mothballed at either Akron or Lakehurst until after World War II.

In 1931 or 1932, the giant new Akron passed over Pittsburgh which thrilled everyone who saw it. It was a sad day in April 1933 that the papers carried the story of the crash into the stormy Atlantic Ocean off the coast of New Jersey which killed 70 of the crew and the survival of only three. It had been America’s largest airship.

There was excitement again when the passenger carrying Zeppelin Graf arrived in the Pittsburgh area for a visit. It later circled the globe and carried airmail. I have one of these letters in my possession which features an 80 cent and a 40 cent stamp with pictures of the Graf Zeppelin on each stamp.

In 1934 the Macon, the navy’s newest and second largest airship passed overhead. The loud droning of the eight engines and 560HP each, was a sound I have never forgotten. Like the Akron, inside the belly of this giant of the skies was an inside hanger for five fighter planes and quarters for a crew of ninety. Sadly, in February of 1935 a wind squall off the California coast ripped off the upper tail fin which punctured some of the gas cells and sent the huge airship crashing into the ocean. Miraculously, only two crewman were lost.

In 1936 and again in 1937, the Hindenberg passed over Pittsburgh and I remember how shocked and angry people were to see the Nazi swastikas painted on the tail fins and rudders. Everyone knows the end of this story. It was also the end of an era. After thirty years, the Zeppelin was gone from the skies forever.

#44

What is an antique or, perhaps, what makes something an antique? I believe that the old saying "somebody’s junk will become somebody’s treasure" is a true remark. Those of us who are members of this antique car club can enjoy seeing displays of cross-cut saws, corn shellers and horse collars on walls of restaurants that cater to nostalgia. Often our reaction to these displays is "Gosh, what is so great about those things?" We used those things almost every day and they represented hard work that was part of our lives. These tools are a kind of bridge from our generation to the present generation.

When we describe a trip to some distant destination which involved flat tires, putting up rain curtains, stopping to allow overheated brake drums to cool off, and stopping beside ponds or streams to scoop up water to cool boiling radiators, we "lose" many of our listeners or readers. They can not associate anything in their young lives with the stories we tell.

I am sure that many youngsters would be amused to hear that until the early 30’s the robe rail or cord on the back of the front seat was really used to hold auto robes or blankets and the glove compartment actually held gloves which were necessary for comfort in an unheated automobile. No, we couldn’t just turn on the heater because nobody had invented a practical one during the first quarter century of automobiling in the United States. Remember, most autos were open to the elements and even tops, windshields, and front doors were a luxury. Heaters for cars? Impossible!

What kind of antique items associated with the automobile could we hang on a wall or put in a glass case? Some of the early license plates. Many of the early plates were made of leather with brass numbers assigned by the state of the auto’s owner. Our early Virginia plates were made of porcelain covered steel and were manufactured by a company in Baltimore that made stoves. The display might also include a few of the state tags of the twenties that were quite long because of the large stamped numbers used and our state sanctioned the use of such colors as green blue, maroon, and orange.

Some automotive antique items that could not be displayed on a wall but in a glass case might be such things as motoring goggles, gauntlets (large leather gloves with cuffs), AAA blue books that gave details on how to get from one city to another by calling attention to buildings and other landmarks every few tenths of each mile. An example would be "at mile 6.4 look for the Methodist Church on your left and then proceed .2 of a mile and then turn sharply right on to a gravel road that may or may not be identified as the Stoddardsville Turnpike."

Another collection of automotive antiques might feature a lost art—radiator or hood emblems. In recent years many modern automobiles have sported rather BLAND plastic emblems that would certainly pale before such artistic masterpieces as the Pierce-Arrow archer, the Dodge charging ram, the various goddesses of Cadillac, Chevrolet, Stutz, Rolls-Royce and Packard. Also some beautiful creatures such as the Ford flying quail, the Lincoln greyhound, and the Mack bulldog. And we should not forget the Boyce Motometer, which featured insert discs of many auto companies and also informed the car driver of impending doom if the red of the thermometer moved up to the circle at the top.

Another item or two for the display case might be a colored glass eye cup or bottle of Murine made about 1908. Getting dust or cinders in one’s eye was a common hazard of early motoring or steam train traveling. The eye cup was filled with clean water and held against the eye or milady might lift her dust veil and demurely drop some Murine into her beautiful brown or blue eyes.

We must surely include a bulb horn with its beautiful brass design and fat black rubber bulb that everyone wants to squeeze, or a door mounted Klaxon horn with hand plunger. A rarer item would be a small siren operated by turning a crank. The siren was advertised as a sure-fire way to get other cars to pull off the road and it was a legal accessory for many years until law enforcement agencies declared them illegal. Just suppose the sirens were OK for citizens and police used bulb horns!

We should consider a few items from the fifties for the benefit of up and coming motorists of the 1990’s. We would want to include fox tails used on radiator ornaments, baby shoes, dice, religious medals, and other small items that were fastened to the rear view mirror. How quaint! We wonder what other objects will be automotive antiques of the future. How about designer driving gauntlets, designer dark glasses, and his and her linen dusters? Now, that’s really a new idea!

#45

December 1987 EDITORS NOTE; One of the old familiar Christmas favorites is "I’ll be home for Christmas". In this months column, John Brown reminisces about the street where he grew up—and, in the process, reminds us of familiar places with very special memories for all of us. We may never be able to "go home again" but we always can, as that Christmas song reminds us, "be home in our dreams….."

Until I left my home in Edgewood near Pittsburgh, a shady street called Maple Avenue was the most familiar street in the world. It was only three blocks long but I knew who lived in every house and most of the people knew me. I had traveled that avenue on foot, on roller skates, on a bicycle, in a horse and wagon, and of course in various automobiles since 1916.

When I was very small, I remember that the street was paved with yellow brick and was lit by gas lamps that were tended by a man in a pony cart who replaced the gas mantles and relit the gas jets by climbing a small folding ladder her carried with him. Then about 1923 the beautiful Rovback lamps were removed and "modern" electric lights were installed.

About the same time, the borough of Edgewood decided to cover the yellow bricks with tar and limestone gravel which was called "macadamizing" in memory of the canny Scotsman McAdam who first thought of that new idea in road paving. I remember the steam roller (real steam) crushing it down and the tar machine that spread hot black tar followed by men with large shovels spreading the crushed limestone. It was exciting for youngsters like me, but a headache for my mother who had to try to remove the tar from clothes, hands, and feet for the next four or five years. To make matters worse, we used to enjoy chewing the tar and getting some of it stuck in our teeth. What a mess.

Every so often when the paving had to be dug up to repair a water line, the old familiar yellow bricks were also dug up and placed in a pile to be replaced when the work was done. Of course, when July and August came some of the tar would ooze out near the curbstones and we of the fourth and fifth grade would scoop up the sticky stuff and attach them to small sticks to be catapulted in the direction of fellow classmates with white shirts, curly hair, or new Keds tennis shoes.

Then, as the years passed, my beloved Maple Avenue still resounded to the beat of horse’s hooves from bread wagons, ice wagons, delivery wagons, and , to my young eye, the wonderful "Lightning Express" with the chocolate brown delivery van and the two black Morgan horses with brass lightning bolts on their collars. They probably averaged about twelve miles per hour on a trip from downtown and, I believe, that a delivery truck in 1987 would not be any quicker because of our present day traffic.

Maple Avenue holds a special place in my heart because ten of my high school graduating class lived on it. These were the kids I played games with, fought with, went to Sunday School with, and with whom I finally became a graduate of Edgewood High School.

Very few of the families on the first block owned automobiles because there was no room between or behind the houses for garages. On the second block where I grew up, there were older, larger houses and their garages held many familiar marques such as a Franklin, Pierce- Arrow, Packard, Lafayette, Cadillac, and Lincoln. One family also owned a Rouch-Long Electric and I had several wonderful rides in it seated between two matronly ladies who usually smelled of lavender or au de cologne.

One man near the end of our street owned a pair of beautiful gray coach horses and thrilled many of us kids as he passed by in his carriage in proper driving costume with two Dalmatians running side by side just behind the rear wheels—s scene that is stamped indelibly on my mind.

I neglected to mention that those who lived in the first block really didn’t need automobiles because at the foot of the street, there was the main line of the Pennsylvania Railroad which had a commuter train arriving at our station every ten or fifteen minutes to take people to downtown Pittsburgh and also the trolley car lines that could take anyone to work downtown for nine cents.

Many years have passed since I first walked along that beautiful tree-lined street holding tight to my mother’s hand, but when I return every few years It appears to have changed very little. There are no new houses, the street is not any wider, the old sidewalk on which I skated and rode my first bicycle are still intact. But I hesitate to knock on the doors of those familiar houses. What could I say to the children or young housewives who opened the door? No, I will just walk by and enjoy my memories of beautiful old cars, playing hide and seek with my Maple Avenue friends, and Mother calling me to supper.

#46

When I hear the word "Christmas" a myriad of thoughts flash through my mind—somewhat like the theme of the "Christmas Carol." It brings to mind Christmas present, Christmas of the future, and Christmas past. The present involves my new family and also my children and my grandchildren and our get together on Christmas Eve—with toys, food, laughter and excitement. I also think of Christmas during the years of World War II with three small children—gas rationing, paper or wood toys, and a Christmas tree brought home in the 1928 Model A Phaeton to be honored and decorated before Santa made his visit. But, as we unwrapped each ornament, I was carried back in time to Pittsburgh in the 1920’s when many of these same ornaments were hung from a balsam fir by Santa Claus after my sister Adele and I were sent to bed.

Until the death of my father, we were never permitted to be a part of the Christmas tree ceremony. When we were sent to bed on Christmas Eve, there was no trace of what was to come. The large dining room was bare and no tree was in sight, although I do remember one time when I had a glimpse of a beautiful balsam sticking part way out of our 1923 Marmon touring that was usually put on jacks for the winter by the first week in December.

I doubt if my sister and I slept very much as we heard doors opening and closing, footsteps in the attic, strange thumpings in the dining room, and inaudible conversations between my mother and my father. The hours passed very slowly as recorded by the chimes of the living room clock, but when seven o’clock arrived I remember we bounded down the stairs to the big fireplace and retrieved our stockings along with those of our parents and after tapping on their bedroom door, we were told to enter and see what Santa had brought.

We filled our parents stockings before they filled ours, but we were always thrilled with the small gifts we found such as a new toothbrush, a can of shoe polish, foil-wrapped chocolate gold coins, a pair of socks, and in the toe, a tangerine and some shiny new pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters, and a silver dollar.

After the stockings were opened we children were required to get fully dressed and report to the kitchen for breakfast. There was no way we could peek behind the French doors of the dining room until after breakfast. I recalled that Dad was always very slow in arriving for breakfast. He had to shower, shave, and dress completely before he would have his breakfast of juice, scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee. We would watch the agonizing slowness with which he finished his eggs, buttered his toast, and sipped his coffee. As I think back today as an adult, I am sure that was part of the scheme to make Christmas morning even more exciting. If that was part of the plan, I am sure that it was a complete success. Added to that---all dishes had to be washed, dried, and put away in the cupboard.

At last breakfast was finished and we rushed to the dining room to find the Christmas tree festooned with all of the familiar ornaments. Some of them were a part of our family history—paper mache hansom crabs, race horses, a tiny wee baby in a wire gazebo, cotton Santa Clauses from Japan, wooden and ceramic figurines from Holland, beautiful balls, bells, and blown-glass animals from Germany which delighted my mother when she was our age. There were even a few holders for wax candles and early electric bulbs that we lit to enjoy for many Christmases to come.

After briefly enjoying the lighted tree, we turned to the beautifully wrapped gifts on small tables situated around the room. My sister and I waited with anticipation as Mother and Dad opened their presents from us—purchased with money we had saved all year for this occasion. I still remember the Japanese sugar bowl for Mother and the box of Pittsburgh stogies for Dad that I had purchased after much deliberation. I don’t remember what my sister’s presents were but I know they were much appreciated.

When we turned to find our presents, we nearly always found what we had asked for—mostly books to read over the holidays and a few items of clothing. I believe that I was about age thirteen before I gave up hoping to find a Shetland pony hitched to the back porch railing.

Lastly, I remember we loaded up the old Jordan and headed toward Grandma’s for a Christmas dinner with aunts, uncles, and cousins. Time marches on, times have changed, but the spirit of Christmas will go on forever.

#47

In these days as we speed down the highways in our automobiles with our heaters on in winter and our air conditioners cooling us in the summer, we almost completely miss something that was part of our motoring past. What is it that we miss? In my opinion, it is smells, odors, and aromas—whichever sounds best. Those of us who are sixty years of age or older did most of our traveling in open touring cars and for this reason we smelled many things—some were delicious and some were really bad.

As we traveled throughout the far West and later, up and down the east coast, my parents would point out interesting things to my sister and me and also asked us to smell different things along the way. Occasionally, when I am out walking or driving one of my antique cars, I get a whiff of smoke from a chimney—a combination of oak and pine—and I am transported in fancy to one of the Indian missions in California where the aroma of burning pinyon pine and white oak filled the air.

At other times when traveling in Pennsylvania, I pass a field of blossoming buckwheat and I am transported back to the 1920’s riding in the old Marmon with my family. I also recall the acrid but pleasing odor of piles of burning limestone rocks fired by farmers to make their own agricultural lime. Even the tobacco grown in parts of Pennsylvania for the cigar wrapper leaves had a pleasant smell on a hot summer day.

On rare occasions when I visit a stable containing horses, harness, and hay I think back to several summer weeks spent on the farm in the Pocono mountains and once in a while on an outing of our local antique cars, the smell of burning brake linings transports me to the mountainous parts of the old Lincoln Highway(still numbered Route 30) and the tense feeling I had as my mother would call out to my father, "Alton, your brakes are burning!" He would usually explain to Mother that you can’t smell your own brakes and what we smelled was from brakes of the car ahead creeping down the step hill. Once in a while it WAS our brakes and we would have to pull over to the side of the road and wait for them to cool off.

Then there was the delicious smell that comes from pine sawdust inside a country farm icehouse as we stopped to purchase a large block of ice when camping. That is one aroma I haven’t enjoyed in recent years, but if I smell pine sawdust somewhere, it still jogs my memory of camping trips to the national parks out West in the old Chalmers back in 1921.

Sometimes when I pass a creamery, I am reminded of staying at a farm and going to the springhouse with its aroma of cooling milk, cream, and butter and the thrill of seeing a large trout held captive in the water to keep the spring free of insects and salamanders.

Lastly, I always enjoy the smell of a bakery at night and remember the times we would pass the Haller Bakery in Pittsburgh on the way home from my grandmother’s house. Some of those aromas can never be enjoyed again, but I still have the memories of them and the pleasant experiences of my childhood.

#48

Last week I found a box of unopened Cracker Jacks left over from the Halloween supply for the trick or treaters who visited us. As I prepared to open the box, a wave of nostalgia swept over me. The little guy with the sailor suit and his dog took me back to a time many years ago when my father would take me to see the Pittsburgh Pirates play at Forbes Field. I believe that the inflated prices at the ballpark caused the Cracker Jacks to cost ten cents, instead of the regular price of a nickel, but that was expected at a baseball game. Besides, the heavenly mixture of caramel covered popcorn and peanuts was a special treat for a seven year old kid sitting in the hot sun with his dad who knew many of the players personally and who explained the games’ rules and exciting plays. Then, of course, at the bottom of the box, wrapped in wax paper, was the PRIZE. This would be a lead miniature battleship, a cannon, an airplane, or a whistle. The prizes were definitely for boys. I remember that clearly.

Now, back to 1988. The box was quite difficult to open and the contents tasted stale. The box was much smaller than it used to be and the prize was two pieces of paper that were to be placed over one another to make a picture appear. Big deal! What a rip-off for 35 cents. Nobody can convince me that the box was as large .. or that the contents were better or "as good as" they were six decades ago. At the present price in this age, the box should be twice as large and the contents twice as flavorful as they used to be. What has happened? The only answer I can come up with is that to a small child anything received is exciting and if it is some kind of confection it tastes wonderful, but that is one of the many joys of childhood…things look bigger..taste sweeter..are more fun.. and most of the time more exciting.

When taking a trip in an automobile about sixty or even fifty years ago however, it was usually an exciting event for both young and old. There was the excitement of the unknown, the possibility of a tire blowout, running out of gas because of a faulty gas gauge, a detour that you failed to check with the AAA about, or perhaps a bumble bee being swept in and making a painful contact with someone in the back seat. There was also the preparations of sandwiches, fruit, and hot and cold drinks. Toys for amusing the young were usually not necessary because there were numerous games that could be played only when traveling in a car; scoring points by spotting different kinds of animals, making up rhymes from words on signboard, and keeping lists of different license plates or makes of favorite cars. Yes, there was fun for all in spite of the heat, dust, and sometimes bumpy roads

#49

As I look aback on my early childhood which began at the close of the first World War, I am reminded that my generation was living in what was the end of the Victorian Age and the beginning of the Roaring Twenties. As children , we were raised by Victorian standards and wore clothing that retained influences of the 19^th century. For example, when I was two or three years old my mother was struggling to fasten tiny buttoned shoes on my feet with a buttonhook—an instrument that reached through the slits and pulled the buttons outside—Of what use is a buttonhook today except to describe a pass pattern used by wide receivers in football? Does everyone know what a panty-waist is or the shame we felt if someone called us a panty-waist? Well, I remember them well enough. They were special drawers for both sexes that had a pair of horrible garters hanging from each side to which we were expected to fasten our white, brown, of black cotton stockings above the knees. Outside we boys wore short pants or knickers while the girls had their pretty little print dresses.

Can any sane parent these days expect their little boys to put on outfits like that? Impossible! We kids did not have the luxury of having fads in clothes, food, or toys. We were told, "children should be seen and not heard" and that’s the way it was—no pet rocks, convertible robots, hula hoops, or cheeseburgers. We invented many of our own toys and games involving homemade wooded rifles and swords. One must remember that kids my age were born just before or during the Great War and we were all familiar with the many songs, stories, and later movies that dwelt with that subject. It’s quite thrilling to remember that the little Jewish songwriter who wrote, "Oh, How I Hate to Get up in the Morning" for a camp show called "Yip, Yip, Yaphank" is still alive. Irving Berlin will be 101 years old this May!

I suppose one of the main reasons that there were few fads was a lack of unifying media. Radio was still in its infancy and I don’t remember any announcer telling us to "get your mom or dad to buy one of those now!" I do recall that old high school students mimicked college students by wearing yellow oilskin rain gear like that worn by fishermen and they had their friends draw faces or write clever sayings in India ink on them. They also wore four-buckle "articles" for snow wear. The girls often left them unbuckled to flap as they walked which, believe it or not, gave them the name "flappers". Other flapper fads were short hair and short dresses.

I remember my mother finally giving in to my request for a cotton polo shirt because " a lot of my friends were getting polo shirts." This, as far as I know, is honestly the only fad request I made of Mother. She willingly took up the sleeves of my dress shirts or any shirts for that matter. Shirts were made in lengths to somehow follow neck sizes and having a large neck and extremely short arms, nothing fit me without alterations.

Boys pants came in sizes large, medium and so on. Since boys under the age of 14 still were doomed to wear "knickers", length was no problem. I will always remember getting my first suit with long pants as I was about to enter high school. The blue grey wool pants itched and were rather uncomfortable in early fall weather, but no matter---they were cut to my length, my size, and they were all mine! Suddenly, I was no longer just a kid. I had become a young man. Thankfully the word "teenager" had not yet been invented and we didn’t feel that we were a special group that had needs or needed catering to. We seemingly switched from being children to being young adults without fanfare. We were being addressed as "young ladies" or "young gentlemen" and we tried to act accordingly. I like to believe that we succeeded. It was a period of American social life that was unique and that will never come again. I’m glad that I lived in it and was part of it.

#50

Early in June I received a note from my fifth eldest grandchild announcing his graduation from high school. At the same period in June, tens of thousands of students graduate from high school and into an uncertain and at times frightening future. I began to think back to my high school graduation which took place 55 years ago. Gosh! That was two score and fifteen years ago and how different things were in so many respects.

On that June night in 1934 the small auditorium was filled with friends and relatives who gathered to see our class of sixty-three assorted young ladies and gentlemen walk slowly down the two aisles to the traditional "Pomp and Circumstance" played by the high school orchestra. I remember that the music sounded a bit thin because twelve of the group were in the lines of seniors moving toward the stage. The girls were attired in long white dresses and the boys wore white (or almost white) flannel pants, dark jackets, and whatever color shoes they had for Sunday.

We sat down in 3 or 4 rows of metal folding chairs and, after listening to a retired minister tell us how gloomy our future would be, we filed by in alphabetical order to receive our diplomas. Things like selecting salutatorian and valedictorian and the wearing of caps and gowns were only done by college graduates.

I must mention at this time that over half of the class had been to a picnic and swim at a park called Idlewild and many of us got too much sun. The girls who went had very red arms, necks, and shoulders contrasting with their snowy dresses. We fellows had our fiery areas covered but after marching out rapidly to "The March of the Priests" we forgot and began slapping our friends on their backs in congratulations which brought about many "ouches, ows, and stop that’s".

After all the congratulations by the adults, many of the fellows were entrusted with the family car for the night and those whose families had no car double-dated so everyone who went to the Senior Prom at the Edgewood Club had a ride. I remember that none of the girls in my class wanted to go with me or was otherwise unavailable, so I escorted a pretty Norwegian lass named Mossie Lyngheim, a sophomore and a sister of one of my best friends. The dance floor was smooth, the music of Will Ryshanek was great and the fellow who did a solo bit of "Stardust"—I can still hear him. In those days we had dance cards that had about a dozen lines with numbers and the fellows moved frantically to have them filled with a different girl’s name during the early part of the evening. Yes, we shared our dance partners and the more fellow’s names a young lady had on her card the more popular she was considered.

I believe that the dance ended at midnight so we had an hour to drive to an all night drugstore, a White Tower hamburger palace where hamburgers with a slice of dill pickle and mustard or ketchup was five cents! I was especially proud that my widowed mother allowed me to take the big 1930 Jordan Airline Eight instead of the 1928 sedan I used when she went shopping for groceries. One of my buddies was permitted to take out his dad’s brand new 1934 Pontiac, complete with red wire wheels, dark blue paint, and blue mohair upholstery. That was really living, folks. Of course, for most of us the pumpkin coach had to be back in the garage by one o’clock. Yes, we h ad a great time with no cigarettes, no booze, and just a little necking if one was lucky.

That fall two of my classmates and I entered Bethany College together and we enjoyed four years of higher education before we went our separate ways. Now, this September I will see those two fellows and one lady again with more of my classmates as we converge for our 55^th reunion. Perhaps it was the simple pleasures we had and inexpensive fun we had together. Perhaps it was the water, the occasional non-smoggy days in Pittsburgh when many of the steel mills were shut down and the Monongahela River almost ran clear…whatever it was, we survived the War, the Depression and times that followed and forty-eight of us survive. We have been down the road quite a long piece and we are proud of it.

#51

Imagine if you can that you are suddenly transported back to the year 1922 and that your father has recently installed one of those "new fangled" telephones in your home. Your neighbors got together and formed an independent phone company with twenty subscribers. It enables you to talk with any of the families on the line and, if you are lucky, you can ring "central" and make connections with Aunt Matilda in the little town of Winchester, Virginia.

Yes, you can almost hear everything that Uncle Charlie says after Aunt Matilda invites you and the children for the weekend. He says that the Valley Turnpike is in good shape and you ought to make the trip from Staunton in at least four hours. That much time might be consumed because there will stops to pay toll at the numerous toll stations along the way. No matter, everyone is anxious to make the trip, so Father goes out to the barn where we keep the Model T Ford and takes a look at the tires (50 pounds air pressure), the gas tank under the front seat(10 gallons of gas) and the radiator (3 gallons of water)

Of course, he disturbs the livestock below and the cows, the four Percheron plow horses and the prize Southdown Ram in his pen. But they are used to seeing his kerosene lantern in the barn and they soon go back to sleep. A bantam rooster crows several times thinking that the light he sees is sunrise, but he stops quickly in an embarrassed sort of way. His harem of hens are not impressed and they tuck their heads back under their wings.

Father returns from the barn with the news that Lizzie is ready for the trip tomorrow morning. The spare tire in back has been patched once but the tread is good and the new detachable rims make tire changing a breeze. What will those boys in Detroit think of next? Everyone gets ready for bed and soon the house is quiet.

The next thing we know it is almost daylight and everyone performs his chores without being told. The cows are being milked by Father, fresh kindling has been put in the big wood stove in the kitchen. Mother starts getting the big breakfast ready and the younger children are setting the table.

During breakfast, last minute additions are made to plans already made. If we aren’t back by six, the Stoner boys will come over to feed and do the milking and the horses will be brought back from the pasture if it looks like an all night rain. We have already told the little Connor boy he can keep all the eggs he collects this morning and we know he won’t forget an offer like that.

The sun is just peeping over the Blue Ridge as Father cranks up the car and backs it out of the barn. Mother thinks the he should buy a self-starter now that they are available for Model T’s, but he says that he understands just how "Lizzie" needs to be started and she responds to his special procedures every time—well, almost.

Everyone gets in-Mother up front with the youngest in her lap and the rest of the children in the back seat. We’re off! As soon as we cross the cattle guard and head down the road, Father takes his foot off the low gear pedal and the car lurches into high.

Soon we turn on to the Valley Turnpike and the speedometer on the dash reads 38 miles per hour. Father is really "letting her out" and we keep hoping that he will see if Lizzie can do at least 45. The turnpike is one of the few macadamized roads in this state and we enjoy breezing along and waving to the other motorists going by in the opposite direction.

We are approaching Mount Sidney and up ahead we see a pole across the road so we stop and Father pays our toll which according to the sign is "autos-15 cents, horse and wagon-10 cents, man on horseback-8 cents and animals driven in herds-1 cent each. Why do they charge the motorists the most? The service stations are charging 12 cents a gallon for gasoline and a quart of oil must be at least 25 cents! An automobile is an expensive luxury these days!

We have to stop again at Mount Jackson, Woodstock, and Strasburg, and another place I cannot remember. I must admit that those who charge the toll do keep the highway in fairly good repair, but it is a real expense to drive about 100 miles these days. Father says that some day the state will take over these turnpike road sections and that you will be able to travel from any place in the state to another for free! That’s hard to believe just now as we see the old houses on the outskirts of Winchester up ahead. A road sign showing the Michelin tire man in cap and goggles informs us it is two miles to Winchester.

As we enter the town a large sign reads "Welcome to Winchester. Drive slow and see our city. Drive fast and see our jail." You can believe that we slowed down in a hurry. We make a few turns into different streets and then we are looking for the big iron setter dog in Uncle Charlie’s front yard. Hey! There is Aunt Matilda standing on the porch in her blue dress and white apron. We burst out of the back set and head for the big iron gate in a rush despite Mother’s admonitions to slow down. We are here again!

Uncle Charlie asks Father if we had any trouble and he replies that we didn’t have a flat, a blowout, or radiator boil over and after consulting his big gold pocket watch, he announces that we set a new record---just 3 hours and 12 minutes.

Mother interrupts and says that Father is trying to be the Valley’s Barney Oldfield. Everyone had a laugh about that. These are great times to be alive!

#52

During my sojourn on this planet of three score years plus, I have seen many changes in all phases of the American way of life. Most, I admit, have been for the better, but there are some things I still don’t know and a lot of things I still don’t like and a lot of things I don’t understand and I’m getting too old to waste my time worrying about them. I’ll begin by admitting that I do not like or understand country rock music, computer games, designer jeans, or the MX missile. Those are the things I’ll let my grandchildren ponder over, enjoy, or worry about. I’m a bit more conservative like our President and if I were an old man back in 1906, I might have stood by the country roadside and shouted "Get a horse" as a gleaming red locomobile chugged by with its passengers swathed in white dusters on their way to the seashore or the mountains.

Now I must admit that I am glad that children these days don’t have to be subjected to perilous diseases like polio, diphtheria, typhoid, or scarlet fever that took the lives of several of my classmates when I was in grade school. However, there are a number of things that I am sorry that children and young people will never know about or understand as they approach the twenty-first century.

One of the first things that comes to mind is radio. Yes, good old radio. What is radio today? It has degenerated to sports, news, and rock music. If you don’t like any of those features, you turn the radio off. Gone are the days when one could hear a great comedy show, adventure stories, and then those mystery shows such as Sherlock Holmes, Inner Sanctum, or Lights Out. When those programs came on, they suggested that the listener turn his lights out and when you did your imagination could scare the daylights out of you. I must admit that as I listened to Inner Sanctum and our ghoulist host called Raymond opened the notorious creaking door, I sometimes cheated and turned on the light in the hall. Yes, my friends, that was radio entertainment at its best.

One saving factor of radio today is that a few stations still play the old recordings of the great mystery programs as well as the great comedy shows featuring Fibber Magee and Molly, Jack Benny, Amos and Andy, The Life of Riley, and others. Today we see previously taped TV shows with audience laughter recorded and added to the programs. I wonder if they use laughter from the live broadcasts by the old radio shows. The only sex and violence on old time radio is what was created by the listener’s imagination.

I saw a bi-plane fly over the other day and that sight took me back to the twenties and thirties when those slowly moving aircraft flew overhead carrying airmail or perhaps a student pilot. There were many occasions when we kids would jump up and down and wave and very often the pilot would see us and waggle his wings or drop the plane lower and wave to us. What a thrill that was!

Today, we look up as we hear a sound in the sky and see a trail of vapor several miles above our heads. We know that a jet plane is passing over but we don’t know what kind it is and we also know that the pilot of the aircraft cannot see us and even if he could, he would be twenty miles away before he could waggle his wings….but he probably couldn’t because that is probably against regulations.

Thee is another sight and sound that nobody in the "eighties" will ever hear. I am thinking of the past and of being outdoors on a spring morning and hearing a deep roar in that sky that sounded like a squadron of bombing planes approaching. But we all knew that what we heard was something special and all at once there in the sky was a monstrous silver shape almost as long as two football fields…a dirigible. First it was the Shenandoah back in 1924, then the Los Angeles, the Akron, the Macon, the Graf, Andes, finally, the ill-fated Hindenberg. We saw them all and there will never again be a sight like that unless one of the Goodyear blimps passes over on its way to a football game somewhere.

Well, what are the young people of today going to miss in the automotive world? How could they miss anything when they have automatic transmissions, stereo radios, CB’s, and air conditioning? I believe that they are missing a bit of adventure. They know that if they take a trip for two or three hundred miles, they probably will not have to stop to take a bucket to the nearest creek and get water for a steaming radiator or drive their car up on a large rock in order to change a flat tire without a jack. Then, if they run out of gas on a rainy night, will they be able to put the car in gear, keep a foot on the starter, and drive a mile to the nearest gas station? Probably not, but they will miss something that used to be part of taking a trip in an automobile.

Perhaps, that is part of the appeal of driving an antique automobile today….the unexpected can still happen. An overheated radiator, a flat tire, or a faulty ignition system. When these problems occur we always seem to have a "fellow antiquer" nearby who can help us. Problems bring us closer together and that is what antique automobiling is all about.

##53

Everyone know the feeling he has when he looks in the obituary column and sees the name of an old friend….That’s the way many auto enthusiasts felt when the paper noted that the Army is getting rid of the ‘jeep’ and replacing it with a larger, more powerful, vehicle nicknamed the "hum-vee" which is officially listed as the HMMWV with a 150hp V-8 engine. The $51,000 new vehicles are costing the taxpayers $25,000 for each of them. I was amused to learn that they also have automatic transmissions because we have a generation of young men who have seldom if ever used a standard gearshift. I don’t know whether they are air-conditioned but they have anti-pollution devices and can carry five times as much as the beloved little vehicle that General Eisenhower called on the critical ingredients in the Allied victory in World War II.

The little prototype developed by the very small Bantam Car Company in Butler, Pa. was taken over by Willys and Ford who produced over 500,000 of them from 1940-1945. They turned up everywhere in the world where fighting took place and became the best known vehicle ever produced for the armed forces. Now there are less than 12,000 left and, here’s the sad part—they are being cut up for scrap! I believe that a lot of people would love to buy one of these famous little vehicles but that would be too simple a solution for the men in the Pentagon. Perhaps many of us remember Bill Maulden’s famous cartoon of the soldier turning his head away as he fires his Colt automatic at the hood of the damaged and "dying" Jeep somewhere on the Italian front. That’s what the cavalry did to an injured horse—they didn’t cut him up for the glue factory.

I had the pleasure of owning a used post-war Jeep and it was a rough riding little car, but I used it to pull a spring toothed harrow around my fields and also a huge rubber-tired tractor loaded with hay bales and later sections of pre-fabricated house a friend of mine was building. I can still picture my two youngest children strapped to the seats with some of my old belts as their mother drove to the store or to school when weather permitted. It was almost a family pet that replaced the 1929 Model A Phaeton which I foolishly sold to a young man who I taught a t Fisburne Military School in 1947. Yes, I thought I was making a good deal since I had bought the A for $60 and sold it nine years later for $175!! I know that several of my sons have never really forgiven me for that!

Many of us have already seen some of the olive drab painted veterans of World War II at antique car meets. These are the model M-38-A1 with places on the side for guns and shovels and the hard horsehair or canvas seats and the canvas tops. They are becoming a real collector’s item and I predict that they will eventually have a following similar to those who love and collect Model A Fords.

Of course, Jeep is being produced by the American Motors Division of Chrysler Corporation but it doesn’t resemble its military ancestor very much any more. The cartoonist Seeger who started out with a cartoon strip called, "Thimble Theatre" featured Casto Pyle and his sister Olive Pyle and later introduced his most famous character, Popeye, the sailor man. Later, he introduced a cute little animal which was yellow with large polka dots. I don’t remember what it did besides making the little baby "Sweet Pea" happy, but it was the animal that gave Jeep its name. When soldiers (motorized cavalry, I believe) first saw it they fell in love with the little vehicle and they remembered the little spotted critter in the comics and in spite of protests from the military brass, the name stuck and soon everybody knew what a Jeep was. The GI’s in Europe wanted one when the war was over and one ingenious soldier at a motor pool secretly took an entire Jeep apart and mailed the parts to his address back home. He had sent most of it back to the states when he was caught. I don’t know what the military did to him, but it is true and, I think, a humorous story from a generally humorless world conflict.

The war introduced many new words such as blitzkrieg, ration books, blackouts, kamikazes, Flying Fortress, and foxholes. The Jeep is one of the few words the younger generation knows today. Why doesn’t the Pentagon put the remaining Jeeps up for sale? Who knows? But I shudder to think of the welder’s torches and compactors doing away with those last 12,000 wonderful little vehicles. Jeep lovers, unite and write to your congressmen before it is too late! If they can put 30,000 lumbermen out of a job to save a few hundred spotted owls, how about a sanctuary for aging Jeeps? We don’t have much time left and the Jeeps need our help now! Next year will be too late.

#54

I suppose that the Old Dominion Meet is a little like Topsy in "Uncle Tom’s Cabin", it just "grow’d". In order to trace the origin of our meet, we must go back to a little guest room in the old Webster Hall Hotel in Pittsburgh. As I remember it, there was a group of men which included Hyde Kerr, Miles Amick, A.H. Amick, Edgar Rohr, and John Brown.

The late Hyde Kerr and I had driven up to Pittsburgh on a weekend in late September 1951. We wanted to attend the kick-off banquet of the Glidden Tour and then watch the beautiful old cars leave in the morning of the following day. I had met William Swigart, Les Henry, Jerry Duryea, and several other AACA officers at the Mimslyn Hotel in Luray when the 1949 Glidden Tour came to Virginia and was looking forward to seeing them again. So it came to pass that after the banquet, a group of us assembled in that room.

We soon realized that we represented three different regions of AACA—National Capitol, Allegheny Mountain, and Waynesboro/Staunton. After swapping a few stories about cars we found or restored, the talk drifted around the idea of holding a Spring Meet which would include all three regions. Winchester was suggested as a centrally located meet site and in a short time , the rough plans had been formulated and committees organized. The name "Tri-Region Meet" was proposed and agreed upon by all present.

During the winter, all the details were finalized and in May 1952 we gathered at Winchester to show and judge our cars. I don’t have any idea how many vehicles were there or who won prizes, but it was an exciting event and everyone had a good time. We had our banquet and awards at the George Washington Hotel. I still have the letter sent to me by Edgar Rohr telling me that he had made all the "arrangements" for the dinner and rooms reserved for our group.

Before we left for home on Sunday, tentative plans were made to hold another Tri-Region Meet next year. These plans , however, never came to fruition since several members of the Alleghany Mountain Region were unlucky about some of the judging and this region dropped out. This might have spelled "finis" to regional meets in our area, but a number of things happened that moved things closer to our first meet.

At this time, we had several club members who drove up from Richmond each month to our meetings. One member, Dave Garriques, had been instrumental in starting a new region in Richmond along with Frantz Hershey, a Mr. King, and several others.

I remember writing to Dave and suggesting that the Richmond Region join us and National Capitol to form a new Tri-Region Meet. Dave was enthusiastic and invited us to come to Richmond for the Tobacco Festival and the Gold Jubilee of the American Automobile Association. Many of our club members and fellows from DC area came for the event which included a football game, a car parade, and a car show at Parker Field.

It was at this Festival that representatives from National Capitol, Edgar Rohr: Richmond Region: Dave Garriques and Frantz Hershey: and Waynesboro/Staunton, Jeff Diffee and John Brown got their heads together and decided to hold a meet of Virginia Regions the following spring. One of us (I don’t remember who) suggested that "Old Dominion" would be a good name and was a distinctive name that no other AACA regions would use.

The Richmond Region offered to host the meet and it took place the following May. It marked the beginning of a great Virginia tradition and will be forever known as the first Old Dominion Meet. The following year, Waynesboro/Staunton was the host on May 22^nd of 1954. I believe that the National Capitol Region hosted the Old Dominion in 1955, but I might be in error. I will welcome comments by anyone with a better memory than mine. Some events, locations and names become a bit hazy after thirty-four years, but the memories of excitement, fun and friendships I made are clear in my mind and will bring a warm feeling in my hear for as long as I live.

#55

One of the sad things about our new automobiles is that they aren’t funny and they really aren’t much fun. Old cars were funny and though often unreliable, they were fun to drive and taking a trip or a long drive was often an adventure that was recounted many times in the weeks or months that followed. Automobiles at the beginning of this century were something new and exciting. All of us have seen reproductions of the sketches and cartoons from early editions of popular magazines. We see these crude vehicles running into horses, cows, chickens, buildings, and other cars. The drivers are usually tossed harmlessly into the air and will live to drive another day. The old autos had frequent blowouts., flat tires, radiator boilovers, and mechanical failures of all kinds which were viewed humorously by most people and especially by cartoonists of that period.

It didn’t take long for the movie industry to see the value of the automobile in films. We have all seen the hair-brained antics of the Keystone Kops with their Model T police patrol wagon and their hair-raising escapes from the locomotives and big red inter-urban streetcars at the rail crossings.

Let’s be honest about it folks, the Model T Ford was a godsend to the movie industry. It was funny-looking, cheap, and ubiquitous. It was easy to alter so that it fell apart, got squashed between two buildings or went careening along narrow, dusty roads and fell off cliffs.

I was fortunate to be a kid when most of these car comedies were made and I saw several chase sequences being made when I was living near Hollywood in the early 20’s. These ‘two-reelers’ as they were called were a regular feature to be expected with a Saturday matinee that also featured a western and perhaps a mystery serial.

When we saw the names Laurel and Hardy or WC Fields, we squirmed in our seats with excitement because we knew that there would be some funny car scenes ahead. Today on TV we see modern actors portraying Laurel and Hardy driving Model T’s or Model A’s or we see short scenes of Keystone Kops chases. Why do we see these glimpses of our past? We are shown these scenes because they hold our attention and make us laugh or chuckle as we are gently pressured into buying beer, windshield wipers, or life insurance.

If I may deviate from the subject of old cars for a minute, I would also like to state that old airplanes were often funny. Like old cars, the early planes were crude, slow, and fun to fly or watch. We still see them in old films or new films about the old days and various comedians jump into them and take off on wild rides before they crash harmlessly into a field, haystack, a pond, or a building of some sort. By contrast, jet planes aren’t funny and new cars do not bring a smile to your faces.

Can you picture short clips of scenes from "Miami Vice", "Crime Story" or similar detective shows being shown to our great-grandchildren for laughs? Today, car chases end in terrible crashes in which most vehicles explode in a ball of flames or fly over a cliff before they explode. What’s funny about cars anymore? Nothing…and I believe we are poorer because of this fact. Let us remember, when we drive our old cars in parades or on club outings, that most of the young or old persons we pass, break into smiles or laughter and frequently clap their hands because our vehicles are strangely funny to watch and these people are not laughing at us in derision---they are happy. The young folks laugh because the cars are different and the older folks smile because as we pass we remind them of days past when life was simpler, perhaps happier, and we were all driving in the slow lane.

#56

"Amazingly simple-simply amazing" was the slogan of a make of automobile some sixty years ago. In some ways this statement was true and in other ways it wasn’t. The early "machine" or "horseless carriage" as they were referred to for a number of years after the turn of the century, were indeed somewhat uncomplicated in their construction. Most of the owners of these vehicles were wealthy persons and employed "chauffeurs" to drive them or at least to ride along (sometimes up on a seat on the side of the car) and to diagnose the problem and to make roadside repairs when necessary.

These repairs might include the changing of a clincher tire, adjusting the sparker coil, or even draining all the gasolene (spelled this way until the early 1920’s) and re-filtering it through a chamois skin to remove water and bits of carbon or dust. Then, on occasion the adjustable electrodes on the sparkplugs might need adjusting or the little metal crank on the carburetor might need to be turned this way or that to compensate for the jostling on the rough roads encountered on the trip.

As the years passed the chauffeurs remained only as drivers of the limousines of the wealthy and they probably did not know how to make repairs , but knew which commercial garage to call for service. By the middle "teens" the village blacksmith had realized that his future was not involved with old Dobbin but with the internal combustion engine, and ,"JOSEPH WILSON’S BLACKSMITH and HORSE SHOEING" became simply "JOE’S AUTO REPAIR".

The advent of the Model T Ford brought about some important changes in automobile maintenance. A large portion of Model T sales were made to farmers who had some rudimentary mechanical skills. Also, the sales manual contained many tips on repairs for this ubiquitous vehicle such as : if the car fails to start after all starting directions have been followed---first check the timing coils. Gradually, the owner became a mechanic and he was able to make most of the repairs. I don’t know whether these manuals gave directions for jacking up the rear wheels and attaching a pulley so that the Model T could pump water, saw wood, or grind corn but, if they didn’t, some ingenious farmer figured out how it could be done and soon the family car was a useful farm machine that could do things that were beyond the ability of the faithful team of horses.

When the "behind the times Model T" was replaced by the Model A in 1928, backyard repairs were still possible. Driving the A onto a large rock or log ,putting the wheel on the opposite side slightly above the ground, making it possible to change a tire, replace wheel bearings or repair brakes. A burned out bulb on the dash board could easily be replaced simply by unscrewing the bulb. A faulty carburetor could be cleaned by simply removing one bolt to take the carburetor apart.

Let us suppose that the same problem occurs with our 1980 native or foreign "miracle of engineering." In order to get at the burned out dash light about twenty screws must be removed before we can even get to the bulb. To correct ills of the carburetor of our modern chariot, various hoses and the air cleaner must be removed just to find the location of the carburetor. Then when we find it , OH LORD!, the solution? Call Joe’s Garage and plead for a house call or have the useless vehicle towed to Joe’s.

Now, let us suppose that we are cruising down the interstate and we suddenly hear a loud bang or feel our car suddenly veering to one side or the other. We pull off to the side of the road and find that one of our tires is flat. The next move entails the opening of the trunk and the removal of the bumper jack which is probably still in its original carton. Now come the frustration of finding the directions for its assembly which is probably beyond the ability if the average motorist.

And then conclude we have to find our jack, where to put our jack under the bumper or into slots conviently placed by the manufacturer, Now, if your are lucky , you might have a bonifide spare.

Changing sparkplugs used to be simple, quick, and even fun on the automobile built half a century ago. One lifted the hood and there they were—gleaming brightly on top of the engine head. A turn of the little brass knurled nut made possible to unhook the wires and a simple wrench unscrewed the plugs. The gap was checked with a dime, or, in some cases, a nickel.

Today, the first problem is to find the plugs, or even the engine which may be in back, in front, slanted to one side, or crosswise under the hood. Those wires one sees lead to the sparkplugs, which cannot be seen at first. They are finally located but then a special socket wrench is needed that will go around corners and behind things. This takes time and is no fun at all.

I suppose we should never buck progress, but so much of our sophisticated progress is getting very complicated.

YESTERYEAR: That was down the road?

It is a sunny warm day in June and I am driving my post World War I auto along the highway. I start to slow down and notice that the brake pedal goes all the way to the floor. I grab the emergency brake and slowly guide the car to a halt on the shoulder of the road. Just as I thought! A clevis pin dropped out. Tough luck? Not really. There is a nice wire fence shining in the sun. What luck! Now, I’ll just get out the old pliers and walk over to that fence. I’m sure the farmer won’t miss 3 inches of his fence. Now, a cut here and another cut there ---- and I’ll be on my way in two minutes.

#57

The year was 1989 and a small, balding man put down his harp and music sheet with a sigh of frustration. He, John Q. Public, had been in this heavenly location since he thought he ran out of gas in his 1917 Studebaker one dark night and lit a match to find out for sure. That was back in 1921 and he hadn’t really checked on how things were going since then. Now he had a burning desire to find out what was going on so he checked in with St. Peter at the gate. After giving his name he was surprised to see St. Peter without his feather pen and large book. Instead he was squinting at a small box with a lighted screen mumbling, "John Q—John Pub—and finally, Ah here we are! John Q. Public-October 1921. Yes, John, you may make a visit to the USA, but I don’t believe you will enjoy it. You can get in touch with me in 24 centur—I mean 24 hours. Good luck, John---I’m beaming you down right now."

John thought of a line from Wordsworth "I drifted lonely as a cloud" as he floated over Augusta County in Virginia, wondering whether he would find any familiar landmarks—perhaps some buildings, an old road. Surely there wouldn’t be any ninety-year-old people he would recognize—they would have changed in appearance too much. He wondered about automobiles. No, they wouldn’t have changed much. They were just about as close to perfection as a mechanical vehicle could get….soft leather seats, rain curtains for winter or wet weather, lighted instruments of the dash, reliable two-wheel brakes and good tires. What would need improvement?

Suddenly he saw them. What in the world? Were those automobiles? Yes, but they were so strange-looking…like thermos bottles with wheels. The hoods looked like they had been stepped on by a giant, the rear sections were sort of humped up and the entire vehicle was short and appeared to be just about 5 feet high! How do people sit in them? And all that glass! They must roast inside with no way to keep cool!

John’s attention was diverted by what appeared to be railroad freight cars moving down the highway by themselves. No, there was black smoke rising from the front end ---a small steam locomotive of some kind perhaps. Very strange new world!

Mr. John Q. decided to drift to the northeast and see what the new Studebakers, Packards, Maxwells, Jordans, and Clevelands looked like. Instead he saw strange names on top of poles which appeared to be part of parking lots. The names were Datsun, Subaru, Mitsubishi, Mazda, and Chrysler. He had never heard of any of these. Aren’t Americans making autos anymore? No wait! There’s a familiar name—Ford and there is Chevrolet and now Buick. That’s more like it!

John drifted slowly up towards Mary Baldwin College to see what it looked like as the end of the 20^th century was almost here. He could not believe his eyes. Young people in ragged, faded working men’s clothing were walking arm in arm. The ones with short bobbed hair appeared to be female and some of the young persons with long hair were definitely male. Many were wearing what appeared to be old fashioned radio headsets used with radio crystal sets but they were twitching and jerking as they moved along and appeared to have some sort of serious nervous disorder. Where were those pretty girls in the white dresses from Mary Baldwin? Had the school turned into a country poor farm, an orphanage, or a branch of Western State? He was confused.

Looking for a familiar grocery store would be a waste of time so he just entered one that had large paper signs pasted on the windows promoting specials on coffee, fryers (whatever they were) and bananas. Inside, there were sights that were hard to believe. One side of the store seemed to have nothing but fruits and vegetables. But where were the barrels of dill pickles, salt mackerel, and soda crackers?

In one area all the meat was already cut up and covered with a clear film of some sort. There was not a roll of brown wrapping paper or a ball of string in sight. He was wondering where the butcher might be when suddenly a mirror at the back of the meat case slid open and a white sleeved arm popped out putting a pork roast next to the spare ribs. Very strange behavior for a friendly butcher.

Walking down several long aisles, John looked for a familiar trademark. Where was the box of cornflakes with the pretty young lady embracing a shock of corn? She was called the "sweetheart of the corn" and Mr. WK Kellogg signed each box by hand. There it was! The name Kellogg was on a box but there was no pretty girl---just a green headed rooster with a white dot for an eye peering around the Kellogg name.

On his way out, he did happily notice the Quaker man on the puffed rice but all the other cereal boxes seemed to covered with cartoons of animals and children. He had seen enough. Not much remained of the simple, friendly world he left suddenly sixty-eight years ago.

As he headed for his rendezvous point on Humpback Rocks , he noticed a group of happy people gathered for a picnic. A lot of the cars looked like the great old models and makes he knew. There was a Model T touring, a Model T coupe, a Dodge, a Jeffery, and a Buick touring and a tall Dodge four door sedan. At least those people knew what good cars were and they had kept them running all these years.

Glancing at the highway down below, he noticed a large car with red and blue flashing lights had forced another vehicle off to the side of the road and a uniformed officer approached the driver’s window. A hand emerged holding what appeared to be a driver’s license. Well, at least some things hadn’t changed a bit since 1921! Looking skyward John shouted, "Beam me up, St. Pete! I’ve seen enough to last me for at least another century."

#58

I have been thinking about why people own, restore, and drive antique cars. Some people enjoy taking a rusty, hopeless looking collection of metal parts and putting them back together so that they will have a rare, beautiful vehicle that they can drive. They will then seek out others who have done the same thing and they will exchange snapshots taken at various stages of the restoration. These photos give them "bragging rights" that are well deserved. When the car is completely restored, the owner will go in one of several directions. He might treat his vehicle like the crown jewels and trailer it to all the car meets and drive it only long enough to park in the designated spot so that it can be judged. If the car does not win a prize, he may become very upset and perhaps he may say so and question the ability of the meet judges the way a basketball coach questions the calls of the men in the striped shirts during a close game. The person might also have a discussion with the judges and perhaps let it be known that we will not bring his "pride and joy" to this particular meet next year. Nobody wins because they know that we will be back to try again next spring.

Then there is the fellow who restores his car so that it will run well and safely so that the whole family can pile in and drive to a meet. The car isn’t and never will be in showroom condition, but the whole family enjoys it and secretly hopes that it won’t win a prize. You know the kind he’s thinking about, the one with the gold colored touring car on a pedestal flanked by two angels holding torches on laurel wreaths. If he does win an award of some kind, he usually takes it over to show Aunt Bessie who owns three lively cats. He "forgets" he left the trophy there and then waits hopefully until Auntie calls and breaks the sad news about the breakage.

The things that the family will remember about the meet are the friendly people, the picnic lunch eaten while sitting on the running boards, the thundershower, and how sweet and clean everything smelled on the way back home.

Yes, old cars and car meets are lots of fun and the companionship and camaraderie are the things that make the hobby worthwhile.

Let’s just suppose that the "new fangled" gas buggy never really "caught on" at the turn of the century.

Where would be today and would be better off? Before you answer, think about it carefully.

The automobile is the leading cause of people getting into trouble. Just look at the pages of your daily newspaper. John Doe ran into Mary Roe and both vehicles were "totaled." Did you ever hear of a man on horseback running into a lady riding sidesaddle? Would both horses be killed or have to be shot? Not likely. Then we read that Henry Smith had all of his tires cut and his shotgun was stolen from his front seat. Can you picture someone cutting the feet on a cowboy’s Palomino and then stealing his rifle from its case beside the horse’s front shoulder? No way, Jose!

How many people today would be arrested for driving their buggy too fast through town? It is true that US Grant was given a ticket for driving his carriage in a reckless manner in Washington while he was President, but he was probably singled out by some disgruntled Democrat policeman.

Just think of the hundreds of people who end up in jail and prison for stealing automobiles. When the horse was king, there were horse thieves but their number was few because a strong tree branch and a few feet of rope helped to keep this type of felony to a minimum.

Just think back and you will realize that a license was not required to own or ride a horse and insurance (if there was any) must have been very cheap.

We all have noticed how many people seem to end up in court after being caught driving under the influence. This never happened to carriage and buggy drivers a century ago. They could go somewhere and celebrate and when it was time to go home all they had to do was unhitch old Dobbin, crawl into the seat and say, "Let’s go home Dobbin!" and in a little while there they would be at the barn door. Try doing this tonight in your 1987 Thunderbird.

Just imagine once more that Mr. Ford, Mr. Packard, Mr. Vinton, and a hundred other men decided to raise horses instead of raising the hood. We would be at an antique horse show and the announcer would say, " and now, ladies and gentlemen, we present the oldest rider in the country and the oldest horse. Folks, meet JD Diffee riding his fifty year old mustang!"

No, I believe that most of us prefer the smell of garages to the aroma of horse barns.

#59

The following pages are full of rambling thoughts and the only thing that ties them together is the word ROAD. The Latin word for ROAD is VIA and the Romans were the first people to get fed up with the dust and mud so they constructed highways of crushed rock covered with large paving blocks. Perhaps, the carts and chariots that moved along them caused the riders’ teeth to rattle but they enabled people to move about at a horse’s speed in all kinds of weather. They constructed these fine roads in every country they conquered which accounts for the early good roads in such countries as England, France, and parts of Germany. These roads, in turn, had a great influence on the development of the early automobiles which were about ten or fifteen years ahead of anything being made in the US at the turn of the century.

Let us be frank about early American roads, there weren’t any! Unfortunately, our early inhabitants were Indians instead of Romans. These early people did not have the wheel to help them from place to place so they walked along woodland trails or, in the western plains, used the two-poled travois pulled by a large dog, a strong Indian squaw, or later by a horse.

The first road builders in North America were the bison which numbered in the millions. Even in the eastern United States the woodland bison made trails through the forests, always seeking the lowest ground and finding the passes and gaps through the mountains. Out west, the pioneers and later the railroads followed the trails laid out by these huge animals. But by 1830, the last "buffalo" had been killed in Pennsylvania and nearby states so all new roads had to be hacked out of the wilderness by manpower.

The first real highway in the newly created United States was the Lancaster Turnpike which ran from Lancaster to Philadelphia and it was used commercially by the big Conestoga wagons. These large wagons with their red wheels and running gear, blue boat-shaped bodies and white canvas tops, could haul as much as ten tons. The driver did not ride in the wagon but on the left hand wheel horse which was part of a six-horse team. Each horse had a set of bells fastened to the harness of his collar. They were used to announce the presence of the wagon to other vehicles.

Lancaster County can be proud that it is the birthplace of Daniel Boone, the Pennsylvania rifle, the Conestoga wagon, and our first turnpike. Sections of the highway were kept in good repair by various individuals who, in turn, were given the right to collect tolls. Travelers were stopped by a large pole or pike which was raised or turned, hence the name "Turnpike". A typical list of rates would show a herd of cattle or sheep; one cent each. A horse and rider; three cents, a horse and wagon; four cents, and a six-horse Conestoga wagon; five or six cents. Some toll roads of this sort lasted into the first quarter of this century in Virginia and neighboring states. The early automobiles were classified as buggies and therefore, the toll was five cents. Later, the states became aware that the automobile was here to stay and in growing numbers, so they took over the roads from the various counties and the toll road disappeared. It came back in 1940 with the completion of the Pennsylvania Turnpike that eventually stretched from Pittsburgh to Philadelphia and was later joined together with the Ohio Turnpike, the New Jersey Turnpike, and many others. These turnpikes are in turn threatened by the great network of Interstate Highways which have been built in the past three decades.

What were early roads compose of besides earth? Some of the early roads were made of charcoal. Thousands of cords of wood were heaped in piles and allowed to burn into charcoal which was raked into the earth making a fairly hard surface. This was a rather good surface, but it was expensive to make and was only possible in wooded areas.

In Virginia a popular wagon road connecting some of the large towns was built of rough-hewn or sawed planks. These plank roads were an answer to Virginia’s red clay quagmire, but they were also expensive and required almost year around maintenance. In swampy areas large logs were split and laid flat side down creating a passable but bumpy---hence corduroy road. I remember as a boy bumping over some of these roads in some of the isolated areas of Pennsylvania’s Pocono Mountains, in search of blueberries. My father referred to them as "Pinchot Roads" in reference to Gifford Pinchot who was appointed Chief Forester of the United States by Teddy Roosevelt, and who, when elected Governor of Pennsylvania, advocated the building of log roads in some rural areas of the state.

So, when we look at some of the early models of American automobiles, we realize that they were built to travel on unpaved roads….the high, narrow wheels gave them road clearance, the fenders were called mudguards for obvious reason, and the extremely low gears were necessary for climbing steep hills and pulling the chain covered wheels through axle-deep mud. Aren’t we glad we have the old cars but not the old highways? I know that I am.

#60

This year the automobile marks it one hundredth anniversary and I have a few observations about it. About thirty years went by before the manufacturers and their customers finally realized that the automobile (called a horseless carriage for a long time) was not a buggy with a motor and that it had special problems. Until about 1925 nearly all US autos were open touring cars. Cars with closed bodies had problems with engine fumes and heat and the tall wooden creations of coach makers shook loose or fell apart. When roads became better, tires were larger, and bodies were stamped out of steel; a reliable closed car could be made.

People of wealth, however, purchased town cars or limousines made by coach makers and the driver or chauffeur sat outside as he did when driving a coach. Then, of course, most body styles were those used on horse drawn vehicles such as sedan, cabriolet, coupe, brougham, and landau. We still can’t seem to kick the habit of calling our instrument panel the "dashboard" which we should remember was the front part of a buggy designed to keep mud, dist, or rain from covering the driver’s feet or lap.

It is interesting to see quite a few different makers of cars today sporting hood emblems. Why? Because people like them even though they have no function whatsoever. For the first fifty years of the automobile its weak spots were the tires, the lubrication system, and the radiator. Since the radiator had to be filled constantly, the filler cap was placed so that it was readily accessible. As time went by, some companies began to beautify their caps and soon we had Greek and Roman gods and goddesses, birds, animals, and wings of all sorts. The Boyce Company made a fortune when they introduced the moto-meter which gave the driver an idea of when his radiator was going to boil over. Just before World War II the filler cap was placed under the car hood and the temperature was recorded by a gauge on the da—excuse me, instrument panel. There went to the moto-meter and most radiator or hood ornaments. What a pity!

Now that the convertible is once again a body style at a large extra charge, people can again have the thrill of windburn, sunburn, flying insect bites, and dust. It seems strange that people would pay a high price for all those inconveniences but they do. I would like to point out that when people in the teens and twenties drove their touring cars , they seldom put the tops down so they didn’t get sunburned. They did , however, enjoy the smell of new mown hay, fields of clover and buckwheat, bakeries, and sun-drenched pine woods. Today, we put the tops down on our antique cars and subject ourselves to burning trash, skunks and diesel fumes.

So have we really much to celebrate? Every other felony or misdemeanor (one out of two) is auto related. We steal cars, we wreck cars, we leave the scene of a crime in a car, we make love in cars, and we take our last ride in a special automobile.

Automobiles in their first century have made a profound mark on civilization. They are dangerous, they are expensive, they can get you in trouble in a jiffy….but now they are a necessity and they are a lot of fun. I suppose the pattern of what could happen to car and driver was set back in 1901 on Prince Edward Island in Canada…..There were only two horseless carriages on the whole island but, (you guessed it) they ran into each other and both drivers were injured!

#61

I am going to jot down some thoughts on a subject I really don’t know much about. I hope that those who read this column each month will bear with me because my subject is trucks and trucking as I remember it. You will not read any "stats" about horsepower, speed, or tonnage because I do not have a catalog of trucks to which I can refer, but I have been aware of these giants of the road for over sixty years.

It is always a great thrill for me when I see more and more trucks at car meets because I remember it was only a few years ago that the AACA frowned on the idea of admitting trucks to the official classifications. However, there is now Class 22 with classes A through F which shows how this part of the antique automobile hobby has grown. We all should take our hats off to this special group within our hobby because an antique truck restoration is beset with many problems. Consider the difficulty of finding tires, engine parts, parts for dump trucks, moving vans and the like. Then, if your truck had solid rubber tires, you have only a very few places in the entire country that can supply your needs. Harold Via can tell you much more about this than I, and then when Harold doesn’t have a part he needs, he makes the part. I don’t know what other restorers do, but we all have see Harold’s trucks and can appreciate the excellence of his craft.

Now I must regress to the past. When I was a small boy, the trucks were still battling with the horse drawn wagons in the large cities. Most of the services in the early twenties were still performed by teams of large draft horses. Most of the coal, ice, bread, and department store deliveries were horse drawn. When we moved to our new home in 1923, the moving van was pulled by four beautiful horses. Trucks were still vehicles used in the cities. Their open cabs and solid rubber tires were not suited to the unpaved highways and country roads that criss-crossed our nation in the years following the "Great War" of 1914-1918.

I believe that the First World War gave great impetus to truck manufacturing since the US Army bought thousands of trucks from many different companies such as Packard, Mack, Ford, Nash, Jeffery, Service, Kelly-Springfield, and General Motors. One of the most interesting and indeed one of the most versatile was the Jeffery (later the Nash) Quad, which used the F.W.D. patents to make a four wheel- drive vehicle which, when using chains on all four wheels, could conquer steep grades and the mud of France better than any tank of that period. And then there was the familiar A.C. Mack with its sloping hood and radiator next to the fire wall which soon began to be called the "bulldog" by our men overseas. The Mack Company must have liked this name since it has been their trademark and hood emblem for decades.

Many of us have seen old war photographs showing long lines of trucks with the familiar Packard radiator design and tops which looked like those of the early covered wagons. Or, perhaps, we might remember pictures of the frail-looking Model T’s with the bold red crosses on their sides declaring their use as field ambulances. There were some Dodges used as trucks, but they were really just stock sedans with short truck bodies. I should mention that as the war dragged on into 1918, a universal truck design was developed and manufactured by a number of truck companies and was called The U.S.A.

A number of these venerable old vehicles were shipped back to the United States and were used by private industry, some cities and counties as water trucks, garbage trucks, and the hauling of earth and gravel during the highway boom of the early 1920’s . I can remember some of these old trucks which sometimes retained their olive drab paint, but, mostly, I recall the big AC Macks with their open cabs, solid tires, and the sound of the double chain drives as they passed by. The drivers seemed to a child to be sitting on a seat ten feet above the ground. Those drivers were real "he-men" since they had to drive in open cabs, usually without windshield, and they had to turn the long cranks quite a few times to start those big engines in cold weather. Yes, these are a vanished race of men, and, except for a few hundred trucks that have been preserved, these quaint, old, giants with their solid tires, snorting engines and whining drive chains, have roared off down the dusty roads to be seen no more.

#62

Let us suppose that you have won the Irish Sweepstakes or have inherited fifty million dollars and then you decide to venture into the automobile market with a new car of your own design and engineering. One of the first things you will have to decide upon is a name for your new creation. What name would stir the public into a frenzy so that they would assemble in mob-like groups around the showrooms of the new network of dealerships you have set up? In the past, some car manufacturers have chosen the names of US presidents, Greek and Roman gods and goddesses, animals, birds, explorers, and alas, their own names.

Surely, if you names your new car Washington, Jefferson, Adams, Grant, or Roosevelt, it would be an instant success but wait---all of these names have already been used and the companies that promoted these historic names have themselves passed into history. Perhaps, you might call your car an Abraham because Lincoln is already taken. Then, what about an Eisenhower Eight, a Kennedy Kamper, a Hoover (but that is already a vacuum cleaner), or a Coolidge? Perhaps a Reagan Runabout might make it or a Nixon might sell in China, but that would be a little risky.

When we turn to mythology, we might choose Pan, Mars, Diana, Mercury, Cyclops, or Minerva. But then, we find that all of these names were once used and only the winged messenger has survived. What a loss.

Now when we survey the animal kingdom, we find that beautiful names have met with public approval for many decades. Some early successes were the Lion, Deagon, Seven Little Buffaloes, the Panther, and the Bearcat. Once again we find that all those vehicles with those appealing names have gone out of production.

A person might think that creatures that bite, sting, scratch. Or cause other types of bodily injury would make poor names for family cars, but facts have proven to the contrary. In the past decade or so, the big US automakers have greeted us with such unpleasant names as Stingray, Barracuda, Hornet, Wasp, Mako Shark, Bobcat, Lynx, or Cobra. Why not nice friendly fish like a Perch, Guppy, or Goldfish? What about a nice insect like an ant or a butterfly? When looking for animal names , why not choose an animal that most people can "cozy up to" like a Beagle, a Koala, or a Squirrel? I was going to say a Rabbit, but VW already has one on the market. I have always thought that the name of a huge animal such as a whale, an elephant, or one of the huge dinosaurs would do well, but such names as Jumbo and Mammoth are found only on such things as tubes of toothpaste and bags of potato chips.

I must admit that some of the names of the early cars doomed them to failure almost as soon as they were put on the market. How could your friends keep a straight face if you announced that you have just purchased a Blood, a Klink, an Acorn, a Poppy Car, or a brand new Twombly? We all remember the chuckles that greeted the Henry J. and the Edsel, but then it might be hard to market a Gordonmobile, or a Whitmer Six, or a Phillips Buzzard Wing. But please don’t laugh…the Delorean almost made it.

#63

If a young driver were asked today what a motoring costume was he would probably reply, " a motoring what?" Yet , for the first three decades of the automobile industry, a "costume" was almost a necessity. We are all familiar with the duster and the goggles of the brass-car era but not everyone remembers why the early motorists dressed the way they did.

There were two main factors that determined what the motorist had to wear---the design of the automobile and the state of the early roads. The very early automobiles, we recall, had no windshields, no front doors, and often, no tops. The men wore caps which would not blow off, dusters to protect the clothing, goggles to protect the eyes, and gauntlets to keep the hands warm and the wind from blowing up the coat sleeves.

The lady also wore a duster, a large hat, goggles, and a veil to hold the hat on and protect her delicate face against dust and sun. Most ladies used muffs for warmth unless they drove the car from either the front seat or the back. As we all know, some ladies still try to drive the car from the back seat. Perhaps, that is why our 1917 Jeffery was designed with a passageway between the front seats so that the driver could tell his mother-in-law to get in the back seat without having to stop the car.

During the early twenties, there were still more open cars on the road than closed vehicles. Even trucks had no door windows and often no doors to protect the driver. Ladies who drove usually wore riding breeches with boots or leggings of some sort and although the goggles and veils had disappeared, a long hat pin or two was a must if madam wished to keep her hat in place.

When women began driving vehicles during World War I, the dresses became shorter and high lace shoes reaching almost to the knee were a "must." As a child, I remember my mother dressed like this fashion and my father always wore a cap, a short linen coat, and linen knickers with golf socks. My sister and I riding in our 1923 Marmon touring car, wore long stockings and long sweaters even in the summers.

When we took our long trips during the early twenties, the United States was engaged in a massive road-building program and every trip involved detours, long delays on bumpy roads, and the usual clouds of choking dust which we all endured and were really not aware that our traveling attire was still a "motoring costume" of sorts.

Today, we drive our closed car with either the heater or the air-conditioner on so we don’t wear costumes anymore. Now we jump into our cars with the plaid shorts, Budweiser tee shirts, blue jogging shoes, fancy sunglasses, and Caterpillar tractor caps. No indeed! Nobody wears a driving costume these days!

#64

Today I’m going down the road with a grab bag of thoughts and facts that I have picked up through the many years of my interest in the automobile.

In the past few years, the motorists of the entire world are concerned about the high cost of gasoline and the equally high price of the vehicles that use it. If we turn back in time to the beginning of the twentieth century, we find that the early "horseless carriages’ were expensive, unreliable, uncomfortable, and were powered by gasoline, steam, or electricity. The roads were unpaved, tires were very expensive and poorly made with blowouts and punctures a certainty every time a trip was planned. The only thing that was cheap in those early days was gasoline. Yes, gasoline was "dirt cheap" and was often dirty too!

Since there were no gas stations, it could be found only at country stores, drugstores, or at a dealer who sold kerosene and then, each gallon was strained through chamois skin to remove dirt particles and water which were always present. In 1900 the most used fuel next to coal was kerosene. The refineries which produced it were closely inspected to make sure that it contained none of the volatile liquid which would cause kerosene to explode---namely gasolene. Until about 1923 that is the way it was spelled—with an E. The gasoline that was removed from kerosene was a waste product and was usually pumped into creeks or ditches and set on fire. When the owners of the new-fangled gas buggies demanded this new fuel, the oil companies were delighted that they could sell this waste by-product for 2 or 3 cents a gallon.

As the automobile grew in number, the demand for gasolene began to rise and before World War I, it took over the number one spot from kerosene and has remained there ever since as we all know. Of course, there were no taxes on gas at the turn of the century—that came later. So did driver’s licenses, license plates, and traffic cops. State Police forces created to control strikes and riots began to chase motorists on bicycles. Finding themselves left behind in the dust, they graduated to motorcycles and hid behind bushes and signboards. Becoming more sophisticated in the late "twenties", they began using Model A Fords which were considered to be quick getaway cars at the time. After that came faster police vehicles, road blocks, speed traps, and, finally, radar. First, it was fun to out-distance the bicycles, then fool the motorcycle cops, then out-distance the Model A’s, and now, it’s "watch out for the fuzz photographers." Driving isn’t much fun anymore.

I have another fact about gasoline. I learned that the very first gas station was built in Pittsburgh, my hometown, in1913, and in later years my Uncle George Wedd operated this station for several years. It was located at the intersection of three city streets and looked a lot like some of the present hamburger places with a red tile roof and white glazed tile walls. The gas was hand pumped into the glass tanks and gravity fed to the customer’s car. I remember my two cousins always checking the tires, the battery, the water, and cleaning the windshield----without being asked.

Ah, Well! Time marches on---and so does OPEC.

#65

I believe that next to automobiles and steam locomotives, I have loved electric trolley cars all my life and feel a bit sorry for young people today who have never ridden in a trolley or, most likely, have never even seen one. It seems incredible that the chief means of urban transportation for over 60 years disappeared from the scene about 35 years ago and is now seen on a limited scale in only a few cities, such as Pittsburgh and New Orleans as tourist attractions.

I am sure that some of our older members can remember the trolley cars in cities in Virginia before World War II and the huge street car system that served Richmond until about 1950. Richmond, incidentally, was the site of the first city-wide street car system which was laid out before the turn of the century. And, there was Washington, DC, with its bright green cars with their trolleys making contact for power by means of cable in a slit between the tracks on the street which eliminated the need for overhead wires.

I suppose that as I grew up in the borough of Edgewood in the shadow of the skyscrapers of Pittsburgh, I just took the vast street car system for granted. When my family wanted to go to downtown Pittsburgh for shopping or for a visit with relatives, we took the trolley car. Later, when I was in high school, my friends and I walked to the trolley line and then took our dates to a movie or play. The fare at that time was three tokens for a quarter. The movie was 50 cents each and later an ice cream soda was 15 cents. The total cost of a date was about $1.65. What spend thrifts we were in those days! But then, it took me two or three weeks to scrape together two or three dollars to spend on such luxuries as wine, women, and song.

In many cities throughout our country, the trolley companies developed amusement parks on the outer extremities of their rail lines. In Pittsburgh it was Kennywood Park—a one hour ride from where I live with its roller coaster,"dodge-em" cars, and the "tunnel of love." It took me years to figure out what was so attractive about the "tunnel" and when I found out, it was to late---I had enrolled in college.

One of the most unusual services of the trolley companies was the funeral service. They had special cars with space in the front for the casket of the deceased and seats at the back for the relatives of the deceased. Most of the trolley lines ran past the cemetery entrances for the convenience of the funeral party.

I must mention at this point, the role played by the inter-urban street cars. These giant vehicles transported millions of passengers between the major cities of our country. A person could board one of these huge cars and travel through the countryside from, let us say, Baltimore to Washington , and then connect with an inter-urban that would take them on to New York City and then on connecting lines to Boston and then to other cities on the way to other towns all the way to Chicago. What a way to travel! If you had the time to walk between trolley lines, you could go half way across the continent for less than thirty dollars.

A person who has never ridden in a trolley cannot know about the sound of the throbbing of the electric motor and the sight of the motorman going outside to pull down the trolley shaft from the overhead wires and then loosening the shaft at the rear end of the car so that the car could go in the opposite direction. Then there was the sharp aroma of ozone gas that occurred as a giant blue spark when the trolley rod made contact with the overhead wires.

Other features of the trolley cars were the woven cane seat covers and backs which were cool in summer and not clammy in the cold months. Also, I must mention all the ads that were placed in a row above the seats. Unless you were talking to a friend or reading , you couldn’t miss the messages. Of course, there were the familiar hanging straps for those standing up and when someone wanted to get off at a corner which was not a regular stop, he would reach over and pull a chord located right below the ads and a buzzer would sound beside the motorman’s seat. When the buses replaced the trolleys, they usually kept the same route numbers and also, the row of advertisements and the familiar buzzer…but , they could not match the trolley’s non-pollution record.

Electric street cars came in many styles and sizes from early Birney design cars with their clerestory windows on the roof to the giant inter- urbans which were the size of railroad passenger coaches. These fast moving vehicles often had luxury quarters at the rear for important persons or for the president of the line. Then, of course, there were cars with wrecking cranes, work cars, or trolleys with rotating brushes in front to clear snow-covered tracks in the cities. There were also a few double-deckers and the marvelous "breezers" with open sides which were popular on hot summer days.

If a person has a desire to see many of these vehicles of the past and a yearning to take a ride, he can journey to East Haven, Connecticut or Kennybunkport, Maine. I have been to both of these trolley museums and recommend them highly.

At present, the few cities that still keep trolleys running have the front door entrance with the motorman operating the car and collecting the fares as the passengers enter. Years ago, the larger city cars had folding door entrances in the middle with a conductor to collect fares and issue transfers to other lines. This situation gave rise to an old joke we used to tell to unsuspecting friends. "Do you know why a streetcar motorman would never be electrocuted if lightning struck a streetcar?...because he is a NON-CONDUCTOR……

#66

Back in the 1920’s there was a popular song called "Among My Souvenirs". The song began , "Some letters tied in blue, a photograph or two,….I find a rose from you among my souvenirs."

Well, I find that my souvenirs aren’t tied in blue, but they are scattered around the house and in both of the garages. What an assortment of things they are….and what an assortment of memories they bring to mind. Down in the cellar, there is an old aluminum coffee pot with folding handles that somehow made the trip from Los Angeles to Pittsburgh to Stuarts Draft and has been used for years to hold water for sprinkling clothes. I remember when it was part of a large assortment of cooking utensils my father bought for our automobile camping trip to the National parks such as Yosemite, Yellow-stone, and Grand Canyon. Our car was a 1919 Chalmers with a so-called "California" top. For the edification of the younger antique car collectors, it was a non-folding top with windows that could be pulled up with a strap…perhaps, the first "hard top" model. At any rate, we did a lot of touring in that old car and saw geysers, Sequoia trees, genuine Indians, old Spanish missions, and grizzly bears. Along the road, we had to look for the road amid the drifting sands of the Mojave Desert at night, stop to fill the boiling radiator on the mountain pass to Merced, and take time out for Mother to get out her tweezers to pull out cactus thorns from the hands of a curious five year old boy. But, we really had a wonderful and unforgettable experience that I have never forgotten these past sixty years.

When I go out to the garage, I notice four unusual looking metal objects. These are storage jacks which were very common three quarters of a century ago. In the early days of the automobile, just about everybody put their treasured vehicle up on these jacks to relieve the weight on the tires and covered the entire car with a canvas tarpaulin during the winter months.

When the ground was white with snow in the country, the old sleigh was put into service and in the city the trolley car or the train was the only means of transportation until the French lilacs bloomed or the children’s kites became entangled in the telephone wires. Autos were seasonal luxuries that were engineered for the warm months of the year.

All this brings me back to the jacks in the garage. These particular jacks were used to support a 1920 Studebaker belonging to my Uncle Tom which he purchased but was afraid to drive. The Studebaker remained supported by these jacks for about a year until we arrived back from California and my father bought the "new old stock" Studebaker for our family to enjoy. I was only six years old so I don’t have any idea about horsepower or the acceleration from zero to sixty, but I do recall that the car was tan in color and that it was a sedan that had a heater in the back seat that released a limited amount of heat for the benefit of the rear seat passengers huddled in heavy robes and gloves.

Another object of nostalgia in my garage is a black luggage rack which expands in accordion-like manner and fastens to the running board. Unless a person is a collector of old cars, he wouldn’t know what I am talking about, The luggage rack was used on the Studebaker and later on the 1925 Chandler opera coupe when we drove up to Van Buren Point on Lake Erie. Once we had arrived at our rented summer cottage, the rack was ideal for hauling fifty pounds of ice from a rural icehouse which always smelled deliciously of pine sawdust or cedar chips which covered the blocks of ice and kept them from melting for a half –year or more. On other occasions, the rack carried a pair of young frying chickens with legs tied together and thrust into a burlap potato sack. Today, this old rack is used to carry a couple of suitcases when we travel to a distant car meet in the Model A.

Under the kitchen sink are two large black thermos bottles with nickel plated caps and cups. These bottles are probably older than I and were always filled with hot cocoa and hot coffee by my mother before we left for a picnic or a summer trip to some new and exciting place. I personally always associate them with our trips in our big seven passenger Marmon touring car which carried my family from Maine to Virginia from 1923 to 1930. What a wonderful automobile that was! It carried us to Philadelphia for the Sesquicentennial in 1926, to Niagara Falls, to Atlantic City, and many other places which I can still remember quite vividly.

On the wall of my old white garage hang the only tangible objects that were once a "part" of the Model 34 Marmon. Although dulled by more than fifty years of exposure to the elements, the yellow and blue paint proclaims that in 1925 and 1926, they were displayed on a vehicle using the highways o f Pennsylvania. Most of my friends don’t give them a second glance, but they are an important part of my souvenirs. On occasion I might be heard to say, "Do you see those old Pennsylvania plates?" I can remember them when they were brand new……Now, let me tell you about that great Marmon touring car we used to have……..

#67

"What’s in a name?", asked William Shakespeare. Names have always fascinated me and although I made poor grades in Latin, which caused despair to my Latin teacher and my parents, I have somehow retained enough of that so-called "dead language" to figure out the meanings of many new words that were familiar but which I had never attempted to investigate. Now, you might ask, "what does all this have to do with antique cars? " My answer would be, "Not very much", but, wait! I will explain….all words and names have an origin; be they names or things people, or places……

Until the period of the Norman conquest in 1066, most of the people living in England had only one name such as John, Mary, Tom, or William. When the Domesday Book was written for purpose of tax collection, an additional name had to be added such as "Thomas , the baker; and Joseph, the smith. Men were catalogued with regard to the type of work that they did, their physical appearance, or where they lived.

Quite a number of the male residents of the British Isles took it upon themselves to be known as tall man, wise man, pretty man, gold man, and merry man. These facts made me wonder what effect the horse and carriage and other wheeled vehicles had upon the names of the persons engaged in making the vehicles of the day. Some family names have their beginnings in transportation related occupations. We can find such names as Wheelwright, Wheeler, Cartwright, and Carter. A man who shod horses was called a farrier and from that came Farrier, Ferrier, and, of course, all the Smiths, Smithey, Schmidt, and Smythe.

After several thousands of years of riding horses, donkeys and camels, or jouncing along in coaches, wagons, and cart----man invented the carriage that moved without a horse. Yes, in the latter part of the nineteenth century, the automobile arrived on the scene. Nothing has changed man’s way of life more than the automobile but, in spite of this fact, nobody seems to take on an automotive last name.

It is possible, of course, if a body repair man became quite wealthy, he might decide to change his name to "John D. Rockerpanel", but that’s about it. There is not much appeal in Robert Rear-End, Ignatius Ignition, or Teddy Tailgate. No, we are in love with the automobile, but we don’t want any last names connected with it. Yet, there is one name I can think of---MR. GOODWRENCH.

#68

The year is 1912 and it is winter. There are four inches of snow on the ground and the temperature is in the lower twenties. In the rural areas of the United States, the countryside is almost silent. The silence is broken occasionally by the sound of sleigh bells or large sleds filled with sacks of grain heading for the local mills. These sleds are pulled by a team of huge Belgians, Percherons, Clydesdales, or perhaps, Morgans glad to be outside the barn for a few hours in the snow.

In the city these same breed of horses will be pulling wagons filled with bread, department store packages, or coal. These wagons are eagerly awaited by hundreds of anxious people who are unable to shop for groceries or other goods, unless they live near the railroad or a streetcar line which leads to the heart of the city. When the snow comes to the city or farm, the prime mover of goods is still the horse.

Where are those big, noisy, exciting automobiles that filled the streets and the dirty roads last summer? They are in the horse barns or what are now being called "garages"---sharing some of the space with Old Dubbin; their wheels up on jacks, and covered with sheets or tarpaulins. Their radiators have been drained and their cylinders filled with kerosene awaiting the return of Spring. When the tulips are once again in bloom, then their radiators will be filled with fresh water, their tanks with fresh gasoline, and the fragile tires will be filled with air from a foot pump. The dry cell batteries will be re-installed and checked for power. Then, and only then, will these family treasurers be ready to once more take to the streets and country roads for a picnic, a visit, or perhaps, a trip to another city. In those days everyone faced the facts. The automobile was a warm weather vehicle to be enjoyed for a few months and then to be carefully preserved for three, four, or even six months depending on the latitude of the owner. In the late fall, winter, and early spring, the horse was still the king who shared his throne with the railroads and their steam locomotives. And why not? After all, a trip to another city on a train was exciting and often luxurious.

The passenger cars were warm and comfortable. Then when meal time arrived, one could walk down the aisles of the swaying coaches to the dining car, which displayed white linen and gleaming silverware with waiters anxious to meet your every need. As you read your menu, you could glance out the window at small towns passing by at a comfortable pace or, at night, a blur of lights accented by swirls of steam and coal smoke. This was railroading at its best and the memories of summer trips in the family automobile faded away as you hurtled along in the darkness to see friends or loved ones in some distant town or city.

Now the year is 1922. The automobile has become longer and has added front doors, all controls are inside, an electric self-starter, and a lighted instrument panel, which makes night driving more pleasant. Also, the auto companies were offering more models with enclosed bodies, although the open-bodied touring car was still preferred by the buying public at a ration of two to one. Also, the highways were being macadamized and some were even being covered with concrete as an experiment in some states. This was the decade of highway building.

The Blue Books with their detailed mileage directions about "cross the inter-urban streetcar tracks at mile 34.2 and then look for a fork in the road beside the white Methodist Church" were being referred to less and less. There were now state highway signs with route numbers on them and if a family planned a trip from the East to the Pacific, they could follow the Lincoln Highway (Rt. 30), and look for the red, white, and blue bands painted on the telephone poles every mile. How could anyone get lost now? But, just to make sure, the wise motorist visited the nearest AAA office and got maps of the area he planned to pass through and the friendly AAA man would mark with a red pencil all the detours that were in effect because of the new road building. If you didn’t follow those red lines on the map, you could still get lost.

Yes, your new Maxwell, Dodge, Buick, or (if you were wealthy) Packard was quite reliable, but gas stations were still far apart and your tires would still have punctures and blow out. Then what about a thundershower? The car had to be stopped, a mad scramble to get out the rain curtains, and then put the rods in the holes in the doors, and then fasten all the snappers. If the rain wasn’t coming down too hard, Dad could drive with one hand and work the windshield wiper with the other hand. If the rain was a real "frog –choker" or a "gully-washer", the car had to be driven off the road to await the end of the storm because if you elected to keep going, the rain would come through the radiator and short out the spark plug wires and you would still have to pull over to wait until you could dry off the plugs and wires. The smart motorist stopped quickly and threw a tarpaulin or a blanket over the hood of the car to prevent this common driving hazard.

When summer and fall had again come and gone, the family car could still be used if the rain curtains were kept on and blankets were provided for the passengers. You could rely on good old Weed chains when the snow came. And with denatured alcohol in the radiator and "IVFS Winterfront" or cardboard fastened to the radiator front, everyone felt secure. Of course the milk, bread, and groceries might be delivered by a horse-drawn sleigh when the snow was really deep-----but who cares about these small difficulties, folks? Automobile driving in the winter was here to stay!

#69

By the time everyone reads this column, the "Glorious Fourth" will have come and gone. It has been celebrated annually almost from the day that our Declaration of Independence was signed in1776. Somehow, it is a holiday taken over mostly by men and boys of all ages. The setting off of fireworks has been a male privilege from the early days. It is easy to picture a boy with a piece of smoking punk in his hand holding it to fuse a huge firecracker and then darting away as the girls held their fingers to their ears and prepared to scream when the explosion took place.

When I was about nine or ten years of age, my Dad informed me that I was old enough to set off firecrackers and he would bring home a glorious supply of lady-crackers, flash crackers, sparklers, Roman candles, sons-o-guns, pinwheels, and Egyptian "snakes". What excitement they created even before they were used! I recall sleeping fitfully on the night of July 3^rd---the same way I did on the night of December 24^th. It was a day to look forward to once every year. I can remember lying in bed on a hot July night hearing distant detonations and envying those kids who were allowed to set off some giant firecrackers on the night of July 3. However, I would drift off to sleep in sweet anticipation of the fun that was just a few hours away.

When the happy day dawned and all the large and small boys exploded onto the streets and sidewalks with matches, sticks of punk, and strings of firecrackers, the Fourth of July became official. What a thrill it was to set off a string of "ladycrackers" on top of an inverted garbage can lid. Of course, the big guys lit the string and held them disdainfully at arm’s length until almost all of the little firecrackers had been exploded and then tossed them in the air for the finale. About the main excitement for the girls was lighting those little pyramids that turned brown, squirming "serpents", or spinning around on their heels to set off the red paper wrapped "sons-o-guns" that popped pieces in all directions. I wonder at the point whether most of my readers know what I’m talking about.

From this point on, I know that my Fourths of Julys were unique because my family packed a picnic lunch and headed for the Demler family reunion , which was held on a farm a dozen or more miles outside of Pittsburgh. The Demler clan was prolific and there were many cousins, aunts, and uncles who attended this reunion. As I grew up, I can recall that more than one hundred people gathered together for this event.

We had the setting off of firecrackers in "designated areas", foot races of many kinds, and a balloon race that was invented by one of my mother’s cousins. Each child was given a helium-filled balloon which was attached to a large spool of #40 thread. Upon command, the balloon was released until the thread reached the end of the spool. Then another signal was given and all the contestants began to reel in the thread and pull in the balloon, which seemed to be a half mile up in the sky. I can’t remember what the winner’s prize was, but I do remember that one of my cousins always beat my sister Adele and me. Nevertheless, we tried again the following year with the same dismal results.

Just about dusk, the relatives began to leave. I still have some fond memories of seeing the fluttering of the little silk American flags, attached by a holder, clamped on the motometer on our big Marmon touring car. I can also recall that Adele and I were given American flags attached to a two-foot wooden dowel that we held proudly out of the side of the car as we drove on our way home.

By the time we arrived in the city, it was almost dark and about every other year there was a thundershower, which necessitated a rush to attach the rain curtains. Even though we had to peer through the celluloid openings in the curtains, we could see families setting off such things as pinwheels, fire fountains, and Roman candles.

When we finally arrived home, we would look forward to having Dad set off and wave around Roman candles and then we ran around the yard with huge sparklers. Sometimes, before they were burned out, Dad would put a bend into the hot wires and toss them into a tree, where they continued to sparkle for a brief exciting moment.

Those were the days of my childhood. When I became a father, after the tragic days of World War II, my children looked forward to the activities planned and carried out by the local VFW. They had wonderful events for children such as foot races, a greased pig, softball throws, bicycle races, and sack races. Of course, all my children were involved. They won a few events and lost most of them, but they considered the Fourth of July as one of the great social events of the year. All of the children were easy to round up at dusk because when they arrived home, it was time to grab a chair or blanket and sit out in the hayfield and watch the fireworks finale set off by our volunteer firemen and the veterans.

In recent years, there are no more activities on the ball field sponsored by the VFW. They are mostly gray-haired men whose ranks have thinned since 1945. Now, everyone flocks to Staunton to enjoy and, perhaps, take part in "Happy Birthday , USA". Those of us with antique cars have found another outlet for our hobby and we have an opportunity to be in a parade and meet folks we haven’t seen since last year and folks we’ve never seen before. We don’t mind that the crowd thinks our Model A’s are Model T’s, cars with red wheels are considered to be fire trucks, and a vehicle with a boiling radiator is identified as a Stanley Steamer. We don’t mind because we are enjoying our cars and having fun.

#70

I believe that I will entitle this month’s column "Cars My Uncles Owned" because I had quite a few uncles and they had some interesting automobiles. My paternal uncles’names were Tom and George, and my mother had three brothers, Albert, Harry, and Ralph. She also had a first cousin named Frank that we always called "uncle", so I will include him in my story.

Ralph Heeren was my youngest uncle and I saw him only three or four times in my life. I never saw any of his automobiles because he lived on the Isle of Pines , which is located off the southwest coast of Cuba. We have some family snapshots of a visit there in 1915 and they include pictures of his 1914 Dodge touring car. Uncle Ralph was a fruit grower and a real estate agent . Years later, when the Depression came, he unwillingly took over the ownership of a bakery, a movie theatre, and a Ford agency in the city of Huava Jerona, which was near his fruit orchards. I assume that he drove demonstrators from 1930 to perhaps 1936, but I can’t be sure because he died in 1937 and I never asked anyone about his cars. It is ironic to note that most of the Isle of Pines, today, is a huge concentration camp for those who disagree with Fidel Castro.

Now, my Uncle Harry lived in Sanford, Florida and raised celery and citrus fruits, but I saw him more often. I particularly recall his visit in the summer of 1931, when he drove up to see us in his new DeSoto Model S A Six Roadster. I can still see that yellow body with red wire wheels. He and my Aunt Mame always enjoyed opened cars. The last time I saw these delightful folks was in December of 1939 when I made my first trip to Florida. It was a delight to ride in their 1937 four-door convertible sedan with the top down, enjoying the warm sunshine and feeling like a celebrity on parade as we visited some of the interesting places near their home. Yes, I’ll always have a mental picture of Uncle Harry enjoying his car.

My father’s eldest brother, George, lived in Los Angeles most of his adult life and he was a dyed-in-the –wool Marmon owner. When my family lived in Los Angles from 1919 to 1922, I remember his big Marmon touring cars and also a sedan. These were all called the Model 34 New Series. I know that from the year we left California until I paid him a visit in 1936, that he must have owned several other Marmons, but when I came to see him, we traveled around in his beautiful 1932 Sixteen seven-passenger sedan. With its 145 inch wheelbase, that was a huge machine and the 200HP engine that took us up all the mountain roads in high.

I heard later that the big Marmon was sold as part of his estate when he died in 1938. I often wonder if the person who bought it treasured it as he did and that perhaps, today, it is in the safe keeping of an antique car owner.

My "Uncle" Frank lived just a few doors away from us and he owned and drove Packards as long as I can remember. He had both tourings and sedans and on the many occasions I had a chance to ride with him, he never ceased to tell me that the Packard was the best automobile built by man. Uncle Frank also smoked a pipe and I can picture him with his big pipe, his motoring cap, and the big Packard touring painted blue with a tan top, and twin side mounts. What a sight that was!

My Uncle Albert, who owned a large jewelry company founded by my Grandfather Heeren, was also a Packard owner. I use the word "owner" because he had two Packards but he never learned to drive either of them. Uncle Albert’s cars were sedans and they had large disc wheels. They were driven by a chauffeur named Jack. I don’t believe I ever knew his last name, but I remember his graying hair and friendly smile. He occasionally allowed me to sit in his seat and practice working the spark and gas levers and to gently honk the horn, as I pretended to drive the huge car. I also recall that about 1928 or 1929, this car was involved in an accident that injured Uncle Albert, Aunt Anna, and Jack. This ended Uncle Albert’s car ownership and in the years that followed, they traveled by train, trolley car, or rode with some friends or members of my mother’s family.

My Uncle Tom owned three automobiles in his lifetime and also never drove any of them. His first car was a 1920 Studebaker Special Six which he bought with the idea that he would take driving lessons form my father, but we temporarily moved to California and Uncle Tom had the brand new Studebaker put on storage jacks until we came back East to Pittsburgh. That was almost two years later and by then, he told Dad that he had gotten "cold feet" and had lost interest in learning to drive.

Somehow, he and his brother Alton (my father) made a deal and the brand new tan colored sedan became the first closed car we ever owned. Yes, dear friends, the six year old Brown boy had been hauled around in open touring cars since birth and windows that rolled up and down were an exciting new experience. A car without rain curtains! What would they think of next? I remember the sheer delight of sitting on the back seat in winter and feeling the heat coming up from the floor through a type of grill that somehow brought up warm air from the exhaust pipe below. I remember Uncle Tom riding to work in the "Studie" with Dad and I often wondered whether he might have had a hankering to take the wheel but if he did, he never said so.

A few years passed and Uncle Tom got "auto fever" again. This time, however, he bought a new car and hired a chauffeur to go with it. The car was a 1931 Lincoln Model K. It was a V-8 five passenger town sedan. I don’t know why he didn’t buy a limousine since he always sat in the back seat in regal splendor, while young John Floate, attired in cap and uniform, did the driving. Now those days were the Depression days and the young man performed other services such as helping Uncle Tom’s housekeeper Sudie with house duties. This included beating carpets outside, washing windows, and driving her to the butcher shop, the bakery, and the grocery store.

In 1938, the aging Model K was replaced by a Zephyr which carried Uncle Tom and aging Johnny Floate around during the war years and until my dear uncle passed away in 1947.

Yes, my uncles all owned good cars and I know that they had god times while owning them

#71

This column is going to be a treat of things that I must refer to as "things I did in my love affair with the automobile that I will NEVER do again." The first incident that comes to mind is a trip to the Tidewater area for an Old Dominion Meet many years ago. I drove my 1916 Model T Ford in company with Raymond Driver, Herb Hulvey, and Jeff Diffee. I recall that we were between Richmond and Williamsburg when darkness overtook us and the headlights on Herb’s car would not work , but his tail light was burning fine. So we closed ranks in our four-car caravan and I led the way with my very bright magneto headlamps and dim oil tail lights followed by Herb’s car, Jeff’s Dodge, and Raymond’s Nash. We finally looked frantically for a place to stay and finally pulled in at the Mary Washington Motel for the night.

We made our way to the meet site and had a fine time. I found out, however, that the Model T brake band had disintegrated and a replacement was not to be found. For this reason my son Jerry and I decided to leave early Sunday morning with a plea to Jeff, Herb, and Raymond to keep a lookout for us along side the road somewhere between Norfolk and Waynesboro. The old T ran hot but steadily at about 23 miles per hour and we were able to bring it to a stop at traffic lights by using the low gear pedal, a dab of reverse, and then the hand brake. Signaling for a stop with the left hand and then quickly pulling on the brake was a bit tricky, but when you are young, things like that are part of the fun. We arrived home without incident and I promised my family that I wouldn’t be involved in any hair-raising situations again.

Well, I was wrong. The following Spring I succumbed to the lure of the vernal equinox and made plans to drive my 1906 Wayne to the Old Dominion Meet at McIntyre Park in Charlottesville. Son Jerry and I persuaded his mother that the trip would be "a breeze" and all she had to do was bring the Chrysler and the trailer to the park in the afternoon. We started from home about 7:30 and arrived at the Waynesboro city limits shortly after 8 o’clock. We filled the radiator and our water jugs and "sprinted" for the base of the mountain and the curves and hills of Route 250. Stopping to put more water in the radiator only twice, we made our way to the summit in half and hour. The problem of going down Afton mountain with primitive brakes was solved by driving on the gravel shoulders and using low gear and reverse from time to time using our trusty planetary transmission.

To make a long story short, we conquered all the hills and valleys on the way to Charlottesville and arrived in time to meet the registration deadline. It seemed like a lot of fun at the time and I was proud of my little two-cylinder car, but I can assure you that I wouldn’t and probably couldn’t do it again.

Another "I’ll never do it again" incident that comes to mind is one morning on the 1957 Glidden Tour that Jerry and I left Washington DC in the Model T heading for Gettysburg. On that particular morning, it was raining quite hard and it was still dark. The magneto powered headlights and the kerosene tail lamp were about to meet the challenges of Washington traffic. Of course, many of our congressmen were still in bed sleeping off last nights celebrating, but there were still lots of folks going to work at 7:30 am.

Jerry was my navigator; reading the city map with the aid of a flashlight as we drove through the unfamiliar streets, hoping that the cars behind would see my hand sticking out of the rain curtain making signals for stops and turns. They apparently did manage to see my signals and we managed our exodus from the capitol without a scratch or dent. We reached Gettysburg for a lunch at a country store and then on to Hershey before dark. That evening I sat around with old friends and laughed about our problems, but if I had to make that same trip today, I would be in a cold sweat the whole day.

Other scenes flash by in my mind that involve driving the Wayne in a thunderstorm in Roanoke, through downtown traffic heading for our motel outside of town on Route 11. I could hardly see because of the heavy rain and I knew that my primitive brakes would never stop us in an emergency, but it seemed like a great adventure at the time.

I recall yet another drive in the same car in 1966—or was it 1965? It was raining steadily, but our club was determined to hold the Old Dominion Meet at the Staunton fairgrounds. I drove on some of the back roads and the little car never missed a beat. We arrived at the meet site with just one area of my clothing still dry…the seat of my pants. Even that area was a bit damp, but as I drove the little blue runabout into the mud at my designated space, I felt no regrets..only elevation at my accomplishment. This was the spirit of antique automobiling! This was high adventure in my favorite hobby.

Would I do something like that again? Would Germany build a zeppelin named Hindenberg II? To quote a 19^th century expression, "Not on your tintype, Belinda!"

#72

Albert William Heeren was one of my mother’s three brothers and my Uncle Harry lived in Florida, and Uncle Ralph lived on the Isle of Pines off the coast of Cuba, I remember Uncle Albert the most because he lived nearby. We visited him at his apartment on Craig Street or at his office at the huge Heeren Brothers Jewelry Store in downtown Pittsburgh. His office was located on the balcony of the six story building and I remember passing by counters and showcases with jewelry of all kinds, chinaware from Europe and the Orient, woodcarvings, and statuary. On some of the floors above, skilled craftsmen created badges, medals for many foreign armies, and beautiful crystal and cut glass objects were etched or engraved with letters or monograms of affluent patrons of their store.

This store with its four-face clock bell tower and hand-carved figures above the archways on each floor, reflected the accomplishments of two young immigrant boys form Germany, aged twelve and sixteen, who came to America to seek their fortunes, knowing only a half a dozen words of English; which included "hello’ and ‘thank you." They created and sold inexpensive lockets, bracelets, and watch fobs from door to door until they could buy a small wooden building with a large sign which read, "Heeren Brothers-Unique Jewelry."

Otto, my grandfather, and William, his older brother, prospered and built their houses on a piece of land on the outskirts of town which later became a whole city block as Pittsburgh grew. Here, they raised their sons and daughters. One of Otto’s girls became my mother and his second eldest son was my Uncle Albert.

Uncle Albert was rather shy, but he told me stories about his trips to Europe as a buyer for Heeren Brothers store; seeing Queen Victoria in her ceremonial coach in London, and the German Kaiser Wilhelm in Berlin. I was fascinated by his account of how he skipped school and went to the Carnegie Street Mill at Homestead to watch Pinkerton men try to drive out the striking steel workers, only to be driven away by men armed only with sticks, crowbars, and bricks. This, I believe, happened in 1892.

Camping and canoeing with some of his almost sixty first cousins was one of his summer activities. Now about half of these cousins were young ladies and they escorted them to dances, the theatre, and baseball games. They seemed to enjoy each other’s company and, of course, became chaperones who met the approval of their parents. All of this seems strange to people today, but these young people had a wonderful time and stayed out of trouble. I used to envy my parents with all of their brothers, sisters, and cousins, because I had just one sister and only five first cousins and three of them lived hundreds of miles away.

Uncle Albert’s wife was named Anna. She had a voice like a parrot, and hid in the clothes closet with rubbers on her feet when there was a thunderstorm and would not sit down at a family gathering if there were 13 people at the table. She also made his life miserable by worrying about spilling salt, walking under ladders, and refusing to go out to some function if a black cat crossed her path.

In spite of her peculiarities, Aunt Anna was deeply loved by my uncle and she was always with him on picnics, family gatherings, and trips. Since neither of them knew how to drive an automobile, they traveled by train, trolley car, or rode with other relatives.

I remember quite clearly a trip our family took to the Poconos in the mountains of central Pennsylvania. We stayed at a cottage in a small village named Stoddardsville and had meals at a large house called The Inn. I was four years old at this time but I remember a lot of things that happened to me during what was supposed to be a relaxing week in the country for Mother and Dad. Well, leave it to little John to mess things up. I was to go fishing with Dad in the morning and I volunteered to catch some grasshoppers and put them in a jar. While scampering through a pasture, I blundered into a pile of watermelon rinds from a picnic and was beset upon by dozens of angry yellow jacket hornets. I believe that I was stung about fifteen or twenty times and I ran crying back to the cottage for help and sympathy. By some miracle, I survived with no ill effects except I hurt all over for a day or so and the fishing trip was called off. I did get an exciting ride in a Stutz Bearcat owned by a college student who asked me if I would like to take an "airplane flight". I was disappointed at first but when that high speed (perhaps 45 miles an hour) over winding, dusty roads, while being held on another man’s lap, is indelibly etched in my memory.

A day or two later, the older folks went "bathing" in the small river nearby, but I didn’t know how to swim and Uncle Albert said he would keep any eye on me as I waded in shallow water near the banks. Suddenly, I stepped into a deep pool and went under to emerge many yards downstream choking and gasping for air. The next thing I knew, my Uncle Albert had plunged in with his Panama hat still on his head and he scooped me up just above the small waterfall. He later told me that he should have let me go over falls, but since he had only two nephews and no children of his own, he thought he’d better rescue me. He stretched me out on the bank and helped me get rid of a lot of water I had swallowed. I know it wasn’t an approved Red Cross procedure, but it did do the trick.

I guess that last incident I became involved in was an anti-climax. Mother didn’t think that I should help myself to an unripe banana in the cupboard and I went into a convulsion, but a few plunges in hot and cold water and some kind of medication straightened me out. Needless to say, I really loused up that country trip for my folks and Uncle Albert’s suit and shoes were probably ruined, but I will always be grateful for his quick thinking that saved my life.

In later years he bought a Packard sedan and hired a chauffeur to drive them around town and on trips. I remember the man’s name was Jack and he showed me all of the great things about a Packard and later showed me how the car radio worked. It was a huge thing full of batteries and dials and had a large ariel that looked like a giant spider web and could only be played when the motor wasn’t running, but it seemed like a miracle to me.

Several years later this car was involved in a serious accident and Uncle Albert, Aunt Anna, and Jack spent several weeks in the hospital. After this, they never owned another automobile and avoided riding in cars as much as possible. Some years later, my Aunt died and Uncle Albert was invited to live with her two unmarried sisters. He had a room of his own and spent many hours listening to the Pirates on his radio, writing family history, keeping in touch with my sister and me, and probably daydreaming about the great years when Heeren Brothers name was known throughout the world and how the Great Depression brought about its downfall when people could no longer afford fine china and jewelry, and foreign countries made their own medal for the military.

I believe that it was 1949 that I drove to Pittsburgh and brought him down to our home for a short visit. I have a snapshot of him holding one of my sons who is now over forty, and both of them are smiling. That was typical of my Uncle Albert. He had no children of his own, but he loved children and they loved him. I have some mementos that he left me—his small coin collection, a ceramic tobacco jar shaped like a wine jug, a small diamond stickpin, a medal he won, and his gold watch.

Sometimes when I’m someplace where someone lights up a cigar, I instantly go back in time and see a mental picture of my uncle seated in his old Morris chair, smiling, and getting ready to tell me a story. Uncle Albert is missed and remembered by all who knew him as a loving husband, brother, and uncle.

#73

About the time I was in high school (that was over 50 years ago), some anthropologists predicted that in the twenty-first or twenty-second century, man would have only a thumb and an index finger on each hand, because so many devices being put on the market have pushbuttons. As things have developed, it seems that they could never have been more wrong. Now with the coming of the computer and similar gadgets, we seem to need all of our fingers and could probably do better with six on each hand. It is true that a well-directed finger will work on the channel changer for the TV set and cause changes to take place in our cars by selecting the right button on the instrument panel, but there is an insidious conspiracy developing to make us use most of our fingers and sometimes our teeth.

I’m referring to the packaging industry that is aiming its sights especially on the elderly and perhaps the handicapped as well. Let me prove my suspicions by pointing out some of the glaring examples of this nationwide plot to make life more miserable for millions of us.

First, there are those plastic pill bottles we buy at the drugstore with those horrible caps that have to be opened by lining up almost invisible arrows or dots before they can be removed. What person waking up with a splitting headache at 2 AM wants to line up arrows on a bottle? What was wrong with the little metal tins of aspirin that popped out when you pressed the lid? Now, what about buying flashlight batteries in all the different sizes we need? We have to realize that our kids of this decade cannot enjoy toys unless they are battery-powered and most come stating that the batteries are not included. When you try to get to the batteries you have to get a sharp knife or screwdriver to punch an opening in that tough plastic cover on the package. Also, what an annoyance it is to buy products that tell you to "push down and turn" at the same time or "squeeze and turn."

It takes all the joy out of breakfast if one has a half-gallon of milk or a half-gallon of juice because the side that says open is almost permanently sealed by some giant machine that causes the opener to break a fingernail or need to get a knife to get inside. The makers of cold cereals are also changing to a plastic wrapper that is difficult to open. I miss the friendly feel of the waxed paper inside a corn flakes box, don’t you? The one company that has the jump on all the others is the maker of Nabs and other crackers of that kind. Do you honestly know of anyone that can open one of them without biting an opening? I have never been able to make that little red plastic strip work for me if there is one on the pack. I have to bite a hole and go from there.

I have often fantasized about getting the chairmen of the boards of these outfits in a locked, closed room and making them open their bottles, boxes, or packets in ten seconds or less and those who fail would be sent to China for the rest of their lives. How can someone with arthritis open a bottle of "super strength" something or other with all those "child-proof" caps? I have found that I need to leave my name on file with the pharmacy so that I won’t need a plumber’s license or a course in engineering to get to the large assortment of pills my doctor says I need to keep functioning.

While I’m on the subject of drugstore products, I wonder why they don’t enclose a small plastic magnifying glass so that the buyer can read the directions printed in extra small type. Anyone who can read them without glasses doesn’t need to take them in the first place! They must be in cahoots with the companies that print the telephone directories, but then I guess when one passes three score and ten , getting the green olive out of the jar seems harder than it once did when people crowded the showrooms of the Ford dealers to see the brand new 1928 Model A.s. The Romans so wisely observed, "TEMPUS FUGIT". This sheet of paper, unlike the compact discs on "Mission Impossible" will not self-destruct in 10 seconds. It might take 10 years if it isn’t BIO-DEGRADABLE!

#74

A new year has arrived and as Libby, her son John, and I sat near the woodstove in the fireplace watching TV, we almost forgot to count the seconds left in the old year and then wish each other a HAPPY NEW YEAR. Turning back the years in my mind, I remember that we often went to my grandmother’s home for the New Year’s Eve dinner and then my sister Adele, my cousins, and I would be "put to bed" and awakened to greet the new year. Outside in the streets, we could hear automobile horns honking and church bells ringing, as we rubbed the sleep from our drooping eyelids.

With these memories in mind, I began to think of what had happened during the years that some of our family cars were new. Soon after Dad bought our 1914 Dodge, a twenty year old Serbian named Garvillo Prinzip, shot Austrian Prince Franz Ferdinand and his wife. A few months later, World War I began and the world has never been the same after that.

When I was one year old , my father bought a 1917 Hudson sedan and the United States declared war on Germany. In later years, I remember the Hudson but, of course, I don’t remember the war. After we moved to California in 1921, I remember the second hand Chalmers Dad bought us to take tours of Yosemite, Yellowstone, and Grand Canyon National Parks. I also recall hearing that the great tenor, Enrico Caruso , died that summer.

The Chalmers had a "California top" with sliding windows and in spite of the radiator that frequently boiled over and a rash of punctured tires, we enjoyed our travels in it.

In 1922 we came back home to live with my Uncle Tom in Pittsburgh. Dad bought Uncle Tom’s 1920 Studebaker Sedan which was sitting up on jacks in the garage because he decided he didn’t want to learn to drive an automobile. 1923 was the year that President Harding died and also when Dad bought his pride and joy---a Model 34 Marmon seven- passenger touring car. The following year I remember looking up in the sky and seeing the dirigible "Shenandoah" and later the ZR-3 built in Germany and re-named the "Los Angeles". Both of these ships could not be flown at the same time because the Navy Department didn’t want to spend more money for helium, so the gas was valved out of one airship and placed in the other. Those were the days when our government really knew how to save money!

It was about this time that our family moved into our own house next door about a hundred yards up the street. We now had a large two-car garage which I have described previously, and the Marmon shared space with the old Studebaker. It was now 1925 and our country was shocked to hear that the mighty Shenandoah was torn apart in an Ohio thunderstorm and 14 crewmen lost their lives.

When 1926 rolled around the Studebaker was traded in on a Chandler Opera Coupe. I remember how excited everyone was when they heard that Richard Byrd and Floyd Bennett had flown a Fokker tri-motor plane over the North Pole and a few days later the Airship Norge duplicated their feat. In those days, almost everything done in the air was a "first."

Another first occurred at our home when I darted out from the corner of the house into the path of our Chandler which knocked me down and pinned me beneath the front wheel. You know that I survived or I wouldn’t be telling you this story, but I did have some sore ribs for several weeks.

The 1927 found our cars a year older and the world was astounded to hear that Charles Lindberg had crossed the Atlantic Ocean alone from New York to Paris. He was soon followed by Clarence Chamberlain and then Richard Byrd, whose Fokker tri-plane almost made it but had to ditch in the ocean because of the fog.

The Chandler had become an "orphan car" in 1928 so it was traded for a Jordan sedan just about the time that Cal Coolidge turned the presidency over to Herbert Hoover. Richard Byrd was promoted to a rear admiral and took off for the South Pole. This was the year I fell in love with a Model A Ford and I started saving my nickels and dimes toward a purchase in the distant future.

I remember 1929 for several things: I had my first date with a girl, Dad sold the beloved Marmon, and the stock market crashed in October. To me the importance of these events was in the order I just gave. Of course, the stock market crash proved to be the most important of the three.

In 1930 Dad decided to buy another car for his own use and to give the 1928 Jordan to my mother. He employed an unemployed preacher , who assumed duties of handyman and chauffeur for mother. This move was necessary because my sister Adele was away at college and I was not old enough to get a driver’s license. I was sure that I could drive, but the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania thought otherwise.

Dad’s new car was a 1930 Jordan Airline Eight sedan. It had a beige body, black fenders, and crimson artillery wheels. Wow! Over in Germany that year Hitler’s Nazi Party was getting more seats in the Reichstag, but nobody in the US paid any attention to that.

We used the new Jordan to take a trip to Canada and to go camping in northern Pennsylvania. Soon after these trips Dad became ill and never recovered his health. Early in 1933 I became the male head of our family. Now it was my turn to take Mother shopping and visiting relatives and I treated that Jordan like it was the Crown Jewels---washing, waxing, and driving it very, very carefully. This was the year that Hitler became Chancellor of Germany and a man named Zangara took a shot at President-elect Roosevelt and killed Mayor Cermack of Chicago instead.

In 1934 I drove my mother, my sister, and my uncle’s housekeeper to the World’s Fair in Chicago---just after I bribed my teachers into allowing me to graduate from high school.

Also that year, in addition to the World’s Fair, the world learned that Russia was admitted to membership in the League of Nations and in Canada, Mr. and Mrs. Dionne had quintuplets---all girls. Later that year, I persuaded Mother to sell the two Jordans and buy a new Dodge sedan, It had a gun-metal gray paint job and "free wheeling". The Jordan factory in Cleveland closed and their cars joined the growing list of orphans caused by the Depression. Such great marques as Marmon, Pierce-Arrow, Peerless, and Stutz were gone forever. So were my youthful, carefree days. I was accepted as a member of the freshman class at Bethany College. Bethany College where all dates back at the girl’s dormitory by midnight, no beer, and no automobiles. But we still had a wonderful time!

#75

"Sorry I’m late, I’ve had car trouble." Most of us have said that at one time or another. Or perhaps, one of our children have asked, "Dad, may I have the keys to the car?" The word CAR has become synonymous with automobile but that wasn’t always so. The word "car" has been with us since the days of the Roman Empire and perhaps even before that. Our word "car" comes from the Roman word "carra", meaning a four-wheeled vehicle to distinguish it from the word "cart" which was a two-wheeled vehicle. A two-wheeled vehicle could be a chariot or any other vehicle with two wheels, which was invented by some unknown mechanical genius almost as soon as man invented the wheel.

During the period 1820-1898, the word "car" meant a railroad car-either freight or passenger and after 1870 or so, it also meant a horse car or a trolley car. When the early automobile arrived on the scene, it was called a horseless carriage, a moto-cycle, and even an ipsometer. We have the French Academy of Science to thank for meeting in 1895 and making the name "automobile" the official French word for this new invention that was the talk of European society. Since France was at least a decade ahead of the United States in automobile development, we were forced to use many of their terms such as "chauffeur", for a professional driver; "garage", instead of auto barn; and "chassis", for the automobile frame. The world also adopted the French and English Carriage names for body styles such as landau, Victoria, brougham, sedan, and coupe. We still like horsey names such as dashboard, station wagon, and horsepower.

It took the automotive world a long time to break away from the carriage maker, who built all the bodies for the early autos. They were crafted of wood and leather, the wheels copied from cannon carriages and called "artillery wheels" and were made by skilled wheelwrights in almost the same way carriage and wagon wheels were crafted. About this time, the bicycle makers stepped in and gave us single tube tires, metal tubing framing, and wire spoked wheels. In fact, many of the early cars were developed by companies that first made bicycles---such as Rambler, the Columbia, and the Pierce. Both Columbia and Schwinn, who ventured into the manufacture of horseless carriages, gave up and are still making fine bicycles today.

The word "automobile" is universally recognized and is spelled almost the same way in many European languages---the word "car" is not. But Americans like the word and use it in various forms such as "car wash", "carport" and "car parts". But we know what Junior means if he asks to borrow the "wagon" to go camping or wants to use the car tonight. Would you let him drive away if he asks for the ipsometer? Never!

Americans have enjoyed an eighty-year love affair with the automobile. When the great Depression struck the USA, Will Rogers remarked, "The United States is the only country in the world to drive to the poorhouse in an automobile." Many of the people at that time , hoping to get off the relief rolls, refused to give up their automobiles and stood in bread lines so they could take their Sunday drive to see Aunt Gertrude or Grandma.

We found out during the "20’s" and "30’s" that automobiles are both very good and very bad. Cars killed thousands of people and were used extensively by bank robbers and gangsters, but they also took injured people to the hospital, took young people away from the front parlor loveseat, and provided jobs and businesses for many thousands. They spawned many new enterprises such as drive-ins, motels, shopping plazas, and hundreds of parts and accessories. Yes, that unreliable, smoke-belching, noisy"contraption" at the beginning of this, century has really changed our world. Sorry, Old Dobbin, you are out to pasture forever.

#76

About five years ago, Libby and I were in Scandinavia—a place we dreamed of visiting for many years. On our tours of each of these Nordic countries, I made a mental list of the different automobiles I saw and planned to write about them in this column. However, I decided to table that account and first write about the most interesting experience I had concerning antique automobiles. This occurred in Oslo, Norway near the end of our journey.

I must first explain that for the past ten years, I have been corresponding with a young Norwegian named Oyvind Breen, who was referred to me by a man who also has a Jeffery. Our correspondence revealed that both Mr. Breen and I are owners of a 1917 Jeffery Model 472, which was the last model made by the company to bear the Jeffery name , which gave way to Nash during that production year.

Now I must admit at this point that I was very fortunate to acquire my car in a semi-restored condition. It had first been restored in 1953 by the grandson of the original driver. Nelson Driver was kind enough to drive his car and trailer to Pittsburgh so that I could buy the car from an old friend of mine and bring it back home.

On the other hand, the Jeffery my friend Oyvind found on a farm was truly a "basket case". This vehicle he and his brother found had been licensed until 1935 and then the body and chassis , minus the engine, had been pushed out into a field to rust and rot for about 45 years of Norwegian winters. Meanwhile, the sturdy Jeffery engine had been removed and put back to service as the motive power for some sort of road building machinery. So much for the history of Mr. Breen’s Model 472.

The Breen brothers struck a bargain with the farmer who owned the remains of the car and after picking up the rusted body sections and digging the wheels out of the soil, they found that most of the spokes had rotted almost to the wheel hubs and such vital parts as the steering wheel and steering column, the driveshaft, and some of the gears in the rear end, were missing. This sounds discouraging and downright hopeless, doesn’t it? It would be for many collectors but not for Tor and Oyvind Breen., who incidentally, are identical twins. They began the restoration by making and fitting all the wooden parts of the car body. Since Oyvind is an engineer and Tor is a mechanic, the reconstruction work proceeded quite smoothly, although rather slowly, since these young men spend a lot of their time with their families. Most of the work on the Jeffery is done on weekends.

Oyvind and I met in the lobby of the Hotel Scandinavia using my Jeffery lapel pin as a recognition symbol. Once we met and had shaken hands, I was taken in his aged Datsun to his home about ten miles from the center of town. When we arrived, I really did a "double-take" when I saw his twin brother, Tor. They took me immediately to their little garage where the Jeffery was under construction. They also showed me a beautiful 1924 Model T Ford Touring. This car had also been a basket case and was skillfully put back together over a period of five years. Everything was beautifully done---the upholstery, the top, the engine room, and wheels. I am sure that it would score high at a Hershey meet.

Later, I was shown the Jeffery engine, the radiator shell with a perfect emblem, the fenders, and other parts awaiting restoration. I was told that they had contacted a man in Texas who will send them a steering wheel and steering column in exchange for their detailed drawings of the wooden body parts. I was told that just about all of the missing parts have been located by means of correspondence and those parts still needed will be made by them in their shop.

After the interesting "parts tour", I was escorted to the second floor of their duplex home and introduced to their wives. This was followed by a late snack consisting of coffee and good Norwegian cake and other pastries. At this time, they showed me their scrapbook of photos and specs on the Jeffery car. I was really impressed by the manner in which they have researched this vehicle and realized that my collection of Jeffery material is a bit shabby by comparison.

Needless to say, time passed rapidly and I reluctantly told them that I would have to leave because I would be leaving early the next morning for the airport and the flight home. I must mention that both of these young men spoke excellent English and they understood the names of the different car parts we talked about. They seemed pleased to hear the few sentences of Norwegian I was able to speak as we talked together. Thus ended an interesting visit which made me realize that the love of antique cars is truly international. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could contact a few of the antique car enthusiasts behind the "Iron Curtain"?

Upon our arrival in Denmark, I was prepared to make a detailed observation and report on the self-propelled vehicles which moved the Danes from one place to another. I must admit that I was surprised by the number of non-self-propelled vehicles that could be seen on the streets of Copenhagen. There were hundreds, no thousands, of bicycles being ridden by young, middle-aged, and elderly people everywhere. Most large streets have special sections just for bicycles and at main intersection, there are traffic lights with stylized red, green, and amber bicycles to regulate the flow and safety of the two-wheeled traffic. I would guess that the more Danes ride bicycles than ride in cars. There are several reasons for this: First, almost the whole country is flat as Kansas and the winters are rather mild…much milder than we experience here in Virginia. Second, gasoline is almost three dollars a gallon and automobiles are very expensive since the Danes have not made any internal combustion propelled vehicles since the advent of the Hammel at the turn of the century. It was a frail-looking motor carriage with spidery , high wooden wheels and front-mounted carriage lamps. A few years ago, it was taken out of its place in a museum and it took part in the annual London to Brighton Run in Great Britain in November. How many Hammel’s were produced is not known, but it is a matter of record that no automobiles were produced in Denmark after 1902.

By now the reader will ask, "Well, what kind of cars DO they have in Scandinavia?" the answer is that they do drive quite a few different makes of cars….mostly European, but some Japanese and some from the USA. Most US cars are the small Chevrolets and small Fords(Chevettes, Escorts, etc.) with a few examples of Chrysler products.

I also happened to see a few antique American cars. There was a 1935 Packard 180, several restored ’29, ’30, and ’31 Model A Fords, and several Chevys of the early 50"s. The only other American antiques I noticed were ancient Internationals, John Deeres, and Ford tractors on some of the hundreds of farms we passed while touring in our sightseeing bus. For the enlightenment of the olden days farmers in our club, we noted many fields of barley, wheat, rye, and sugar beets. I should also mention that we saw the source of the famous Plumrose hams of the many pig farms we passed. There were lots of milk cows too, but very few horses.

I also remember seeing quite a few Volvos, Saabs, VW’s, and a few Mercedes. I made a special effort to notice the trucks and buses used in all of the Nordic countries. Volvo led the way followed by Scandia, Mercedes, and a few British Leylands. I don’t believe there were any Russian vehicles on the road. Since tourism is such a business over in Scandinavia, there are probably more buses than there are trucks, and in these small countries a large amount of their goods are moved by rail. In the cities, those who do not cycle, ride the city buses or the tandem trolley cars. This arrangement practically eliminates city traffic jams. Having grown up in a city that had a superb electric streetcar system, I enjoyed seeing those little double trolleys in all the Scandinavian countries including Helsinki, Finland.

At this time, I will jump on my soapbox( for those of you who are under 45, soap used to be shipped in large wooden boxes that were great for standing upon while making a speech or making a home-made racer or a roller skate scooter) and say I really don’t know why the large US cities did away with their trolley systems. Richmond was the first US city to have one in 1885 and they lasted until about 1950. Streetcars were quiet, reasonably fast, comfortable, inexpensive, and absolutely pollution free.

Perhaps, we should turn back the clock and let people once again enjoy the pleasure of the trolley that could take you to the ballgame, an amusement park, or just for a cooling ride on a hot, summer night. It appears that the people of Scandinavia are behind us in transporting people……or …..are they really ahead? I will let you decide for yourself.

#77

Back in the innocent days before World War I, our Vice-president, Thomas Marshall, is reputed to have said, "What this country really needs is a good five-cent cigar." When he spoke those famous words there were plenty of five-cent cigars, but most of them were not very good. However, to make up for the shortage, we did have the penny postcard, the two-cent stamp, the five-cent pack of chewing gum and the twenty-cent gallon of gasoline. Now, I am proposing a list of new ideas that I believe will correct many of our social and economic problems and just about everyone will have a lot more fun. My proposal to get this country on the right track again are the following:

First, scrap all body and engine designs of cars and trucks made after December 7, 1941. In case some of our younger members are wondering why this date was selected, I must hasten to point out that on this date a large number of bombers and fighter planes manufactured by Mitsubishi, Nakajima, and other companies in the "Land of the Rising Sun" dropped bombs and torpedoes on our navy at Pearl Harbor in Hawaii. This resulted in an altercation which lasted about four and a half years and got our country ready to welcome transistor radios, Yamaha motorcycles and pianos, Toyotas, Datsuns, sushi bars, and Japanese class valedictorians at Harvard and VPI.

Second, encourage auto makers to come out with improved Model A Fords—1928 through 1931, Model B’s, The Chevy Master series, the Auburn Beauty sixes, Hudson-Essex Terraplanes, some Packard 120’s, Studebaker Presidents, and perhaps, a revival of the Willys-Knight. A few Duesenbergs would be authorized for selected gangsters and police forces to keep things from getting stale. If you are a former watcher of the "Untouchables", you will understand the necessity for a few very fast and powerful cars being not available to the general public—which is "us".

Third, require all oil companies to restore Ethyl lead to their gasoline and to keep the price to at least four gallons for a dollar and to require all their gas station employees to wear the company uniform(example: the Gulf tan uniform with the orange Gulf logo, the dark green Texaco outfit with the star on the cap and shirt pocket, and the blue and white Esso coveralls worn by young men who always cleaned the windshields and also checked the battery and crankcase oil level if requested). These oil companies would also be required to print and give away free road maps. They would probably still be difficult to re-fold , but what a pleasure to have a pile of them in the glove compartment.

At this point, I would encourage my readers to re-examine my three proposals before I present my fourth, and possibly agree with me that in complete modesty that what I have so far proposed will possibly rank equally with the Monroe Doctrine or the Bill of Rights.

Just imagine some of the pleasures you could experience again---such as sitting in the back seat of a sedan with no floor hump to cramp your feet, the back of the seat cushioning your back and the back of your head, and the smaller rear window preventing the sun from beating down on you as you ride along. You could also enjoy watching the water temperature on a beautiful Motometer attached to a real radiator opening instead of starring at a non-functional plastic doodad held on by a spring. Also, you could enjoy the pleasure of sitting on a wide running board (required for all cars under my proposal) at a picnic or empathize with the patrolman or state trooper who enjoys putting his foot on it while writing out your parking or speeding ticket. With your running board, of course, you could once again attach one of the folding gates and carry camping gear, blocks of ice, or even a sack of fresh vegetables purchased from a country roadside stand.

Another pleasure would be the pleasure of not seeing bearded men in jacked-up pickup trucks with chrome roll-bars festooned with orange lensed spotlights. There would be no traffic jams on weekend evenings because "cruising" would be only something wealthy people did on ships.

Since at this point I would have most of the intelligent people in this country behind me, I would slip in another proposal. Finally: All plazas should be removed and the acres of blacktop shall be dug up and the wonderful soil once again available, shall be converted to community vegetable and flower gardens with shade trees and plenty of park benches on all four sides. Of course, there must be a large bandstand or gazebo in the center for the enjoyment of young and old alike.

Also, all oil-wasting diesel locomotives shall be scrapped to provide material for the new coal-burning steam locomotives with those wonderful steam whistles we haven’t heard in years. All cities with populations greater than 25 thousand shall re-build the trolleys and trolley lines which they destroyed in the period between 1946 and 1957. Air polluting city buses shall be scrapped and recycled for the production of non-polluting electric street cars and high-speed inter-urban electric trolleys which would eliminate Greyhound and Trailways pollution of fresh air in rural areas.

This, all antique car lovers, is my list of ideas for a pollution-free, low-speed move into the 21^st century. If you approve, please honk your ah-ooga horn, plaxon or exhaust whistle the next time you see me. Thanks.

#78

Years ago I learned a phrase: "The best ways of spreading news are telephone, telegraph, or tell a woman." Never having learned the Morse Code and even after three quarters of century not being able to speak with authority of the subject of women, I will settle on the other subject—namely the telephone. But first, I would like to point our that Samuel Finley Breese Morse first became famous for his portraits of famous and wealthy people in miniature and his idea for an electric telegraph did not come to him until he was middle age. Then, when he set up his first telegraph line, he tapped out his first message over the wire, "What hath God wrought!" almost 135 years ago.

Let me introduce another man who planned to spend his entire life teaching the deaf to "sign" their messages with their hands and fingers. It was his search for an electrical device to aid the deaf that led to the invention and development of the telephone. Both he and Morse put together two greek words.."telos" meaning distance and "graphos" meaning writing. Since the telegraph was a household word by the 1870’s, Alexander G. Bell decided to call his invention the telephone, meaning "sound over a distance." Bell and his young partner, Watson, were in different rooms when Bell spilled some kind of acid and reportedly called out , "Mr. Watson! Come here. I need you." It is rather ironic that Miss Hubbard was born deaf and never had a chance to use the telephone her husband patented and first publically demonstrated at the United States Centennial in 1876. Bell recited that famous sentence written by Shakespeare in his play Hamlet. Yes, the first words heard by someone on the other end of the line were , "To be or not to be…that is the question." Could you imagine one woman calling another woman these days by quoting Shakespeare and then hanging up the phone?

Since the telephone was used almost 20 years before the first practical automobile was invented, I like to imagine that Clara Ford turned the little crank on her wall telephone and told one of her friends that husband , Henry, had made a contraption he called a "quadra-cycle" and she held the kerosene lamp while he "cranked ‘er up" one night and "scratched off’ on Bagley Avenue in Detroit for a noisy drive around the dark streets so the neighbors wouldn’t laugh at him or he wouldn’t frighten someone’s horse.

It was inevitable, I suppose, that the telephone and the auto would get together and make it possible to talk to others while you are driving to work. The cellular phone is here to stay and new gadgets are invented to make the phone even more useful or annoying according to how one looks at them.

I have before me a catalog that offers a voice changer that enables you to sound like an adult while still a small child or a woman to sound like a man . It even sets the machine so that it will sound like a different person each time someone calls. It is recommended for ladies who live alone or for "latch key" kids who have to come home from school and be in the house by themselves. This telephone voice changer is also recommended for the office to screen calls by making the caller think that the boss has several secretaries when the person answering the phone is the boss himself. The device is a steal at $349.00. If you think someone is tapping your telephone you can buy a device that will tell you, and also "switches to mode three" (whatever that is ) and it can be yours for just $199.00. What is this world coming to these days?

During the 20^th century, a number of popular songs have been written about this wonder machine ----among which are "All Alone by the Telephone", "Hello Central, give me my Daddy in No Man’s Land", ( A World War I tear jerker) and "I had to call you up this morning, because I couldn’t sleep a wink last night."

In 1941 when the house I live in was built, the only service available , was a party line shared by 10 other families and I had to learn how to call the Staunton operator by cranking out the number assigned me. I don’t remember whether it was 2 shorts and one long or the other way around, but I had moved here from Pittsburgh where we had dial phone service since I was a small boy, and listening for our special ring took a while. I remember that I soon knew the rings of other parties on the line and a t 10 AM, this one lady called her daughter to give her all the town gossip and tell what meals she had planned for the day. Often when I picked up the phone, there was no sound because a love-sick high school boy was trying to think of something to tell the young lady on the other end of the line. I could hear heavy breathing and the hall clock striking the hour so I would usually say, "I need to use this phone. Will you please hang up soon?" Sometimes this request was ignored and I would try about every 5 minutes until they would hang up.

I sometimes think that wasn’t as bad as calling someone today and then hearing a voice say, "This is Fred but I can’t come to the phone just now. When you hear the beep, please leave your name, telephone number, and reason for calling. I’ll return your call as soon as possible." Sometimes I just hang up but often I give in and feel like a fool talking to a machine. I guess that all of us get calls at an inconvenient time from people who think 4 rings is long enough or a call from some little first grader, but that goes with the ownership of a telephone. Those things I can endure, but I really go into orbit when someone calls up and I am greeted with "Who is this?". I reply by asking, "Whom did you want and who are you?" Now, the worst kind of calls are those made right at suppertime from people who want me to change to Sprint, buy new all aluminum windows , or sponsor two kids to mud bog wrestling at Expo. I wish someone would call and say that they were going to give me a 1916 Pierce-Arrow or will sell me a Mercer or a Stutz Bearcat for 300 dollars if I will drive to Alexandria, Virginia and pick it up. If any of my readers want to call and talk about steam locomotives, antique fire arms or old cars, I’ll listen. You can count on it.

#

79

As the motorist of the 1980’s speeds down the highways, he hardly glances at the huge billboards that dot the landscape every few hundred yards. If someone were to ask you to list the messages on the signs on a ten mile strip that you might drive every day, you could probably draw almost a complete blank. Why is this so? The answer is that we become used to road signs and they become just a part of the landscape along with the trees, fields, and houses. However, this was not the case a century ago. In those days, signs or advertisements were few and far between. The road signs were usually small and placed by private individuals or small towns to let the driver of the horses know that there was a watering trough around the next bend or that Podunkville was about five miles away.

The first commercial signs were those found tacked or painted on the beams or the sides of covered bridges. They extolled the virtues of Dr. Hitchcock’s Bitters, Fletcher’s Castorioa, Lydia Pinkham’s Remedy, or Carter’s Little Liver Pills. At wagon speed, these signs were hard to miss or ignore and in the state of Pennsylvania where I was born, there were over a thousand covered bridges and there are still more than four hundred of these still standing. The old signs are still there but their paint has faded or disappeared and they remain a mute reminder of a slower-paced life in our past.

The next location of outdoor signs was on barns and large sheds. At first they were located mostly on barns near railroad tracks to catch the eyes of the train passengers, but with the coming of the automobile, the barns facing the road told the motorist to "Chew Mail Pouch Tobacco", "Smoke Bull Durham", or "Use 666 for Colds and Fever."

As I rode with my family in the old Marmon Touring car through the mountains and valleys of the Lincoln Highway, I remember the signs which read, "Welcome to Marysville---Drive Slow and See Our Town----Drive Fast and See Our Jail." I also remember the series of signs along the road as it wound up the long curves ascending the mountains near the Poconos which told us , "Thirsty? Cheer Up, Only 15 Miles to Bill’s Place."….."Check Your Gas Tank and Fill Up at Bill’s Place. Just Five Miles Ahead." And finally, "You Made It! This is Bill’s Place."

Yes, there was such a place as Bill’s Place and they had all they promised plus a zoo which offered such attractions as Missouri Red Bats (they were a pile of red bricks), a monkey in a well ( a mirror in which you saw your own face), and several other humorous attractions. I am sure that anyone over fifty, remembers the Burma- Shave signs. Each one was red with white letters and they were placed just far enough apart that the motorist or his non-shaving children could read the whole jingle. I remember one that warned us to "Give the guy the toe of your boot who tries to offer a substitute for BURMA SHAVE." My sister and I also had fun reading the ones on the other side of the road backwards. Those were the days! The modern high speed highways spelled the doom of Burma-Shave signs because the signs had to be placed farther and farther apart and they were considered to be corny by a more sophisticated driver of the 40’s and 50’s.

Now, if we bother to look, we are bombarded with the virtues of chain saws, hamburger palaces, Honest George for the House of Delegates, and the new Belchfire 6 for 1987. When I lived in California, I remember the signs were used as hiding places for the motorcycle cops-- who sprang out in hot pursuit of the speeding motorist. Today, the only creatures who appreciate them are the cows and horses who enjoy the shade they make on a hot, summer day. But then, perhaps, they can read them just as their ancestors did when approaching a covered bridge. It looks as though we are back where we started.

#80

One of the most important parts of our automobiles are the tires. Yet, we almost take them for granted , unless they become flat or just about worn out. It is interesting to note that at the turn of the century, the few autos on the road had either solid rubber tires or modified bicycle tires with no tread whatsoever. It took almost a decade for auto makers to realize that smooth tires would not grip the road or stop the vehicle when the brakes were applied on a rain soaked city street. They were using carriage or bicycle tires on vehicles that needed tremendous thrust from the rear wheels to propel them at speeds impossible from horses or human legs.

I have ads in my collection showing Firestone carriage tires and at the bottom a reference that the company also made tires for automobiles. In a word, automobile tires were expensive, poorly designed, and highly un-reliable.

In England and particularly France, where they had been building automobiles since the late 1880’s, the tires were of much better design and construction. The Dunlop company was founded by a man who built the first pneumatic tires for a wheel chair for his invalid son. Over in France, Edward Michelin was building fine tires and created the company’s famous trademark when he saw a stack of tires at the Lyons Exhibition in 1898. This stack of tires looked like a human form and he hired an artist to make some sketches. One of the drawings depicted a rotund beer drinker who, lifting his glass, shouted, "NUNC EST BIBENDUM", which translated in Latin meant, "now is the time to drink." Thus, a famous trademark---Mr. Bib was born.

I remember Bib on road signs wearing a cap and motorists goggles with a sign on top telling how far it was to the next town. In those days, his body was made up of about 16 thin tires. Today, he still wears goggles but his torso consists of only 3 fat, white tires and, of course, since he has become a television star, Michelin tires are well known and well liked by still another generation.

Once in a while, we may still see a long time American tire ad…the little boy with his candlestick, his yawn, and a Fisk tire over his shoulder. The tire is a lot fatter, but the boy in his Denton pajamas and the slogan, "It’s time to retire." will still bring a smile to a grandfather’s face.

The only other tire commercials that made an impression on me as a youngster were those of Kelly-Springfield. These were sketches that showed well-heeled young men and women stopping their Stutzes, Cadillacs, or Rolls Royce’s to remark to some unfortunate motorist that they should have bought Kelly-Springfield’s. I don’t remember any of them helping the other fellow change his tire or fixing his flat. They just stopped long enough to brag about their tires and to make the other fellow feel stupid. I don’t know whether this type of advertising would be accepted today but the public must have liked them because they are still buying Kellys.

Today’s tire-makers have expanded their horizons to include such useful everyday things as bicycles, lawn mowers, garden tractors, and go carts. The civilized world rolls on rubber and without it we would still be moving goods on land by oxcarts and pack mules. Yes, tires have improved as fast as the vehicles they are put on. I am sure that we wouldn’t be very happy with our antique cars if we had to use the tires that were used on them when they were made. Antique tires are expensive and occasionally hard to get, but what an asset they are to our hobby! It seems ironic that most of the tires for antique vehicles are made in such places as India, Taiwan, or Brazil where the average inhabitant does not own an automobile and must move about by walking, by bicycle, or beast of burden.

All I can say is, "Keep that Kelly-Springfield on your shoulder, little boy, and keep rolling that Michelin down the hill, Mr. Bib."

#81

Why does a person buy an old car---own an old car---restore an old car? The answers to these questions might vary a bit, but the underlying reason, I believe, is nostalgia. Buying an antique automobile is usually a considerable expense. Restoring it may take years of work, months of research, and the outlay of more cash than anticipated, but the complaints of the owner will be few. Why is this so?

If the owner of an antique car buys a new Belchfire Six and pays the same amount he had invested in his restored "pride and joy", he expects it to run perfectly, economically, and trouble free. If the new car guzzles too much gas or needs frequent trips to the repair shop, he will tell anyone who will listen that he bought a ‘real lemon.’ Does he spend hours paging through a CLINTON"S REPAIR MANUAL and more hours tinkering with the engine? Absolutely not! That would be a lot of work and no fun at all. In his opinion, the dealer should make the repairs or the manufacturer should honor the warranty.

If we would go back in time about thirty, forty, or even fifty years, we might find that the original owner of our antique felt exactly the same way. He had troubles with his new automobile and he expected the dealer or manufacturer to make good on their slogan such as "the car without a worry", "built to last a lifetime", or "When better cars are built------will build them." If we went back in time another decade or two, we would probably find that the owners of these "Brass era" cars had frequent mechanical problems with their primitive vehicles. In many cases replacement parts were not available because the manufacturer of their vehicle had gone out of business. In situations such as this, many car owners gave up and pushed the *&^%$#@ contraption into an empty horse stall and left it there to rust, to gather dust, and be almost forgotten. And that---my dear fellow antique cars collector, is the reason it was there waiting for US!

A good example of this type of happening would be the story of my 1906 Wayne. I do not know how the little runabout got to Staunton from Detroit, but I do have the letter from the man who first owned it to the second owner telling him how much he should get from the person who eventually purchased it as the third time in 1912.The Wayne Automobile Company went out of business in 1909, making the model H an orphan car.

After driving the Wayne over the rough, muddy roads between Sherando and Stuarts Draft for about six months, the primitive crank shaft broke and the owner took the engine and the transmission apart to see what the trouble was. I have a letter from the company that was handling replacement parts for broken down Waynes. The price for a new crankshaft was twenty-five dollars and connecting rods were ten dollars a piece. Apparently, this price was too steep for the unhappy owner who dumped the broken parts into boxes, pushed the little care into an empty cow stall and ignored it for the next thirty-eight years. It was at this point I arrived on the scene and decided that I just had to have that rusting, mouldering piece of ancient machinery.

All that remained to be done was the writing of a check stating it was for a "junk car", sawing off the back of the small barn, and loading it onto an old stake truck with the help of several friends. I might mention that the truck broke down enroute to my home and I had to tow it the rest of the way with my Jeep.

The scene that followed is, I am sure, familiar to most of you who have purchased rusty, four-wheeled treasures. The dear wife remarked that she hoped I didn’t pay much for that pile of rust and that it never could be made to run. The children had doubts about Daddy’s sanity. The neighbors didn’t even know about the car because I was a bit ashamed to tell them. At that time, my oldest son was 10 and the rest followed two year age differences down to my daughter-expected, but not quite on the scene. Because of this, I received most of my inspiration and help from Jeff Diffee and Mike Williams who displayed their mechanical genius and were mainly responsible for bringing the Wayne back to life.

The fact that this little car has been running rather well since 1951, is a tribute to their interest, help, and know-how.

Well, back to my beginning statement. The thing that makes a restoration worthwhile is nostalgia. Those of us who were born years after the early days of motoring, can experience for ourselves the sounds, the smells, and the problems of those early pioneer drivers without the dust, mud, and tire trouble that plagued them all. I rather like the smell of boiling radiators, burning brake linings, and hot oil. And for that reason, when people come up to me and ask, "Do you want to sell it?" or "You sure are lucky to find a car in such good shape," I just smile and say that the car isn’t for sale---it is just my hobby. I’ll bet most of you say the same thing. That is what the antique car hobby is all about.

#82

Most people in the United States look forward to late spring and summer for numerous reasons and rightly so. For many it is the pleasure of working with plants in a flower or vegetable garden, for many others it means vacations trips to see new sights, or to visit friends and relatives. Then many people, both young and old, can hardly wait for the baseball season or the seemingly endless number of lawn parties, firemans’ parades, and fairs of all kinds that seem to be held on fairgrounds that sit idle and unnoticed most of the year and then spring to life with bright lights, contests of all kinds, ferris wheels, and pony rides. Of course, the most important activity of this time of year is the endless number of antique auto meets that are held somewhere in the USA every weekend from late March until the snow begins.

There is yet another sure sign of summer that can be detected by nose rather than the ear or the eye. It is the outdoor cook-out; the barbequeing of chickens and ribs, the grilling of steaks, hotdogs or hamburgers by countless amateur chefs throughout every neighborhood.

When I was a child living in a suburb of Pittsburgh, the signs of coming summer were; the big striped awnings on the south and west facing windows of the big, old houses on my street and the weekly appearance of the Italian vendors of cherries and strawberries along with the arrival of the organ grinder with his clever monkey. The monkey, I remember, wore a green, short-sleeved and short-panted suit and a cap with a little leather chin strap. The cap was always quickly doffed in a quaint kind of salute after he took the penny or nickel in his little black hand and dropped it in his coat pocket. If the man with the grind organ gave the monkey’s long chain a jerk, he would also do a backward somersault to the delight of the children crowded around and another offering of coins would follow. I suppose that the SPCA would not allow such things today or some group promoting the civil liberties of apes and simians would have the man arrested on the spot. So be it. I’m glad that I was a kid when life wasn’t quite so complicated.

I will always treasure the memory of my Uncle Tom’s front porch in the summer when school was out. All of a sudden, it seemed, the wicker chairs were brought out, the rug was laid down, the big green awnings were installed, and the big porch swing was attached by its chains to the giant hooks on the porch ceiling. Some of the indoor plants were place on the top of the short, solid wooden walls that enclosed most of the porch.

Even on a sunny, hot day the porch seemed to be cool and shady and quiet. In short, it was what I would call "cozy". What a wonderful feeling it was to stretch out on the padded swing. It often became an airplane or a dirigible with "you know who" as the dauntless pilot. With my small blonde head on the pillow, I could listen to the birds singing in the nearby trees and the steady clip-clop of a horse pulling a rubber-tired wagon on the street out front. Depending on the day of the week, it could be the Haller Bread man, the Polar Ice wagon, or the United Parcel Service. If the clopping sound was louder and the wagon sounds were of metal tires, it would signify that someone was getting a load of driveway limestone gravel or a load of coal at summer rates from Keller Brothers, who maintained a stable of eight, beautiful Clydesdales at their rail spur , near the main line of the Pennsylvania Railroad , that cut our beautiful little town into two sections.

Now and then, I might hear the sound of the delivery trucks from Horne’s, Gimbels, Kaufman’s , or Boggs and Buhl’s department stores located in the downtown area. These stores used either early Reo Speed Wagons or those beautiful but top-heavy "cab-over" autocars with their big balloon tires and exhaust whistles that always seemed to catch me by surprise and cause me to jump ever so slightly.

Now I must admit, that passenger autos passed quite often, too, but they went by so swiftly (probably at 30 mph) that I could not enjoy their sound on the warm summer air. The only creature that could be more relaxed than I, was would have to be Garfield, the cat.

The only occasion that could top this great feeling was sitting with the grown-ups in the big wicker chairs watching the fireflies begin their evening show as we talked and ate home-made strawberry ice cream and sponge cake.

In recent years, I have passed by Uncle Tom’s old house, which someone has "modernized" by installing windows that stretch from the second floor to the first and removing that wonderful front porch. Yes, the porch has been physically removed, but in my mind it will always be there; the swing will be moving slowly back and forth, there will be the sound of low voices and outbursts of laughter. A car will pass in the twilight and the driver will lightly toot his horn and wave. Those were times that are forever gone-- but fondly remembered by those of use who grew up in the "twenties."

#83

Putting the obvious physical difference aside, it is still quite easy to distinguish a man from a woman. Even accepting the fact that there are still many long-haired men and their flat –chested women companions who wear blue jeans with their short hair---it is till very simple to spot the male member of the species. How? Well, to begin with, he will have a wallet that bulges—not necessarily with money but with identification cards. If the male is forty or over, he will have cards that certify him as a Ruritan, a Rotarian, an Elk, a Lion, a Moose, or perhaps a Mason in good standing. In addition, one might notice a lapel pin, a tie bar, or even a ring that sets that person apart from an ordinary man. If you notice any of these insignia and comment about them, he will surely start a short oration extolling the merits of that particular club or fraternal organization, whether you wish to hear it or not.

At this point, those who read this monthly column might well ask,"What has all this to do with antique cars?" I am glad that you have asked me that question. Now picture yourself at a Tri-County Meet, an Old Dominion Meet, an annual meeting in Philadelphia, or even a rain-swept muddy flea market street in Hershey.

You sit beside, are introduced to, or perhaps bump into, a man between the age of 20 to 90. You foolishly ask him if he is an antique car "nut" or enthusiast. If you were planning a quiet half hour to yourself, you should have noticed his AACA pin, his shirt covered with antique cars, his club name tag, or even the faint traces of black grease under his fingernails. You should have only remarked, "Nice day, isn’t it?" but you didn’t. Now you are trapped and it will be a one-way conversation unless you are well prepared with photos from your wallet showing the front, side, back, and engine room of your favorite antique. Otherwise you are going to have to listen to a monologue on the finding of this fabulous 1926 Chevrolet, the haggling with the original owner, the five-year restoration struggle, the narrow escape from a divorce court proceeding, and the final 48 hours without sleep to make the Hershey meet deadline.

Let us be frank about this. You love every minute of the encounter and you are waiting for the exact moment when you can say, "That’s really great and let me tell you about my Auburn. I had passed this old barn for about ten years and one day I decided to stop and see what might be inside. Well, I pulled open the old creaking door, brushed aside the cobwebs, and there….." Now you have the other fellow hooked. He will listen in reverence to you every word as you describe all the beautiful details of your discovery.

Yes, this is what makes the hobby interesting. It is meeting new people, swapping tall stories, showing snapshots, and reminiscing about days when automobiles and life in general was much simpler.

Perhaps, this is the appropriate spot to throw out a word of caution. When you are about to engage a fellow enthusiast in antique car conversation, take time to look at his coat lapel or his necktie. If you see logos such as Bentley Driver, Rolls-Royce Club, Bugatti Owner, or Duesenberg Owner, you might be getting in over your head. These persons will start to tell you about their ten-year search for a genuine Silver Ghost that took them to England and across half the continent of Europe and how they finally talked Count Lottabucks out of his ancestral 1913 Rolls-Royce. The best way to make an exit out of this situation is to look at your wristwatch and say that you are late to talk with a club member who had a 1933 dual cowl Packard for sale.

Speaking for myself, I even begin to perspire under the collar when I stumble upon a conversation between Packard, Pierce-Arrow, or Cadillac owners. I am quite interested but I haven’t one word to say. Now, if I find a group talking enthusiastically about Model T or Model A Fords, I might enter into the conversation. Perhaps someone might like to hear about the 1957 Glidden Tour that my son Jerry and I took from Roanoke to Williamsburg and then to Washington, DC and Hershey in our 1919 Model T.

But let’s face it. How many times does someone ask a person about the 1957 Glidden Tour? Not very often. And again, how many times does someone want to know about a Wayne or a Jeffery? Well, let me tell you about both of them. It started back in 1950 when I drove out to a place near Sherando. I talked to an old man who said he had an old car in his cow shed that a lot of people looked at, but didn’t give him a good offer. Well, I saw that old vehicle covered with dust and rust…a real basket case and decided then and there that I had to have it and…….then……………………

#84

Editors Note: This months column (May 1988) details the early history of the Old Dominion Meet as well as some early history of the Waynesboro-Staunton Region. Since John Brown was not only a founding member of the Waynesboro-Staunton Region, but also, the Old Dominion Meet, we thought it appropriate to print this early history in conjunction with the 35^th Old Dominion Meet to be sponsored by our region in Timberville on May 21…….

The Waynesboro-Staunton Region

And

The Old Dominion Meet

In the fall of 1949, the Antique Automobile Club of America brought the Glidden Tour to Virginia. The write-ups in the newspapers kindled the interest of John A. Brown who drove to Luray to see the cars arrive at the Mimslyn Hotel. It was here that he met William Swigart, Leslie Henry, and M.J. Duryea. Mr. Brown applied for membership in the National organization at that time.

In late December of 1949, Mr. Brown recruited new members by personal calls and letters throughout the state. By April 14, 1950, other enthusiasts had registered so that a new region could be formed.

The first organizational meeting was held at a dinner meeting in a small dining room at the General Wayne Hotel on April 18, 1950. John Brown was elected Regional Director at that meeting.

During the summer months, the new region grew in size and was at that time, the only Antique Automobile Region in Virginia and in the entire South. In the fall of 1951, the National Club held its Glidden Tour in Pennsylvania. Club members John Brown and the late Hyde Kerr drove to Pittsburgh for the kick-off banquet held at the Webster Hall Hotel. At this dinner, Miles Amich of the Allegheny Mountain Region and John Brown discussed the possibility of holding an inter-regional meet the next Spring. The plans for such a meet took shape and in May 1952, the Tri-Region Meet was held at the airport racetrack in Winchester, Virginia. The three regions represented were: Alleghany Mountain, National Capitol, and Waynesboro-Staunton.

During the summer, the Waynesboro-Staunton Region had a number of outings to various sites in and near Waynesboro and Staunton. Hamilton Crockford, special feature writer for the Richmond Times-Dispatch, covered the activities and published an article with pictures in the paper. This article created interest in Richmond and in 1953, the newly formed Richmond Region was invited to join the Tri- Region planning group. The Alleghany Mountain Region withdrew from the organization and the Richmond Region offered to host the Tri-Region meet in May as had been previously held in 1952. It was at this meeting in Richmond that the name "Old Dominion Meet" was suggested by club presidents , Dave Garriques and John Brown. The name was adopted as the official name of the meet and all future meetings held in rotation by existing clubs or newly formed regions within the state were to carry this name. The second Old Dominion Meet was held in Waynesboro in May of 1954 with about 80 cars registered.

So here we are---35 years later—nearly a dozen regions joining together in a great Virginia tradition. Tri-county is proud to be the host of the 35^th Old Dominion Meet in Timberville, continuing this proud tradition and, most of all, appreciative of John A. Brown , who has made so many significant contributions to the antique car hobby and to the Old Dominion Meet.

#85

I was curious about words like "garret" and "attic" and found that the first word is of Germanic origin and the second is of Greek derivation. Both of these words mean a place just under the roof, so even if you live in a one story house, you have an attic or a garret over your head. However, these words conjure up memories and scenes of my childhood, where I lived in two large three- story houses. The first house belonged to my Uncle Tom Brown and was my home for most of the first eight years of my childhood. The attic at Uncle Tom’s consisted of three large and one small room.

All three of the large rooms had fireplaces of a design unique to a house built in Pittsburgh at the turn of this century. They were constructed of cast iron and covered with asbestos. Gas was forced through hundreds of small holes in the cast iron front and when lighted, flamed up and down across the asbestos, making a fascinating pattern of light and warmth. I have given a lengthy description of these fireplaces because in cold weather, they were always lit by my mother or Sudie, the lady who was my bachelor uncle’s housekeeper, when my sister and I were permitted to "go up to the attic and play."

I should explain at this juncture, that all of these attic rooms had both electric and gas light fixtures . They were also wallpapered, because they were originally designed rooms for housemaids. In the hallway at the top of the stairs, one could see a small wooden box on the wall. The box, constructed of golden oak, was covered with glass and contained a black dial with a brass arrow which pointed to "1" or "2". The numbers referred to the maids, who, I presume, were given one number or the other and when someone on the first floor or second floor pushed a similar box , this caused a buzzer to ring in the attic and the arrow would point to 1 or 2. We used to have fun using this unique gadget that would probably baffle our sophisticated grandchildren these days.

In the warmer months, we would play in the east attic room, which had two large windows, a gas fireplace that was seldom lighted, a well-worn carpet, a lot of interesting books, my grandmother’s old hearing aid, trumpets, our cousin Ed Culbertson’s WWI uniform, and numerous other exciting things.

The large middle room was always rather dark and somewhat scary . This was because the largest piece of furniture was a large high-back bed loaded with mysterious boxes and covered with a white sheet, There was also a small closet full of mysterious articles of clothing on hangers covered with dust covers. If you add to these facts that we learned that both of our grandparents died in the old covered bed many years before we were born, you can appreciate the fact that we never played there and always passed through it as quickly as possible.

Yet, as frightening as this room was, it contained several family heirlooms, which I used to enjoy staring at and now have in my own home. They were namely a large Regina music box, a unique Victorian coal scuttle, and several family portraits. These days we play the music box which stayed silent for decades and we use the scuttle to shovel the ashes from our living room during the winter. So , we use and enjoy these things that sat unused and dusty in my uncle’s attic.

The other large room was bright and cheerful on sunny days and cozy with the gas stove in the winter. Here, we played with beautiful wooden blocks that fit into their own wooden cart, my sister’s dolls and tea party dishes, wooden circus animals, some cast iron trucks, and tin soldiers. We spent many happy hours in that attic and in the attic of our own house, which we moved into when I was nine years old.

Lastly, I remember the little room, which was always referred to as the "trunk room." It was unheated and partially filled with old trunks and suitcases. Many of these were covered with colorful labels depicting scenes of faraway European cities and scenery. Each of these labels contained the name of a hotel with an exotic name such as Grand Central, Schweitzerhoff, Grand Imperial, Queen Victoria, or Charing Cross. My sister used to fantasize about those places depicted on those labels, never dreaming that we would visit many of those identical places and even stay in those some hotels a decade later.

The other part of the room was filled with stacked magazines, which were of little interest to us at that time. But many years later, I glanced through these magazines after attending my uncle’s funeral service and discovered that most of these periodicals were a complete collection of "Country Life in America" from 1904 to 1922. What was so special about these magazines? Well, they had dozens---no, hundreds---of illustrated ads of early American Automobiles such as Winton, Packard, Reo, Locomobile, Ford, and Stoddard-Dayton.

To put it briefly, I was hooked on antique cars! I had caught the fever and my life was not quite the same again. I made old car scrapbooks, car models, and read articles about this new hobby. I wrote to men who owned antique cars and even went to see some of them. Result? In 1950, I helped gather a group of car nuts like myself and the Waynesboro-Staunton Region AACA was born. Yes……it all began in my uncle’s attic.

#86

April 1991

Editor's note:

On Friday, April 5, John Brown died. John has contributed his column to Clutch Clatter for many years and his recollections of his life filled with the joys of automobiling will be missed. This column is the last column written by John. We will occasionally be re-printing some of John’s earlier columns as well as printing a few columns that have been written in the past, but have not appeared in the newsletter. We sincerely appreciate all that John has done for the antique car hobby and this column will serve as a lasting memorial to his love for antique cars and his love for people associated with antique cars……

With a few exceptions, an open-type antique automobile will bring a much higher price than a closed model because a buyer is willing to pay twice or three times as much for it. Why is that? To begin with, except for the early pioneer or brass era car, the closed sedan, a coupe and tudor began to replace rather rapidly the touring car of the post World War I era. With the closed body, a manifold or other type of heater was developed and the family car could go more places, go for longer trips, and would not have to be put "up on jacks" in the garage or barn. I believe it was the Essex which changed America’s idea of what a comfortable , closed car was "all about." The 1923 or 1924 Essex sedan, although "boxey" and rather drab was inexpensive and reliable and sold well for a period of time and was copied and improved upon by many US car makers.

My childhood memories of family cars remind me that our first closed vehicle was a 1921 Studebaker, which my father bought from his brother Tom ,because after purchasing the new car and having a professional driver teach him to operate it, Tom decided that at 55 years old, he was too old to learn to drive. He had the car put up on jacks in his garage for over a year. I must admit that I did like the floor heater in the back which captured a small amount of heat from the hot exhaust manifold and made the lap robes un-necessary except in zero weather. But, otherwise, I felt sort of "trapped" and had to get parental permission to roll down a window.

Dad soon felt the same way and he bought a 1923 Model 34 Marmon Six of which I have written about several times. It was roomy, comfortable, and could really move fast on the open roads. A couple of years later my mother, who was always uncomfortable riding in chilly weather, persuaded Dad to buy the infamous Chandler Opera Coupe which, because of my youthful carelessness, caused my father to knock me down and stall the car with the front wheel on my nine year old chest.

After that incident, Dad continued to drive to work in the Marmon and use the Chandler to take Mother to Church or to visit relatives in the late fall and winter. I could hardly wait for summer so we could take our trips in the Marmon. Once again I could lean out of the seat in front and pretend that I was an engineer or an airplane pilot. What fun it was to smell the newly-mown hay, the buckwheat fields in blossom, the bakeries, the fresh tar being put down on a new road, the hot sun on a pine forest, or even just the exciting odors that greeted my nose as we drove through a stretch of woodlands on a rainy day!

What a shock it was in late 1928 to learn that Dad had sold the Marmon and bought a 1928 Jordan Sedan from a relative who had the Jordan franchise. I don’t know whether it was all in my mind, but as I entered the puberty stage, now called "teenage" I almost always became "car sick" and many sudden stops had to be made on my behalf which were both embarrassing and annoying to the rest of the family. As I recall, it took me almost two years to become used to riding in that Jordan and then Dad bought another one—a 1930 "Airline Eight." He hired an elderly man who doubled as chauffeur and handy man for my mother who did not drive. Dad loved the new Jordan and we took trips in it for several years until his death in 1933.

The Great Depression suddenly came upon all of us, so at age 16 I received a driver’s license. We had to let our handy-man go and I became the family driver since my sister Adele was away at college. The 1928 Jordan was sold to a wealthy man who wanted it as a gift for his chauffeur! Now it was my turn to take Mother to the grocer’s, the bakery, the butcher shop, the fruit market, or to visit relatives. It would be quite amusing to the young people of present if I told them that I was not permitted to take the car for a date, a drive around town ( known in recent years as crusin’), or even drive to the nearby town of Wilkinsburg to see a Saturday afternoon movie. Mother believed that a "Shank’s Mare" (walking) was the best way for young people to get from point A to point B.

The big moment in my life came when I was allowed to pick up my date for the Junior Prom and sty out until 1AM. Quite a thrill even though my prom date ducked away from a good night kiss! Incidentally, when we meet at our class reunions every five years, we still have a good laugh about that.

In July 1934, I drove my mother, my sister, and a friend of the family to the "Century of Progress" World Fair in Chicago and back in the Jordan. It still looked good with its tan body and crimson wheels and we didn’t have any car trouble on our thousand mile round trip. I soon talked Mother into trading the Jordan in on a beautiful 1934 Dodge Sedan. Mother passed away a few months later and my sister used it to drive to work. Soon afterwards, I bought my very first car---a 1930 Model A Coupe which was like the one I now own and that cars that followed were also closed cars. It was only when I had a chance to buy a 1928 Model A Touring for $60 that I found out again the pleasures of fresh air driving. It became my second car during the War years and was used for hauling kids, rocks, hay, and other things expected of a pick up truck. Yes, after nine years I foolishly sold it for $175 to a Fishburne cadet. Well, as the wise Romans once said EXPERIENTIA DOCET---Experience teaches. Today, I can still recapture the experiences of my youth when I take the Jeffery out in warm weather. Now, however, the smells are usually the horrible fumes given off by GM cars with their catalytic converters, diesel truck smoke, dead skunks, and a kind of burned grease aroma from fast food establishments. No, it isn’t quite the same but it is still fun.

Apparently, a lot of new car buyers feel the same way because the convertible is once again rolling off the assembly lines in Detroit and in foreign countries. Don’t be surprised if you see an electric convertible in dealer showrooms in a very few years. If I’m still around, I will be one of their first customers, believe me!

Recipes…

CHILI CON CARNE

This is a recipe I developed myself which seems to suit my family. It is not a hot chili and would probably be banned in Texas

1 46 fluid oz. can tomato juice

1 qt. canned tomatoes

1 16 oz. can red beans or kidney beans

11/2 lbs. ground beef

½ tsp. ground cloves

1 tsp. chili powder

1/3 cup sugar

2 medium size onions

2 medium green peppers

½ tsp. black pepper

½ tsp. salt

1 TBS. butter or margarine

Melt shortening in a large frying pan. Dice onions and cook at medium high heat. Add peppers and continuing stirring onions. Add ground beef and mix with onions. Drain. Add can of tomatoes and continue mixing. Add tomato juice. Sprinkle in ground cloves and chili powder. Mix in the sugar, salt, and ground pepper. Reduce heat to medium low and cover pan and cook for an hour. Add beans to chili about 5 minutes before serving. Serves 6-8 persons.

GERMAN STYLE LENTIL SOUP

(Like a stew)

1 lb. pkg. dry lentils

1 small onion

1 medium potato

1 lb. Hot dogs

1 small ham hock

1 TBS. salt

1 tsp. black pepper

1 small stalk celery

Empty lentils into 2 Qt. saucepan and pick out stray seeds of grain which are usually present in lentil pkgs. Wash lentils with water and rinse. Cover with water. Add salt and ham hock. Allow lentils to stand for 2-3 hours. Add 11/2 qts. water and place on stove over high heat until mixture come to a boil. Add onions and celery which has been diced and cook on medium heat, stirring occasionally. While soup is cooking, dice the potato and cut hotdogs into slices about 1’4 inch thick. Set potatoes and hotdogs aside. When soup begins to thicken slightly, add diced potatoes ½ hour before serving and hotdogs 5 minutes before serving. Remove ham hock. Serves 6-8.

If time is a factor, lentils and ingredients may be place in a pressure cooker at 5lbs. pressure for 1 hour. When lid is removed, add hotdogs 5 minutes before serving