Hello, Girls!

"Would you like to make a non-slip tie rack? In that case put a couple of cup hooks on the back of the closet door and stretch a rubber band between them, one that's about an inch wide, and your husband's ties won't slip. Now if only you could be as sure of your husband ..."

It was yet another sundry household hint, served up with a side of sarcasm by Allen Prescott, 'The Wife Saver'---a daytime fifteen minute radio show that ran for most of the 1930s on the NBC-Blue Network. In a wilderness of sobbing soap operas and matronly home economists, his was a voice unique: a man that didn't feed off the fears of housewives or speak of them as ladies as they toiled over the washtub.  They were just the girls.  Sure, such a greeting today is cringe-worthy unless delivered in clear camp mode, but in the context of the times such a salutation was also an invitation to step back from the daily household grind and muse doesn't this job stink just a little?

And, perhaps, a very few of the girls understood just what kind of man Prescott was.

Hello, girls!

Radio was just as good as Hollywood in making up stories, yet the ever-pending-disaster situation that was live broadcasting was fertile ground for one-in-a-million chances and freak successes.  It could be true that Prescott pestered his boss so much for a coveted newsman slot that the boss stuck him with the job of dispensing household advice. It could also be nothing less than a personal insult from his boss.  Whatever his beginnings, Prescott performed a perfect I'll show you.

And show them he did.  The radio industry didn't understand the success of 'The Wife Saver', or at least pretended not to. The men that ran that industry and the sponsors that paid for it all never asked women their opinion of it, even if the show was resolutely broadcast to them.  Daytime radio tread a very fine line in trying not to offend anyone's sensibilities, however archaic or male-centric.  Women were not to be too distracted from their household duties, so their entertainment was best if it was musical, instructional or inspirational in a soapy kind of way.  Comedy was too distracting or even subversive---and besides, no one ever studied what women thought was funny anyway.  The only judge of success was fan mail and, into the later 1930s, ratings.

When pressed, the radio industry thought the success of 'The Wife Saver' was based on the very idea of a bachelor telling women how to run their household.  Could anything be more ridiculously funny?  After all, of the other very few forays into daytime comedy, such as 'Sisters of the Skillet', the men were always mocking the household hints genre and those who queened over it.  However, Prescott  publicized the anger, frustration, and boredom of the nation's housewives with knowing asides.  For example, when he suggested that women find a new way to do an old household chore, he claimed that doing so would "leave you wide open to find something else you'd rather not do".

 Prescott presides over a male fantasy of housewifery. 

Unsurprisingly, Prescott's sense of humor required manhandling by publicity.  In his initial splash of national success, he was photographed with scantily clad 'housewives' while posing with a string mop like a demonic Roman orator.   This is how radio brass and the sponsors wanted to imagine the girls he endlessly addressed on the air, and by inference, project the idea of him as a crazy straight man.  The photo, however, tells a certain truth in that Prescott's interest does not linger on the illusion presented, but is focused directly on his true audience.

As 'The Wife Saver' labored on into the 1940s, Radio and Television Mirror reported that Prescott was "a husky, handsome chap who doesn't fit in at all with one's mental picture of a man who presents household hints on the air."  The taint of femininity never was far behind him, and great daytime success kept the man in his place and away from the prime time he always coveted.  Yet his $20,000 annual salary (over $250,000 in today's dollars) was a pretty nice consolation prize.

In 1941 Prescott changed the name of his show to 'Allen Prescott Presents', but the show's content was basically unchanged: household hints, sewn together with humor and music.  NBC did give him a prime time trial in 1944, when radio talent was scarce due to World War II, but nothing long term came of it.  Then Prescott himself went off to war, serving in the Air Force on the Aleutian Islands---in a huff of sorts, one can imagine.   He was forty years old and in a mid-life crisis.

Prescott returned to radio in 1946 and into the burgeoning syndication market.  Improved technology allowed for high-quality transcript recordings and low cost flexibility for local radio stations, which grew exponentially after World War II.  Again NBC handled the proceedings, and the name of the show reverted to what everyone remembered: 'The Wife Saver'.  While popular, it may not have been like what long-time listeners recalled: Surviving recordings are quite dull in comparison to the 1930s scripts.

Like many radio performers, Prescott tried television in 1947.  'The Wife Saver' had only a five-week New York run in an era when daytime television programming consisted largely of test patterns.  It's likely the concept didn't suit the medium, as showing a handy hint not only slowed the proceedings but also looked less clever than it sounded.

The Wife Saver continued in radio syndication throughout the 1950s in an ever-dwindling market, with the last demo tapes being made in 1963.  In between recording transcriptions, he substituted for radio's venerable The Breakfast Club host Don McNeil and apparently had a respectable run on daytime television in Philadelphia as a talk show host.  In the end, however, he never escaped his own creation.  Allen Prescott's 1978 New York Times obituary opined: "Allen Prescott, 74, 'Wife Saver' was defined by his association with the program."

First edition, 1937

It is, of course, impossible to fully uncover the man behind the publicity---of what he wanted to be and what his bosses wish he was---to discover who he was in his private life.  Almost forty years have passed since Allen Prescott died; surely most of the people who knew him, even in his advanced years, are gone, too.  His scripts, recordings and memorabilia reside at the Library of Congress, yet perhaps one of most telling artifacts just came up for auction: A rather tattered first edition of Noel Coward's 1937 autobiography Present Indicative.  Inside it is inscribed: "For Allen Prescott and we hope it will be fun. 'Handmaiden'."

From a handmaiden

The script is decidedly masculine and the quotes suggest inside knowledge.  Was Handmaiden a campy friend or an effete personal assistant?  The 'we' is suggestive of the former---as from one member of a couple, but it also could speak of a social circle with a mutual understanding.  While the details are lost, the meaning remains queer.

A Conspicious Lack of Industry

Tuesday, 16th April 2013

Map: Webster, New York to Sandusky, Ohio---342 miles

We breakfasted a la business class at the Hampton Inn---rubbing elbows with the suits, chatted up by the relentlessly cheerful staff.  We stood out in boots and plaids, and upon hearing of our journey one of the skirts behind the counter was ready to join us.

The first forty miles of the day was via Interstate 390 to Geneseo, New York.  Golden morning light made the rolling countryside attractive but left a stranger unprepared for the view driving into town on US 20A.  Cresting a low ridge, we suddenly came upon a long view dropping like steps over the farmland to the west.  It was very clear, and it seemed if it was just a bit clearer we would have been able to see all the way to Lake Erie, about sixty miles away.

Geneseo is a charming little university town threatened by its exurban status to Rochester.  It does seem to be striking a balance, though---with projects like the restoration of a beautiful old high school for university use.

West of Leichester we turned southwest on Highway 39, driving through rich farmlands to Castile.  The sky was rapidly darkening as we climbed a bit towards Bliss, where the countryside again broke out into a beautiful step down view.  Huge wind generators spun below gray violet clouds.  A large sign at someone's farm screamed NO FRACKING WAY.  Fracking is particularly contentious in New York state, where it's not allowed---while many farmers are reaping huge profits from it in Pennsylvania.

As we dropped down to Arcade, I tuned onto Radio Zoomer---CFZM 740---courtesy of the amplifying effects of Lake Ontario some 75 miles to the north.  Lake Erie would have the same effect on the signal, allowing us to easily listen in at up to 200 miles west from the transmitter---almost to Cleveland.

Spanish blue bells

I must admit I've lost the location of the following two photographs.  Nothing definite comes from studying Google maps, which has already saved me several times, but it's safe to assume this town was somewhere between Springville or Gowanda---although I'm not promising it's Collins.  At any rate, the Spanish blue bells in the lawns around town were fantastic, and the first sign of spring we had seen in four days. I was also duly surprised to see a rainbow flag flying off someone's porch, for the town seemed inhabited predominately by senior citizens.

A darker blue form of Spanish blue bells.

We dropped down into Gowanda, zigzagging through town and then along a charming Main Street.  It looked a lot like a movie set, and indeed it was used for the Steve Martin vehicle Plane, Trains and Automobiles (1987).  Less charming was a peculiar odor to the general area---like something less than wholesome cooking.  We never saw the source of it.

After pausing in the bustling city of Fredonia, we took a beeline side road under the New York Thruway and out to Lake Erie.  A light rain was falling now, draping the landscape with a dreary veil.  Still it was interesting for the thousands of acres of grapes, something a Westerner doesn't expect to see in New York state.  Wineries waited impatiently for the tourist season.

Looking east of the harbor at Barcelona, New York.

I served off and down to the tiny harbor just below Highway 5 at incongruously named Barcelona, New York.  Not that it isn't a charming little village, but it could never stand in for Spain.  Looking east, we could see waterfalls dropping into the lake.  On a clear day it must be a beautiful sight, but the weather didn't dampen our enjoyment of the scenery much.

We drove right through Erie, Pennsylvania on their Bayfront Parkway---through a waterfront redeveloped for pleasure instead of industry.  It's very attractive but feels removed from the city just above the bluff.  The parkway shifted back up into the city and then made it's way westerly through decades of suburbia and then exurbia on Lake Drive.  Lake Erie was never in sight, but the little farms and crossroads were attractive.

The lake came into view again at Conneaut, Ohio as we drove down Broad Street and right down to the little harbor.  The town had a sleepy, off-season charm---a far away feeling that I'm not sure would survive the warmer months.

Glimpses of the water, estates and parks passed by as we continued west on Ohio 531 through Astubula to Geneva-on-the-Lake, the latter a place to avoid at all costs during the warmer months.  On this cool overcast day it appeared to be an empty carnival---tidy and expectant.  Old trailer courts with vintage trailers vied for my attention midst the rental cottages.  Everything had the look of a long held tradition, largely ungentrified.  It's a prospective long gone way out West, where speculation and rapid expansion have no patience for such settings.  I'm glad I got to see it---on that day, not in high season.

We had to head inland to old US 20 at this point, and then west again towards Cleveland.  Old motels and half-forgotten crossroads made it an interesting drive, and I had long forgotten any worry of heading straight to the waterfronts of these big old cities.  After connecting to the old Lakeland Freeway and driving through a stretch of somewhat seedy old blue collar neighborhoods, the cityscape opened up again to a revitalized waterfront, clean and breezy.  All the factories were gone, with their attendant grit and grime, and the scene was expectant, proud.  Perhaps there's reason to be, but if this was an equitable world there would have been a compromise for the environment and our economy.  Fundamental goods like steel can be manufactured with less impact locally and globally rather than simply drawing a curtain over the poisoning process by moving it half way around the world.

Once past Edgewater Park, we connected onto Clifton Boulevard---very much a pleasant surprise.  Designed in a grand style some 120 years ago, it still moves six lanes of traffic along nicely midst wide tree shaded medians.  Upper middle class homes and apartments in Beaux Arts, Tudor and associated styles lined the way like dowager duchesses---maintaining their distance from the rush with quiet dignity.  They wore a patina of consistent maintenance instead of a new-found glory.  Children walked home from school, the youngest accompanied by both men or women.  It was an uplifting scene.

The boulevard narrows into Lake Road, lined with lakefront estates both old and new.  Occasionally a more modest house appeared, allowing the peek of the lake from around their small dimensions.  One, well maintained but giving off the air of despondency, was for sale---and I wondered how much it was worth, and how little the house would be valued in comparison to some McMansion.  The view from the street would be filled in someday soon.

There's a gradual shift as US 6 continues towards Lorain.  The estates are left behind, and then the twee small town feel of Avon Lake falls away to the dead end feel of old blue collar neighborhoods.  I know the name Lorain from circa 1930 ads for gas ranges---in particular, the Lorain automatic oven temperature control, which took the guesswork out of baking.  I looked around as we drove along, wondering where that factory was, but all there was to see were the largely lookalike houses and an occasional electric plant that lorded over all like face brick castles.  Major cross streets were empty of both commerce and traffic, but the town looked clean and respectable along Erie Avenue.

We checked into Knight's Inn on Cleveland Road on the outskirts of Sandusky---a motel with a common Google complaint of being noisy, but being off-season I assumed that would not be a problem.  Aside of the busy train tracks across Cleveland Road it wasn't, but the motel had a palatable spiritual vibration---a residue of running, thumping and splashing way into the summer nights, peaking at around midnight, when the Cedar Point amusement park would likely close.  It was easy to tune out, though---and the dirt cheap room was clean.

Rear of condemned fitted native stone block building, Sandusky OH

Driving on into Sandusky is interesting only for the plethora of dubious tourist attractions that vie for Cedar Point's traffic.  Gray sky met gray asphalt---yet that was more comforting than the aspect of a hot and humid summer's day.  Eventually this is passed by for old blue collar neighborhoods and a downtown trying to maintain its dignity, with fair results.  The waterfront, stripped of manufacturing, eeks out a living via ferry traffic, pleasure boats and fishing.

We came down to the waterfront to eat dinner at a fish joint recommended on Roadfood---The New Sandusky Fish Company.  It turned out to be as much a fish market as a fish fry place, providing a minimum of seating and ambiance.  That usually portends great food, but first we had to figure out what we wanted from the limited menu.  The man behind the counter bore a striking resemblance to my dead friend, right down to his plush beard and an expression as if I was trying to pull something off and not succeeding.  He looked over at my husband and then back at me.

"You can't grow whiskers like he can, can you?" he finally asked, his tone knowing but friendly.

I was taken aback, because my mustache is always ignored---I presume because most people don't say anything at all if they can't say something nice, let alone that it grows in the shadow of my husband's publicly revered, luxuriant handlebar.

"No-o," I finally replied, touching my throat.  It was a cool day, and my shirt wasn't unbuttoned enough to show my hairy chest. 

"My dad's the same way," he smiled---taking my no as an affirmative.  "He can go without a shave for a week and his face just looks dirty."

I smiled wanly, realizing that there was no gaydar going on---only a mirror image of his familial situation.  No use explaining that my beard is just has thick as his, although I was tempted to say Well, you ought to see my back hair!

Cedar Point from Sandusky's waterfront

We shared a combination dinner of perch and walleye out on a picnic table under occasional raindrops.  The fish was good, but not extraordinary.  As I ate, I recalled deliciously fresh and succulent white fish in Mackinaw City, Michigan.

Calling Gloria

Sometimes a vintage radio appears on eBay that's an obscure little gem.  The obscurity may start right from a poorly thought out title, in this case: Vintage Deco Tube Wood Table Radio.  That narrows it down to about twelve hundred radios at any one time.  Like a chorus girl, she's lost in the lineup.  She's got to have a name.

Calling Gloria.

Her face is familiar.  As far I know only one company had dial like that, and that was Remler Radio of San Francisco.  But her name is Gloria---or so she claims, with a brass-plated accent.  She was once pretty, but her birds-eye maple complexion shows the ravages of time.  A highly qualified makeup man can fix that, if she has redeeming qualities.

Turn around, dearie.

Nice rear.  Oh, nothing special, really---just a four tube tuned radio frequency circuit with transformer.  But nice because she wears her union card proudly: Bruner's Radio Service, Santa Rosa, California.  At first I thought of Bruener's---a San Francisco furniture store that was established way back during the Gold Rush and became a phenomenon of sorts, with stores all over the Bay Area---but then I notice the different spelling.  So Gloria isn't quite the department store 'house brand' I imagined---although still a rebadging of a Remler radio.

Another nice touch: Gloria is date stamped---February 1[-], 1937.  Sure she's fresh, but we're more interested in keeping track of her.  Let's pencil in 1937, since it smudged when stamped.  Dating would not interest Remler or any other radio manufacturer; that's what serial numbers are for.  This was likely done by a Bruner's clerk the day Gloria was sold so to keep track of her warranty.

Here's a mild shock: While Bruener's Furniture sank into bankruptcy in 2004, Bruner's Radio Service is still alive and well in Santa Rosa---although now dealing more with two-way communications than consumer electronics.  I'm having a suggestion of deja-vu, a recollection of considering Bruner's for radio restoration when I lived in San Francsico some twenty-two years ago.

Gloria's starting price was right---twenty bucks.  She might have flown under the radar and out the door for that, but I restrained myself.  After all, I have to control myself from excess collecting by insisting that my California brand radios have the stations printed on the dial, and Remler didn't feature that until some time later.  I was a bit surprised when she caught on and climbed into the sixty dollar range.  Did the local history catch someone's attention---even Bruner's attention?  Gloria flew the coop for $92.78---surely making the seller happy.

374 Miles to Tibet

Thursday, 11th April 2013

Map: Bordentown, New Jersey to Burlington, Vermont---375 miles

A cold front broke the heat of the preceding day, bringing a thunderstorm overnight and a cool, gray fragrant morning.  We avoided Trenton by driving the I-295 beltway, which so skirted the city that we were left with no impression of it.

Peeking into a Princeton, New Jersey garden.

US 206 took us north through Lawrenceville and Princeton, both towns very much in the New England manner, with narrow streets and beautiful old homes.  Princeton is especially twee, the homes large and often placed well back from the road.  Spring was especially present in their accompanying old gardens.

It was much more a modern suburban view through Belle Meade and Somerville---still interesting in its mix of rural farms, housing tracts and shopping malls.  Unlike the rest of America, there seems to be no planning for the increasing volume of surface street traffic; the roads remain narrow and without shoulders.  Only the crossroads receive any real attention due to high volumes of traffic crossing each other and stores.  Being mid-morning, the traffic was light and the driving easy.

Sri Venkateswara Hindu Temple, Bridgewater New Jersey.

There's a stretch of US 206 that becomes a modern, wide boulevard in Bridgewater.  Just beyond the Aventis Pharmaceuticals plant we came upon this tasty wedding cake: the Sri Venkateswara Hindu Temple.  Not only did it demand to be photographed, it held a sort of aura of anticipation.  A sign listed a rapid progression from the recent past to the near future---when landscaping is supposed to be installed.  I hope it's exotic as possible and complimentary to the temple.  On Google there are many praises for their cafeteria---and not unexpectedly, a retort, saying one goes to temple to be with God, not a cafeteria tray.
  
The siting of the temple was also a strange forbearance of how the day would evolve...

At Chester, a local tourist shopping destination, we decided it was time for Dairy Queen---but found it strangely closed well past its posted opening hour.  The better alternative of local ice cream down the block was met with a chortling generator at the door: fire in an upstairs apartment had made the building uninhabitable, and they were trying to salvage the ice cream.  Hey, just give us a spoon!

So the quest for ice cream was on.  Patsy lead us astray in Flanders for a Dairy Queen in Mt. Olive Township---only to find a local eatery had superseded DQ in the last ten years.  At least the detour was interesting.

Just outside of downtown Stanhope we passed the very pretty Lake Musconetcong surrounded by old once vacation homes.  A few miles up US 206 in Byram Township there's Cranberry and Panther Lakes, along with several others beyond view.  The granite outcroppings and broadleaf forest complete a very picturesque setting, so it's no wonder that this was a premier vacation destination served by the Lackawanna Railroad a hundred plus years ago.

After jogging through downtown Newton, we finally came upon a vintage Dairy Queen---where we indulged in the Blizzard Flavor of the Month: Chocolate Covered Peanut Butter Pretzel.  The middle-aged woman behind the counter must have been new, as she wanted it to be just right: Chocolate or Vanilla ice cream?  No one had ever asked us before, although on rare occasions we'd be handed a Blizzard made with chocolate ice cream, and it was always way too much of a good thing.

"It has peanut butter syrup in it, is that okay?"

We nodded.  This was becoming quite a process, but she did produce a perfect product---not too sweet, with a nice salty/crunchy note from the pretzels.

"Do you do senior discounts?" was my husband's usual question.  One would think we'd have a free day from all the discounts he requested on this trip.

"Um, let me check."  She went back into the kitchen and then returned.  "Yes, we do---but be sure to ask, because not all the girls know that we do."  Meaning her.

Since this vintage DQ had no indoor seating, we leaned against the south wall of the building---sharing the Blizzard while watching others eat their nasty food in their cars.  The weather had chilled considerably as we headed north, but the south wall provided a warm spot to eat ice cream.

North of Newton we veered off onto New Jersey 94, which brought us over the New York border to the rather chic if not rather sparse year around resort of Warwick.  We continued on towards Newburg on the Hudson River when I realized I or we or someone had made a grave error.  Within seconds it wouldn't matter who did it.

My husband was consulting the map, and I poking a finger at it as I kept one eye on the road.

"Here.  Burlington, Vermont," I snapped.

My husband squinted at the atlas, flipping between pages.  "Burlington is way up here."

It is his job to make motel reservations, which we were now doing just a day in advance to avoid driving into weather problems.  I must have said Burlington.  Shit.  Burlington, Bennington---let's call the whole thing off.  He had shown me the online map accompanying the reservation, but it was too focused on the motel for me to notice my mistake.  Yeah, whatever.  Thanks.

Now of thoroughly foul mind, I handed the wheel over to him and he drove us into Newburg---which was also thoroughly foul, slummy and larded with unsynchronized signals.

"Forget Poughkeepsie," I ordered as I studied the atlas. "We've done it more than once anyway.  Cross the Hudson here on I-84 and head for the Teutonic Parkway."

I always call the Taconic State Parkway the Teutonic because who the hell knows what Taconic means anyway?  Of course once one starts saying Teutonic they recall Joan Crawford in blonde braids doing a jig in a beer garden with Fred Astaire in Dancing Lady---and a mental breakdown is imminent.

Okay, okay.  Deep breath.  Let's focus on the God-given graces of the Taconic State Parkway, 104 miles of graceful if not lumpy hills and curves---which so happened to be about the same as the extra miles we'd now have to drive to reach Burlington, Vermont.  Actually, these were graces designed by landscape architect Gilmore Clarke to offer an atheistically pleasing yet timely road trip through the eastern Hudson Valley.  The parkway bond, a pet project of then governor Franklin D. Roosevelt, was passed in 1925, and construction began in 1931 at Valhalla as an extension of the Bronx River Parkway.  In a radio speech during the opening of this first segment, Roosevelt envisioned the parkway reaching all the way to the Canadian border, but the Taconic was considered finished when it finally reached the Berkshire Connector of the New York State Thruway in 1963.

We drove the last 64 northerly miles of the Taconic State Parkway, starting on a segment that was completed in 1935.  Ten more miles were opened to Highway 55 in time for now President Roosevelt to drive the Taconic to the 1939 New York World's Fair.  World War II halted construction, but another twenty mile segment was completed in 1949.  All of these segments balance beauty with speed, the narrow dual lanes and lack of shoulders heightening the illusion of the latter.  The views, even on an ever increasingly dreary day, are quite spectacular.  The post 1949 segments reflect advancing views on highway engineering and are somewhat less engaging to drive---more akin to a modern Interstate.

Of course I'm not going to pay a toll when there are more interesting alternatives, so we exited just before the Thruway at Chatham, moving onto 295 and headed east to 22.  This highway travels north through narrow valleys dotted with often forlorn farmhouses and quaint if not comatose little towns.  At Berlin Patsy's yellow snowflake came on---meaning it was 37 degrees outside, a full thirty degrees cooler than it was when we started in Bordentown that morning.  Spring had receded in the same fashion, now noted only occasionally by the earliest bulbs.

Highway 22 zig zags through charming Hosick Falls, once home and burial place for folk painter Grandma Moses.  I was going to suggest she was the Thomas Kinkade of her day, but aside of her comparable celebrity her brand of sentimentality was based on experience, not fantasy.  Both artists thrived in their era of war and social change---Grandma Moses's celebrity kicking off just as Europe went to war in 1939 and peaking during the McCarthy era.

We were now just 15 miles due east of Bennington, Vermont---but still 117 miles south of Burlington.  I had resigned to our fate, being too tired to do otherwise.  Besides, the radio was suggesting we were doing a good thing---heading as far north as possible, ahead of the snow.  The scenery was winter barren but pleasant; even the crocus had disappeared.  With a good highway ahead of us and few towns to slow for, we could make the trip in about two and and quarter hours.  Driving into a sleety squall lengthen the drive to two and half hours.

Once we passed through the squall, the skies lifted to high winter overcast, with golden breaks to the west behind the Adirondacks.  North of Shoreham, Vermont the scenery became expansive, with farmlands rolling down to the southern end of Lake Champlain and rolling back up to the snow covered mountains.  It's very pretty country, a place to stop and explore sometime---when it's warmer.

We were listening to Magic 590, WROW---its high fidelity signal traveling clearly through the cold atmosphere from Albany, New York.   It's one of those stations that try to please everyone by playing most anything from 1950 to 1980, although I imagine folks hardly older than myself don't appreciate being bundled into their parents or even their grandparents generation.  I'm merely amused, and in this case appreciated that WROW actually has local people behind the mikes regularly giving out real traffic and weather.

A song came on from my extreme youth---one that, on the surface, inexplicably moves me.  For casual purposes I can explain this away with the fact that I did not have television from the age of six to fourteen, so the radio and the popular story-telling songs of the 1970s had an indelible impact on me---but as I grow older I understand the impact was more about a subliminal precociousness, if there are such things.  In that I'm referring to situations lost and forgotten---adult themes in the need of replaying, resorting and restoring to proper context.  It feels like a delicious sort of mourning.

Now, as I write, I have to go back and research the song because my memory of music is like a child's---based on rhythm and emotion, not titles and artists.  My connection to music remains so after forty years; my mental jukebox buttons are always in need of a cipher.

Perhaps the song was I Go Crazy.  The title is suitable enough, and right now I can't spend more time researching.  I can't spend more time in the nauseous space I arrive at via an analytical approach.  As we drive along I'm not ten or even twenty but merely a man advancing in age, and for the moment, open.  A now-dead friend has dropped in for a visit.  Friendships evolve so much after death, after convention drops away---and here he is, just dropping in for a loving moment---a reminder not to resist the moment.  I feel his curls and his skin and then he is gone.

Ah, but resist I must, for I've been trained well.  Now we were turning into the G.G.T Tibet Inn of Burlington and I was wondering what the hell my husband has got us into now.  He had been pronouncing Tibet as Tibbet, so I had no idea we were going to spend the night in some third world shrine.  However, the Tibet Inn turned out to be a clean, comfortable and ordinary if not dated motel run by friendly Tibetians in exile.  Their explanation of the curious G.G. T.: "Gangjong Gesar Tsang is a name for the Tibetan homeland. Its meaning is roughly “land of the snows,” and it is used by Tibetans to mean their spiritual and emotional home, rather than the political nation of Tibet, Phoe."  More interesting things can be found out about Tibetians in Vermont at G.G.T. Tibet Inn, and I was very glad to help them.

Down By The Sea

Tuesday, 9th April 2013

Map: Tarsboro, North Carolina to Rehoboth Beach, Delware: 342 miles

Leaving the window open all night in our motel room exposed us to just enough humidity to remind us we were in the South.  Thick yet benign while the temperatures hovered in the sixties, it would lay low as the day warmed, becoming a stultifying blue gray glare.

For now, it provided a golden atmosphere as the old fashioned crossroads signage pointed out the way through a few plots of tobacco midst the cotton stubble and swamp cypress.  What wasn't old fashioned was the fact that North Carolina Highways 11/42 avoided what few towns there were at all costs, causing me to occasionally jerk the wheel and fling Patsy down a side road at the last moment.  This is how we discovered Aulander, a nice little town full of interesting old houses and a narrow Main Street barely three blocks long. Folks were out for a walk or just sitting on their porches, waiting to see what the day would bring.  My husband would wave, and they'd wave back.

Near Woodville, North Carolina

Ahoskie is big and bold enough to give a shout out along the highway, so I made a more graceful departure to visit it.  Soon I found myself in a lineup of cars on South Academy Street, stopping for some sort of police check.  I automatically pulled out my wallet, expecting to be turned away because of some sort of police action would be keeping everyone but residents from the area.

"What's the problem?" I asked as I flipped out my license.

"No problem," replied the short policeman,  "Just checking that driver's have their licenses."

He was such a handsome African American that I considered making a problem.  "Oh," I said, taking my wallet he handed back and trying not to stare too much.

"Have a good day now," he said---but I had already distractedly touched the accelerator, and his pleasantness was left in Patsy's wake.  Oh, how terribly rude of me.

$95,000---Winton, North Carolina

In Winton, on the Chowan River and the very top of the Albemarle Sound, you can buy this four bedroom, two bath Southern Victorian for $95,000---which means if this block home was for sale, it would probably command something like $35,000.  The garbage can was the neighbor's...

Now I had to stop this detouring into small towns because we had a lunch date with our great nephew in Newport News.  I had not planned the most direct route from Winton to the Newport News area, and then there would be unexpected construction and the forgotten fact that Virginia has the worst road signage in the United States.  The most sensible thing would have been to take US 13 directly to Suffolk, but I had thought detouring around the Great Dismal Swamp would be scenic.  It's not.  The swamps way back on 11/42 as one crosses the Roanoke River south of Woodville provide plenty of that kind of scenery.

Not on the market---but surely considerably less.  Winton, NC.

"Are you sick of us yet?" my husband asked as we finally arrived at the Mexican restaurant that was our chosen meeting spot.  He was referring to the umpteen times he had called in the last hour.  Our nephew, standing there in his gray Army fatigues, just smiled and gave us hugs---too polite to tell us our lives would be much easier if we just got an iPhone.

Although we had been anticipating this lunch meeting, as we sat down we realized that the last time we had any sort of conversation with him was when he was fifteen---well, okay, maybe twenty.  That he had been a good kid then, already sitting down to talk to the adults---at least for a minute, suggested we wouldn't have too hard of a time making conversation with him at the ripe old age of thirty.  After some small talk about our travels, we settled into relationships and---when reminded of his uncle's counseling profession---a lot about that field, which he's interested in after completing his army career.  Since being a captain is akin to being a life manager, he's already gained a lot of insight into the field of therapy.  Our nephew also has a broad physical/emotional appeal---one that would allow a man to spill his guts without feeling especially ashamed about it, or appeal to the bullshitter who will only arrive at the truth after moving through the maze of machismo.  My husband told him to let him know when he was ready to discuss his education options, and he seemed happy to have someone to bounce ideas off when the time comes.

Unc and great nephew.

We crossed the James River again, this time at its mouth and via yet another underwater tunnel, as it appears Chesapeake Bay is shallow and its bottoms unsuitable for supporting tall bridges.  Along Norfolk's Ocean View Boulevard there was no view except for the thousands of houses vying for the view.  Then it was onto the the Chesapeake Bay Bridge/Tunnel for the hefty toll of $12, but one gets a free cup of soup with the receipt if they buy lunch at the restaurant out on the bay at the tunnel entrance.  Actually the toll is pretty reasonable, considering that the bridge and tunnel totals out at twenty miles long.

It takes some getting used to, this Atlantic Ocean always hiding behind dunes, or in rare glimpses giving the uneasy impression of being sightly higher than the road you're traveling over.  No matter for us, as we were making time on US 13, and if I wasn't napping I was listening to rather wacky WMBG 740 out of Willamsburg, playing anything from obscure 1950s country western to some light disco.

I was duly aware that Ocean City, Maryland is less than classy---but I wasn't prepared for a place that makes Laughlin, Nevada look classy.  The huge, ugly hotels, the small ugly motels---the shops and restaurants that replicate themselves every few miles to cater to the hordes.  The place is as colorful as the 1970s, as if it was a set for a never ending caftan clad cameo bore-fest called Ocean City.  I was thankful it was off-season, or this ghost metropolis would have been pure hell.

Eventually we arrived at Rehoboth Beach, Delaware---our destination for the day.  The time and temperature on their fire department announced it was 90 degrees, but Patsy was more discreet, never saying it was above 88.  It felt like---well, just very unpleasant---not that the old folks seemed to mind one bit.  Our gay little bed and breakfast had yet to place the air conditioner in our window, but the two ceiling fans proved satisfactory.

"When's the last time you've been in Rehoboth?" asked our chipper, middle age host(ess).

"Never," replied my husband.

"Thirty years ago," I said.

Rehoboth Beach, Delaware---with the kitsch removed.

"Oh," he said, sucking in air between his teeth.  I got the impression that thirty years ago was a worse impression to overcome than never.

Not that it mattered much to me.  I have little memory of it, being but fifteen at the time and dank cold March weather pretty much shrank my recall to a bag of salt water taffy.  Although Rehoboth is certainly nicer than Ocean City, I could tell my husband was disappointed by its lack in quaint appeal.

Even if it was hot, it was still off season and a lot of the restaurants were closed---at least during the week.  We walked the boardwalk, but the breeze was hot off the land and hardly refreshing.  Eventually we found that Fins Fish House on Rehoboth Avenue was still in happy hour mode, so we bellied up to share fish and chips and a tall light one.  The bartender was equal to the beer---at least we liked to think so.

"Another one?" he asked as I put down my empty bottle.

"No, thank you.  This one had the desired effect."

He chuckled and in my condition I actually thought I  had amused him.

Walking back to our room, we passed Double Dippers---an ice cream parlor we thought was closed, but apparently it was only closed during the dinner hour.

"Hello, boyz,"called the chubby middle aged man from behind the counter.  He called the woman sitting at a table in the corner 'ladies'---although it was fairly clear they were lezzies of a certain age.  We had found the gay hot spot of Rehoboth Beach.

My husband had his favorite, Rum Raisin---which is very rarely found on the West Coast, and I had Coconut Almond Chocolate Chip.  I eavesdropped as we sat with our cones, listening to the chubby one talk to an athletic middle aged male couple about having opened a second shop somewhere in Florida for winter income.

"We have a lot of repeat customers already, so we're doing well."

I wondered if he called out hello boyz there, too.

Balmy Daze

Monday, 8th April 2013
 
Map: Simpsonville, South Carolina to Tarboro, North Carolina---310 miles

We sat at the kitchen table for a couple of hours that morning, drinking coffee and visiting with the in-laws.  I've become quite proficient with their family stories after fifteen years---enough to occasionally comment or remark when some variation thereof comes up. I enjoy listening to them because they resonate with me more than my own era, and unlike my own family the perspective is male.

That morning the brothers we naming off all the neighbors but forgot their mother's Bendix bursting a frothy load of wash out onto the floor.  Instead they went down into the basement to discuss the change from shoveling coal into furnace to installing an oil burner and where they were allowed to play down there and what section was off limits to them: their father's workshop.

Once my husband expressed surprise that I had no real interest in inheriting my birth home.  Unlike most Americans, it's still in the family after fifty years.  It's not so much the memories housed in it---memories that when given consideration are generally unpleasant, but by the mere fact that a circa 1960 tract home is a boring rectangle of many rooms squeezed into a modest square footage.  There were four floor plans in the tract I grew up in and twice as many expressions worn on their facade.  Ours was vaguely Southern, with some brick oozing mortar and three wrought iron filigree pillars that the kids quickly bent out of shape by climbing.  The neighbor's house was more assuredly Japanese, complete with courtyard entry.  It is my favorite floor plan, and it was also available as an improbable but thankfully vague Colonial.  Tonga and Bavarian Ranch were the other two major themes.  Their entertainment value fell far shorter on the inside.  I recall being most fascinated by the multicolor splatter on white asphalt tile under the avocado green shag carpet in the bathroom.  The colors were aqua, coral, pea soup green and black.

I studied Google maps thoroughly that morning and made some notes, so we had no problem leaving Simpsonville on the secondary highways.  By the time we reached Spartanburg we were traveling on old US 29, which we followed right into Charlotte.  Between Cowpens and Gaffney US 29 is called the Old Georgia Highway, and it's very similar to the Old Cornelia Highway we drove on the proceeding Saturday.  Up past Blacksburg, Crowders Mountain started peeking up over the horizon, an unexpected and beautifully rugged peak poking through the forest canopy.  In the towns the Chinese magnolias were in fragrant bloom, the daffodils were laying down to rest and Confederate violets dotted the lawns.

The radio station of the day was WOLI-AM Spartanburg---for at least as far as 3600 watts can carry in hill country.  Very recently reformatted as an 'adult standards' station, it is actually a descendant of the first radio station in South Carolina, WSPA, which began broadcasting in 1930.

Charlotte, North Carolina (Google Images)

We drove into downtown Charlotte at noon---another surprisingly easy surface street drive, although in all I didn't find the street scape as interesting as Memphis.  An exception was the 1947 Dairy Queen on Wilkinson Boulevard (US 29), complete with a giant Eskimo couple on top enjoying their cones with the curl on top.  These were a variation on the postwar Eskimo girl trademark Dairy Queen used into the late 1950s, before they switched to the saccharine cartoon Dutch boy and girl. We did not stop and partake, having shared a Subway breakfast flat bread sandwich in Cowpens.

By the time we were traveling east on North Carolina Highway 49 we had all the windows down, enjoying the balmy day that would occasionally turn stale and muggy, depending on a dip in the highway or sunblasted road cut.  At Asheboro 49 joins again with our old friend, US 64---although I can't recommend this section because one has to deal with the chafing outskirts of Raleigh.  I wish I had tried North Carolina Highway 42 directly from Asheboro , but my original intention to visit a nursery outside of Raleigh had been dropped without readjusting our route.

The drive became enjoyable again once we reached Highway 42 in Clayton.  The landscape flattened out and became mostly farmland---fields turned under for the winter or left to cotton stubble.  Little old cemeteries, so common in the Carolinas, dotted the roadside or sat squarely in the middle of a stubblefield.

Patsy was once again mute in helping us find a Roadfood recommendation in Wilson, so I had to park at McDonald's and dredge up a WiFi connection on my laptop.  It turned out Parker's was on the south side of town at an old highway crossroads, a long low building built for crowds.  Since we were a bit early and it was Monday night hardly anyone was there, so we found the waiters standing at attention.  It seemed waiters were the tradition and preferred since they also bussed and were expected to carry heavy loads.  They were of all descents: Latin, African American and Caucasian---pretty much matching the clientele.

Parker's menu was short and simple and cheap.  I got the small barbecue plate, my husband ordered the small combination plate---both at under five dollars each.  Each came with hush puppies, corn sticks and slaw for the table---plus a choice of two sides for the plate.  I chose green beans and french fries.  The green beans were cooked far longer than modern standards dictate, but still retained a green color, good texture and a savory, sour flavor.  The slaw was a vivid yellow, with a pickled flavor so far off from Martha's in Corinth that it seemed to me more like sauerkraut.  The vinegar notes continued with the shredded pork itself---it was becoming a somewhat monotonous meal.  My husband was far luckier with his piece of fried chicken---it was excellent.  If we ever return to Parker's, we'd order the chicken and fish and shrimp---the latter two coming out of the kitchen looking just as delicious as the chicken.

We had the windows down again for the last 26 miles to Tarboro via Hwy 42.  The air, the light---everything was soft, warm and beautiful.  The day's sunlight rose again from the damp earth as a fragrant heat---green as grass, with an occasional whiff of Chinese magnolia.   Once at our motel room I opened the screenless window and ran the heat pump underneath it on fan only, blowing the outdoors in all night long.

"There's a Dairy Queen at the Shell station next door," my husband grinned.

I raised my eyebrows---normally he wouldn't eat something like that after the kind of dinner we had.  But he must have known he was in for a good time, for he came back with even a bigger grin.

"The Latin boys working there liked me," he said---handing me a large cup with a medium one inside of it.  "They kept asking me if I wanted more stuff, so they had to put it in a larger cup.  No extra charge."

My husband dipped his spoon in for another bite, evidently very pleased with himself.

America's Loneliest Highway

Thursday, 28th March 2013

Map---Cherokee, CA to Ely, NV: 462 miles

We begin our trip by crossing over Lake Oroville, looking reassuringly full this terribly dry year---not that this has any affect on our well. Yet Mother Nature insists on celebrating early, putting Spring on all at once---a blast of bright gold green oak leaves, a generous dose of fragrant silver bush lupine, swaths of pale lavender iris---a sprinkling of orange poppies.  The Sacramento Valley appears below and to the west as we climb Yankee Hill, a mosaic of shadows under passing clouds---a rice elevator catching the sun and shining like a white monument a thirty miles distance.  Beyond, the Coast Range tumbles towards the southwest, ahead of the cold front, growing clearer at a hundred miles and beyond.

Clematis, left and redbud above the Feather River

At Jarbo Gap we drop into the namesake of this highway---the Feather River Canyon.  The wildflowers are usually prime on these rugged south facing walls, but the drought has blooms socializing in hasty disarray, the white plumes of ceanothous waving midst the pink redbud.  Clematis drapes over all, yet the show has just begun if April showers arrive.

The Feather River Highway opened in 1937 as the All Year Route over the Sierras.  The railroad had preceded in 1910, trading avalanches for rock slides and floods. However, the beauty and recreational opportunities of the route could not be denied and resorts from modest to grand sprang up at most every siding.  The opening of the highway gave these places new life, as well as new attractions specifically built for highway traffic.  It was once a very popular vacation destination, but changing tastes in recreation and relaxation made them all more or less obsolete.  Quaint little cabins nestle in lush oak woodlands at Tobin, while a Craftsman lodge stands sentinel above the pines on a granite outcropping at Paxton.  At the latter, dogs deter and warn the renters of any intrusion.

An exception of this fate lies east of the canyon and Quincy---in an area already well-known for expensive vacation homes and attending recreations.  The Feather River Inn was built in 1914 in a quasi Bavarian-Craftsman style and like all the others had fallen into shabbiness, if not abandonment.  However, due to the monied locals, investors saw the potential in restoration---which has turned into a long process due to the general economy and attention required to bring back a lodge akin to those at Crater Lake or Yellowstone.  The end is in sight, however, and the golf course has been restored and reopened---surely the best way to start drawing interest again.

Restoration of the Feather River Inn

Beyond Portola the landscape turns to high desert rimmed by snowy peaks.  The highway crests at 5,221 feet at Beckworth Pass, the lowest pass over the Sierras.  Almost two thousand feet lower than Donner Pass, it's easy see why this was the 'All Year Route'---and why the route was taken over for a time in the 1950s by the US highway system as US 40A, the alternate of US 40 over Donner Pass. 

We arrived in Reno at noon, just in time to see the crowds moving along the gritty sidewalks towards the St. Vincent de Paul Dining Room.  We always frequent the classiest parts of town, you know.  Our interest was not in a meal but St. Vinnie's thrift store, where we usually find something of interest.  This time Roland found a noisy brass dinner triangle for $3, which ought to be handy in getting his attention while he's out on 'the back four' at our Rancho Notorious.

A billboard for Golden Gate Gas at $3.59 a gallon drew us off I-80 between Sparks and Fernley.  I forced as much gasoline as I could into our dowager Patsy Prius, knowing that would be the cheapest we'd see for the next 500 miles or so.  She managed 47.7 MPG---very respectable for some 150 miles of modest climbing.

The saline flats on US 50A between Fernley and Fallon is a good place to take a nap, which I did---in the passenger seat, of course.  And one must stop at the Dairy Queen in Fallon because there isn't another for the aforementioned 500 miles.  Our shared Blizzard of the Day was Tropical: Banana, coconut and pecans.  You'll notice a pattern to this in the coming days...

And so now we commence on the titular highway, America's Loneliest.  Don't you believe it.  If you want Nevada lonely, try US 6 between Tonopah and Ely: 168 miles of nothing except one tiny gas station that might be open.  "America's Loneliest Highway", US 50, has two towns and two gas station/cafe/motels in 257 miles.  There is always enough traffic to feel less than alone, although occasionally it strangely disappears for some dozen miles at a time.

The Loneliest Road in America was named by Life magazine in July 1986. Meant as an insult, Nevada and the towns along the route have been capitalizing on it ever since---with oxymoronic results, of course.  But when one's eyes wander from the pavement this is truly a vast, empty land---a land where modernity drops away and history vibrates: The Pony Express, the Lincoln Highway.  More people lived here a hundred and fifty years ago than today, which says both a little and a lot.  For the folks passing us at 75 MPH, it says little except for they can't get through it fast enough.  At our prescribed 60 MPH, time is swallowed up in this immense panorama---vacillating between inertia and hoof dust---flat tires and rumble seats. 

At Middlegate Station, one of the eat here and get gas places, there is a decision to be made.  The city ahead, Austin, thought it worthwhile to erect a huge billboard to direct you to the right on the old Lincoln Highway, now celebrating its hundredth anniversary.   This route, now Nevada 722, is only 1.2 miles longer than the modern highway, but an entirely different driving experience as it curls over alpine Carroll Summit and then along a lush creek side landscape before reentering the desert.  Along the way one passes the quaint stone ranch house at Eastgate.  I suppose the refreshing scenery would make for happier tourists once they reach Austin, and having traveled on it before I agree it should be done---but both routes offer history.

Lincoln Highway Association
 

Looking east from Mt. Airy Summit---North Toyiabe Peak

We stay on the newer alignment US 50, like most everyone else does.  This follows the Pony Express (1860-61) route, passing adobe remains of their stations along the way.  The change in the landscape in this direction is negligible: The desert greens slightly, particularly around Cold Springs Station---another gas 'n' eat place as well as a Pony Express stop.  The locale has an interesting vibe in the afternoon light, as if it's a natural place to stop and rest in spite of the tundra-like landscape.  More adobe ruins are found to the west of Mount Airy, but it's likely these date to just after the days of the Pony Express.


Austin is a quaint little town perched on the steep sides of Pony Canyon.  For all its ghostly shabbiness there are surprises, such as a good salad with avocado at the historic International Cafe & Bar.  Its population hovers around 340, a far cry from 10,000 during the summer of silver in 1863.

US 50 makes a steep, serpentine climb out of Austin and then descends into another broad valley---this one called Smoky.  There are only four more passes to climb and descend and as many valleys to cross before we reach Ely. Mother Nature pulls a veil of verga over her face and one's focus adjusts to the foreground, where a lone white wild stallion poses in the sagebrush.  Miles on there's a whole heard of wild horses, or antelope mooning you with their white rears.

Roberts Creek Mountain at 60 MPH---out the driver's side window and north of US 50

Eureka is a larger town with more interesting architecture, but the locals seem far scruffier.  A whole herd of them is rushing across Main Street and into the Opera House, as if Sarah Bernhardt just came into town for a surprise performance.  I espied a cute Victorian cottage down a side street, which starts us on a circular tour of the residential neighborhoods.  At close range the cottage is abandoned and sinking into the ground, which seems the fate of most of the older homes.  This one is spending its golden years in a slump of a funk, having to stare at the ugly tan trailer across the street.

Looking west across Long Valley on US 50

The verga lifts at Huntington Valley and Roberts Creek Mountain shines to the north.  Pancake Summit, then Little Antelope Summit.  The sun lowers behind a bank of black clouds and headlights play in the distance across Long Valley.  One last summit, Robinson, and it's the highest at 7,588 feet.  Patsy starts to roar and her synergy monitor shows her in a state of purple angina.  I release her from cruise control and let her little gasoline motor hum along at 50 MPH.

We crest and descend at close to coasting, passing through the ghost town of Lane City and its abandoned concrete block school standing in the blue dusk.  The Loneliest Highway curves and the government grant light standards of Ely appear, coming close together a mile on down Altman Street.  They cast a bright coral glow, and the green and red neon signs add a busy, nostalgic note to otherwise empty streets.  Here and there a crowd appears---at the starkly Deco Central Theater, at the Silver State Cafe---but the size of the city belies the fact that it contains only 4,250 residents.  The mid-2000s boom in copper is off, and once again a cottage can be bought for $25,000.

For all her strain and electric coasting, Patsy averaged 53.3 MPG from Clark (east of Sparks) to Ely.

Let's Go Terraplaning!

A 1934 Terraplane.  Professional driver on closed course; Do not attempt to run over your spouse.

When Hudson invited us to go 'Terraplaning' in their new lightweight yet fast 1932 Terraplane, the American highway system was well on its way to being what we expect today.  Pavement made leaps and bounds every year and the oldest paved alignments---barely ten to fifteen years old---were being bypassed for speed and safety.  In many cities, routing was moved from downtown and out onto new boulevards soon lined with businesses that predominately catered to the motorist.  Unlike the rest of America, the oil industry only suffered a slight dip in profits during the Depression.  People were on the move more than ever.

Another profitable business during the Depression was the Mo-Tel, that snappy abbrivation for Motor Hotel. The first one in the modern sense opened in San Luis Obispo, California in 1925 but the concept really took off in the 1930s, when construction costs lowered while traffic increased.  Tourist camps and cabins had existed since the 1910s, but these often involved bringing your own sheets and an outhouse, while the motel or 'motor court' was meant to be in the class of a modern hotel, but without the pesky bellboy and remote parking.  There was always a race to keep up with the place down the road: kitchenettes, 'Cooled By Refrigeration', Beautyrest mattresses. In fact, a number of 1930s motels were named Beauty Rest, trying to sell the motorist on a good night's sleep from the get-go.  Associations were formed to assure motorists beforehand of a standard of amenities and cleanliness---a harbinger of today's homogenized if not altogether reliable corporate motels.

The proverbial motor mouth had new competition, too: the car radio.  Radio's move from the living room to the dashboard was not without concerns over distracted driving, but once simplified and perfected in 1935 it became a popular accessory.  Soon another table was added to the free road maps handed out by service stations besides ones for point to point mileage and towns: the radio log.  As a station faded into static, one had to simply consult the table for the next station down the road, or chose the correct network station so they wouldn't miss their favorite show, such as NBC Blue for The Jell-O Program Starring Jack Benny.  The oil industry sponsored many radio programs, too---particularly news and sports---so it was in their interest to have the motorist's ear just as the gasoline tank was going on empty.

Terraplaning became too much of a good thing by 1938---at least as far as Hudson was concerned.  The model that pulled the company up and out of the Depression was now seen as a major sales distraction from their larger cars, so the Terraplane was hyphenated back into the Hudson family. Slightly upscaled out of its previous market niche, sales were dismal and the name Terraplane was happily abandoned in 1939.

The Pleasure of Pushbuttons

The pleasure of push buttons no longer lies within their convenience but in the story they tell.  Unless their cardboard tabs have been devoured by silverfish or shrunk and displaced by time, they leave behind an accurate accounting of the original habitat of a vintage radio.

In the late 1930s, the Federal Communications Commission had a very firm, paternal grip on the airwaves.  They ruled that the ether was public domain, therefore what was broadcast through it was to be ultimately for the public good.  In order for the 'good' to come through clearly, there had to be minimal interference between broadcasters.  Therefore, three types of frequency allotments were set aside: Clear for high powered stations meant to be heard a thousand miles or more at night, regional for stations meant to cover several hundred miles and locals---which operated at very low wattage at night or not at all.  This regulation particularly favored rural residents, whose news and entertainment could otherwise be limited to going to town Saturday night and church on Sunday morning.

The push buttons on this 1939 Montgomery Wards Airline radio features most of the clear stations of the West, south to north.  That the stations aren't arranged 'professionally' in progressive frequency fashion suggests that the buttons could have been set by a mail order customer, another indication of rural residency.  Perhaps this person simply started with the station they most listened to on the left and progressed downward along their own scale of interest:  1160 kc, 680 kc, 590 kc, 1050 kc, 860 kc and 1110 kc.  On a map this would be represented left to right by Salt Lake City, San Francisco, Spokane, Los Angeles, Tijuana, Tijuana.

1939 Airline Radio Reception Map

Plotted out thus, the cross hairs come together somewhere in Nevada.  Since the sole radio station in Nevada at the time was in Reno and is not represented on the push buttons, the set was likely located well east or perhaps north or south of there.  The Elko area is as good a guess as any, since KSL Salt Lake City seems to be favored.


A precursor of push button tuning was telephone dial tuning, as featured on this 1937 Troy---a radio manufacturer in Los Angeles.  From left to right we have the frequencies of 750kc (KXL), 1190kc (KEX), 1080kc (KWJJ), 970kc and 620kc (KGW). All these being Portland, Oregon stations assures us this radio was originally resided in the Portland/Vancouver area.

Mammoth radio manufacturer Philco had a similar idea with their 1938 Cone-Centric automatic tuning.  However, the selections on the dial were not simply those deemed interesting by the new owner but printed at the factory for the 'radio market' the set was to be sold in.  The dial would be installed by the shop and the stations set---the latter being a more complicated procedure than most.  Still it is interesting in what Philco decided what was to be received locally---especially in the rural Far West, where stations were few and far between.  How this information was verified is a mystery, but Philco wasn't the only radio manufacturer that did it.

This Philco was sold in Reno, Nevada market, for the one local station is KOH Reno---the only radio station in Nevada at the time.  Perhaps they had a different dial for Las Vegas, but it would be harder to discern that market now for the lack of local stations.  At the most there would been a third dial for Eastern Nevada.  California could have had a couple dozen different dials.

The stations represented left to right broadcasted from: San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Francisco, San Francisco, Denver, Seattle, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City and Reno.  On a map, we get a nice 'X' marks the spot over Reno from the various points of reception.

Reception map for 1938 Philco for Reno

Gilfillan, a Los Angeles radio manufacturer, also marketed their little Plastikon radios with regional dials.  Since no automatic tuning was involved, it was likely they were shipped directly from the factory equipped for broader markets.  The 'S' in the lower left hand corner and the stations listed suggest Seattle---but it appears the dial stood in for all of the Washington and Idaho market.

From left to right, stations represented are: Wenatchee, Spokane, Portland, Los Angeles, San Francsico, Seattle, Portland, Spokane, Seattle, Seattle, Calgary, Los Angeles, Vancouver BC, Salt Lake City, Portland, Seattle, Tacoma, Boise, Los Angeles and Spokane.  The resulting lines of travel crisscross Washington state.

Reception map for 1938 Gilfillan

Today the FCC appears to equate the public good with cramming 'choice' in our ear, with no concern if it's actually discernible or unduly repetitive---such as the same chattering Pez head at eight points across the AM dial.  Most of the clear channel allocations are now in name only, a jumble of language and music every night due to multiple stations allowed to broadcast at low power under the high powered stations.  There are exceptions, but it's no wonder radio's audience grows older by the day.

It is interesting that CFCN 1010 Calgary is on the Gilfillan dial above.  It is still under a Canadian Clear allocation, and we listen to it quite often way down here in Northern California while driving back to the ranch on winter nights.  A few years ago I noticed that the FCC had allowed a Salt Lake City NPR station to use the frequency at considerable power---perhaps 50,000 watts daytime, since we could receive it during some winter days.  Surely directional antennas were supposed to control the signal into an east west pattern, but obviously there were problems---and not just a personal annoyance over a jumble where there used to be something to listen to.  The fact that CFCN is part of the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation network---a government entity---made sure there would be swift diplomacy in the matter, and now Mother Nature is once again the only true arbitrator of that frequency.

Although I was born way after the Golden Age of Radio, I still have great respect for its potential.  One good reason is that most of my childhood was without television, and although greatly diminished, radio was still more varied and entertaining then than now.  From repeats of classic radio dramas and mysteries on KNX to Dr. Demento on KMET, from the San Francisco news on KGO to some South Carolina station caught at four in the morning---it all seemed somehow magical, that dial in the dark.  That ghostly sense of space, so close and yet so far---the voices carrying over the deserts and mountains.

There are still places in this world where radio is an honest form of news and entertainment.  In Great Britain, it's still big enough to demand a weekly glossy magazine, Radio Times.  Most of the programming is provided by the BBC---and so I ask, if we can have BBC America on cable television, why can't we have the apparently more lively BBC radio over the air?  With an allowance for advertising, it seems the perfect alternative feed for our stolidly automated American broadcasting system, barking its way into oblivion.