It is no secret gasoline powered, highway hogs with four-wheels have gained center stage in my retirement years. I can't recall a time I wasn't interested in cars of every type although my involvement with them ebbed and flowed during different periods of my life. As a teenager, cars were it; there was nothing else, that is, except girls.
Long before high school, however, I attended fifth grade at Howe School annex in Wisconsin Rapids while the new Howe School was being built on Eighth Street. The annex housed only two classrooms, one for fifth grade, the other classroom designated for sixth graders.
Howe annex was a three-story spired red brick building built in the late 19th century. It must've been erected at about the same time the county jail and court house, located nearby. They sported the same red brick. The jail was the only building without a spire. Prior to being used as a school, the annex served citizens for many years as the public library until a millionaire's manor on Third Street was willed to the city and used as the new library.
The annex, located at the bottom of the Baker Street hill, was kitty corner from our side of the city's market square. Wisconsin Rapids, by the way, is separated in two by the coffee-colored Wisconsin River.
The community was originally named by the Winnebago Indians as Ahdawagam, meaning Two-sided rapids. Later on, the west side was called Centralia and the east side was Grand Rapids. The two cities merged in 1900, choosing the singular name of Grand Rapids. In 1920, because mail and other goods were sent, instead, to Grand Rapids, Michigan, and vice versa, our citizens and town fathers agreed to change the name to Wisconsin Rapids. By the way, we lived on Wisconsin Street.
The annex's next door neighbor, just up the Baker Street hill, stood the red-bricked Wood County jail. Across the street from the jail was the Wood County Courthouse.
Walking by the jail every school day, I'd see prisoners' waving hands push out between barred windows as their owners noisily called out for beer, wine, cigarettes, and the key to unlock their cells. It was their daily greeting. I grinned and waved back, shaking my head. Naturally, I couldn’t nor wouldn't give them what they craved.
Winnebago Indians, in jail for public drunkenness and raising hell, became docile days after and usually performed yard work around the jail and courthouse. They pretty much said nothing but kept busy raking and mowing and planting or shoveling snow during the winter until they were released and could raise hell once again. Sheriff Becker's wife was the jail's cook. His son, Dave, a year older than I, told me prisoners preferred his mother's fare to home cooked meals. I don't know if I believed him.
Back to cars. I asked our teacher, Miss Leverence, to approve as part of her class writing project my proposal to write a letter to an Akron tire company, requesting a poster that had pictures of cars using their tires ever since the beginning of the 20th century to the present, which was 1948.
I noticed on the bottom of the magazine advertisement the tire company would send free of charge a poster-sized copy of the page just for the asking if only one would send them a letter requesting one. That was enough for me.
I received an A on my project the day after a cardboard cylinder with a two foot by three foot glossy poster inside arrived at our home. That day I brought the poster to school and proudly showed it to all my buddies and also to a few girls who really weren't that interested. "Oh," they remarked and turned to other girls and talked about what they considered more important topics. The boys looked long and hard at the pictures, discussing the differences in style and color.
Later that afternoon, Miss Leverence attached my poster to a bulletin board, pressing with her thumb a shiny thumbtack on each corner. That event was similar to one the military has when it pins medals on brave soldier's chests. I felt so important, so honored. On the last day of that school year, Miss Leverence took it down and presented that work of art to me. Aided with Scotch tape, I placed it on my bedroom wall above the aquarium of tropical fish my piano teacher born with club feet had given to me.
Cool autumn days after a short, hot summer announced to most Wisconsin Rapids males, men and boys alike, that the new car showing would soon take place. That's when automobile dealers displayed next year's models on the very same night.
Back then, most dealerships sold one model, including one selling Plymouth while another dealt solely in Dodge or Desoto or Studebaker or Chrysler or Hudson or Lincoln or Packard or Pontiac or Buick or Nash or Ford or Mercury or Willys. A few dealers sold more than one model and make, including Crosley, Kaiser, Frazer, and Henry J's at one location and another dealer on Eighth Street South selling Oldsmobiles, Cadillacs, and Chevrolets.
The Buick dealer was only a block away from Howe annex and at least once a week after school we'd check out those huge land yachts through the showroom window and attempt to discover if any fresh used cars were in the Buick's outdoor lot.
Piquing our interest at least one month before the event, car manufacturers loaded next year's models on transport trucks in Detroit and covered the cars with cloth, except for the windshield and rear window in order that nobody other than the dealers and their employees could actually view the differences between the new cars and previous year's models. Also, most dealers locked their showroom doors and covered the inside of the showroom windows with paper so no one could peek into the area.
Finally, the night of the exciting event arrived. It officially began at 6 p.m. when most workers not on the second shift at the Consolidated Paper mill would be able to attend the new model inauguration after they finished their evening meal.
Singular paths of bright light, reminiscent of heaven's highways, illuminated the night sky as dealers activated rented searchlights outside their showrooms in order to enhance the car-inspecting, tire-kicking, and automobile buying fury that ensued.
Brothers Paul and Glen Danielson and Bobby and Jim Kell and I rushed to the Ford garage because it was closest to the Danielson home. Among the inquisitive folks at all the dealerships that night were men, a few women accompanying them, a horde of teenage boys and pre-teens boys like us.
Salesmen and dealers treated everyone including us with cordial respect and great big smiles although we understood there was a pecking order for us to follow. First in line to sit behind the new car's steering wheel were husbands accompanied by their wives. She sat in the passenger seat. The pair was given precedence, I suspect, because with the wife along, that meant her man was one serious buyer. She usually approved of her mate's car and motor choice but it was she who decided the vehicle's color.
Many women in those days did not drive. After my father died in 1951, one of my mother's driving instructors was my 17-year-old brother Jim.
Next in line were unaccompanied adult men followed by teens and finally we kids. Even we were greeted with big smiles while salesmen opened the car door and invited us to sit behind the steering wheel.
If there were too many people who would be given precedence over us, and we'd have to wait for some length of time before we got into the new car, off we went to yet another dealer. Before we left, however, we grabbed all the free brochures and literature we could.
Since my dad was an Oldsmobile man, Mister Sickles, the salesman at that dealership, told me, "Bring the Doc with you tomorrow and he might let you steer the car." I smiled but I didn't tell dad anything. He decided when he needed a new car, not me. Later, Mister Rokus at the Pontiac dealership asked me if my dad would be interested in changing from Oldsmobile to owning a Pontiac. I hunched my shoulders. No matter. Mr. Rokus bid me to enter the car with the Indian chief on the hood. i grabbed the steering wheel and turned it as best as I could. What a deal. A boy can dream, can't he?
Days later, using the brochures and pamphlets we took home with us we boys were able to perform independent research and talk and argue among ourselves as to which model was best. Those were the days, my friend. Those were the days.
Long before high school, however, I attended fifth grade at Howe School annex in Wisconsin Rapids while the new Howe School was being built on Eighth Street. The annex housed only two classrooms, one for fifth grade, the other classroom designated for sixth graders.
Howe annex was a three-story spired red brick building built in the late 19th century. It must've been erected at about the same time the county jail and court house, located nearby. They sported the same red brick. The jail was the only building without a spire. Prior to being used as a school, the annex served citizens for many years as the public library until a millionaire's manor on Third Street was willed to the city and used as the new library.
The annex, located at the bottom of the Baker Street hill, was kitty corner from our side of the city's market square. Wisconsin Rapids, by the way, is separated in two by the coffee-colored Wisconsin River.
The community was originally named by the Winnebago Indians as Ahdawagam, meaning Two-sided rapids. Later on, the west side was called Centralia and the east side was Grand Rapids. The two cities merged in 1900, choosing the singular name of Grand Rapids. In 1920, because mail and other goods were sent, instead, to Grand Rapids, Michigan, and vice versa, our citizens and town fathers agreed to change the name to Wisconsin Rapids. By the way, we lived on Wisconsin Street.
The annex's next door neighbor, just up the Baker Street hill, stood the red-bricked Wood County jail. Across the street from the jail was the Wood County Courthouse.
Walking by the jail every school day, I'd see prisoners' waving hands push out between barred windows as their owners noisily called out for beer, wine, cigarettes, and the key to unlock their cells. It was their daily greeting. I grinned and waved back, shaking my head. Naturally, I couldn’t nor wouldn't give them what they craved.
Winnebago Indians, in jail for public drunkenness and raising hell, became docile days after and usually performed yard work around the jail and courthouse. They pretty much said nothing but kept busy raking and mowing and planting or shoveling snow during the winter until they were released and could raise hell once again. Sheriff Becker's wife was the jail's cook. His son, Dave, a year older than I, told me prisoners preferred his mother's fare to home cooked meals. I don't know if I believed him.
Back to cars. I asked our teacher, Miss Leverence, to approve as part of her class writing project my proposal to write a letter to an Akron tire company, requesting a poster that had pictures of cars using their tires ever since the beginning of the 20th century to the present, which was 1948.
I noticed on the bottom of the magazine advertisement the tire company would send free of charge a poster-sized copy of the page just for the asking if only one would send them a letter requesting one. That was enough for me.
I received an A on my project the day after a cardboard cylinder with a two foot by three foot glossy poster inside arrived at our home. That day I brought the poster to school and proudly showed it to all my buddies and also to a few girls who really weren't that interested. "Oh," they remarked and turned to other girls and talked about what they considered more important topics. The boys looked long and hard at the pictures, discussing the differences in style and color.
Later that afternoon, Miss Leverence attached my poster to a bulletin board, pressing with her thumb a shiny thumbtack on each corner. That event was similar to one the military has when it pins medals on brave soldier's chests. I felt so important, so honored. On the last day of that school year, Miss Leverence took it down and presented that work of art to me. Aided with Scotch tape, I placed it on my bedroom wall above the aquarium of tropical fish my piano teacher born with club feet had given to me.
Cool autumn days after a short, hot summer announced to most Wisconsin Rapids males, men and boys alike, that the new car showing would soon take place. That's when automobile dealers displayed next year's models on the very same night.
Back then, most dealerships sold one model, including one selling Plymouth while another dealt solely in Dodge or Desoto or Studebaker or Chrysler or Hudson or Lincoln or Packard or Pontiac or Buick or Nash or Ford or Mercury or Willys. A few dealers sold more than one model and make, including Crosley, Kaiser, Frazer, and Henry J's at one location and another dealer on Eighth Street South selling Oldsmobiles, Cadillacs, and Chevrolets.
The Buick dealer was only a block away from Howe annex and at least once a week after school we'd check out those huge land yachts through the showroom window and attempt to discover if any fresh used cars were in the Buick's outdoor lot.
Piquing our interest at least one month before the event, car manufacturers loaded next year's models on transport trucks in Detroit and covered the cars with cloth, except for the windshield and rear window in order that nobody other than the dealers and their employees could actually view the differences between the new cars and previous year's models. Also, most dealers locked their showroom doors and covered the inside of the showroom windows with paper so no one could peek into the area.
Finally, the night of the exciting event arrived. It officially began at 6 p.m. when most workers not on the second shift at the Consolidated Paper mill would be able to attend the new model inauguration after they finished their evening meal.
Singular paths of bright light, reminiscent of heaven's highways, illuminated the night sky as dealers activated rented searchlights outside their showrooms in order to enhance the car-inspecting, tire-kicking, and automobile buying fury that ensued.
Brothers Paul and Glen Danielson and Bobby and Jim Kell and I rushed to the Ford garage because it was closest to the Danielson home. Among the inquisitive folks at all the dealerships that night were men, a few women accompanying them, a horde of teenage boys and pre-teens boys like us.
Salesmen and dealers treated everyone including us with cordial respect and great big smiles although we understood there was a pecking order for us to follow. First in line to sit behind the new car's steering wheel were husbands accompanied by their wives. She sat in the passenger seat. The pair was given precedence, I suspect, because with the wife along, that meant her man was one serious buyer. She usually approved of her mate's car and motor choice but it was she who decided the vehicle's color.
Many women in those days did not drive. After my father died in 1951, one of my mother's driving instructors was my 17-year-old brother Jim.
Next in line were unaccompanied adult men followed by teens and finally we kids. Even we were greeted with big smiles while salesmen opened the car door and invited us to sit behind the steering wheel.
If there were too many people who would be given precedence over us, and we'd have to wait for some length of time before we got into the new car, off we went to yet another dealer. Before we left, however, we grabbed all the free brochures and literature we could.
Since my dad was an Oldsmobile man, Mister Sickles, the salesman at that dealership, told me, "Bring the Doc with you tomorrow and he might let you steer the car." I smiled but I didn't tell dad anything. He decided when he needed a new car, not me. Later, Mister Rokus at the Pontiac dealership asked me if my dad would be interested in changing from Oldsmobile to owning a Pontiac. I hunched my shoulders. No matter. Mr. Rokus bid me to enter the car with the Indian chief on the hood. i grabbed the steering wheel and turned it as best as I could. What a deal. A boy can dream, can't he?
Days later, using the brochures and pamphlets we took home with us we boys were able to perform independent research and talk and argue among ourselves as to which model was best. Those were the days, my friend. Those were the days.
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