Well, Diary, I must've been tired last night. I wrote that Dr. Spaeth's office is above Church's Drugstore. Dr. Spaeth is my dentist. And his office is in a building on this side of the river. Dr. Nehls' office is above Church's drugstore.
Dr. Nehls and Dad are friends, too. Also, Dr. Nehls is Mother's dentist. His wife and Mother are friends. Dr. Nehls' hair is white. Mrs. Nehls' hair is what Mother says is "salt and pepper," a mixture of black and white.
The Nehls are nice people. They live in a big house on the other side of the river on First Avenue. Our side of the river has numbered streets. Across the river, they have numbered avenues. That's how you know which side of the river you're on if you're not from town. If you're on First Street, you're on our side. If you're on First Avenue, you're on the other side. And if you live on the other side of the river, you might call our side, "the other side." It all depends on where you live.
First Avenue is a busy road. It runs by the National Guard Armory and a root beer stand that has the best root beer floats in town. If you stay on First Avenue long enough, you'll eventually go through Port Edwards and then Nekoosa. Each town has its own paper mill. They're smaller than ours.
Across the avenue from the Nehls' house is a city park. The Wisconsin River is on the other side of the park. It's a pretty place with lots of tall trees and plenty of shade on a hot summer day. I like its real neat railroad bridge that crosses above the river.
Dawn Nehls is a year younger than I am. She's a lot smarter, too. Besides those two things, she's pretty and smiles nice. The first time I remember visiting the Nehls, she took me across the street into the park. "We have a very unique park," she said.
She did say, "unique." So, I figured right then and there she was smart. When we saw a squirrel dash from one large tree to another, she said, "Notice anything different about that squirrel."
Because I stutter when I get excited, I just shrugged. I didn't see anything different.
"It's black," she said. "This is the only park in the city that has black squirrels."
"It is black," I said. I was amazed. I don't think I ever saw a black squirrel before.
Dawn gave names to all the trees in the park. I was so impressed. When we got near the river, she asked me, "Do you know why our river stinks?"
"Because of the carp," I managed to say.
She pointed to the junk we could see floating in the river and said, "The only reason it stinks is because paper mills, ours included, dump chemicals and junk into it.”
"Oh," I managed to say.
"Someday, somebody will stop them from doing that because the river doesn't belong to the Meads. (The Meads own our paper mill). It belongs to us."
"I don't own it."
"Oh, yes you do. You're a citizen of the United States. Aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Then, this river is part yours."
Wow. I'm part owner of a river. Neat.
When we got to the road in the park, Dawn pointed up at the railroad bridge. "Do you know what that steel structure is called?"
Structure? I think I heard the word before, but never from a kid. See how smart she is. Once again, I shrugged. It was a railroad bridge. At least, that's what I thought until then.
"It's a trestle," she said.
If I lived on First Avenue near Dawn, I'd certainly learn a lot. She's smarter than any boy I know.
Well, anyway, Diary, I hope I got all that straightened out. Because I'm writing about my walk after I finished my first piano lesson with Mrs. Majewski. And Doctor Nehls' office is above Church's, not Dr. Spaeth's.
So, there I was, standing on the corner by the First National Bank. The big outdoor clock had just bonged three times. Some kid across the street called out, "You oughta hear that car's engine. You won't believe it." He pointed down the street
He wasn't just yelling at me. He was yelling at everyone. So, why'd he think we should hear a car's engine? Anyway, I thought I should go. I love everything about cars and had time. So, instead of crossing the street, I turned and followed other people to the spot where a large crowd had gathered.
I heard the salesman before I got there. He was tall and skinny. He had a thin, dark mustache. Each side of that thin brush moved on its own. It was most peculiar. Dad can't do that with his mustache.
Skinny held a microphone, its cord attached to a speaker on the roof of his 1948 Buick Roadmaster. It had Indiana license plates. The reason I knew it was a '48 Roadmaster is due to Doc III, Dork, and my playing a game whenever Dad takes the family on a Sunday drive.
Whenever we saw a car come toward us in the other lane, the first one to call out the make and model correctly got to tap, not hit hard, the other two on the upper arm. Yeah, and if you believe that, you'll believe anything. After getting many black and blue marks, I learned to quickly identify each and every car. To this day, I still know them by heart.
Back to Skinny. He had laid his suit coat on the driver's side fender, which he stood by. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, letting everyone know he was ready to get to work. Most of his tie was stuffed between two shirt buttons. Most likely so it wouldn't dangle on the engine and get greasy.
He spoke into the mike as he held up a spark plug. "You won't believe it, folks. You absolutely won't believe it. I didn't believe it either when I first heard how this Spark-O-Matic spark plug will revitalize your engine. You won't believe it. I didn't believe it either. I thought there's something wrong here. Until, folks, until I purchased eight of these Spark-O-Matic spark plugs for my car. Each Spark-O-Matic has six electrodes . . . count 'em . . . six. Count 'em." He pointed to a nice looking lady near him. She had a flower pinned to her dress. "Would you count 'em, Ma'am, because I don't think folks are believing me?"
"We believe you," a man in the crowd called out.
"Thank you, sir," said the salesman. "A true gentleman if I ever heard one."
Skinny pushed the microphone at the lady. She kind of hesitated. Finally, she started, "One. "Two. Three. Four. Five. Six."
Skinny smiled. "You hear that folks?" He looked at the lady. "Do we know each other?" Again, he pushed the microphone at her.
"No," she said.
"So, you're not my sister and you wouldn't lie for me, would you?"
The pretty lady's cheeks puffed out. "I never," she said.
People standing around me laughed. So did I. The salesman also laughed as he started the Buick's engine. It sounded as if it was hitting on three, not eight cylinders.
"I'm sorry, lady," said Skinny. "No disrespect meant. Now, folks, you hear that? My engine sounds a little sluggish. Am I correct?"
"Yeah," yelled a couple men in the crowd.
"Well, I'll tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna replace those spark plugs I bought at our Western Auto store last week in Indianapolis. You hear me? A week ago. I'm gonna replace each with a Spark-O-Matic. You can't buy Spark-O-Matic spark plugs at Western Auto or Montgomery Ward or anyplace else. And I guarantee you won't believe your ears after you buy your Spark-O-Matics from me. You won't believe the amount of money you have left in your pocketbooks this time next year, either."
He shut off the coughing, jerking engine. While removing the old spark plugs and replacing them with Spark-O-Matics, he continued, "Folks, today, and only today, I will sell these Spark-O-Matic sparkplugs for one dollar and twenty-five cents each. That's a dollar and two bits. You're gonna improve the power of your car, increase its gas mileage. You'll up its horsepower by ten to twenty-eight. You'll get faster starts. And during your cold Wisconsin winters, that means a lot, don't it folks?"
"You better believe it," yelled a man in the crowd.
"And," continued Skinny, "you're gonna get six hundred per cent more spark action. That's what I said, folks, six hundred per cent. Spark-O-Matics are self-cleaning. They have nickel cadmium shells and unbreakable aircraft insulators. You heard me right. The same insulators that are in the P-51 Mustang. And each Spark-O-Matic has a lifetime guarantee. Folks, these spark plugs actually cost less because they outlast ordinary plugs ten to one. And for every six Spark-O-Matics you buy from me, I will give you, free of charge, this coil resistor capacitor. Free. Did you hear me?"
"We hear," said a couple more men.
When Skinny finished installing his spark plugs, he started the car. "Whoosh," the engine went.
"Whoo-wee, it does sound like a Mustang," called out the same man who had before yelled, "I believe you.” He continued. "I should know. I flew a Mustang during the war. And I'm going to buy six of those Spark-O-Matics for my Chevy."
"That'll be seven dollars and fifty cents," said Skinny. "Plus you get a coil resistor capacitor for free."
"It's worth every cent," said the World War II ace.
A line formed behind him. Men were reaching in their back pockets for their wallets.
"You don't have to push, folks," warned Skinny. "I got plenty of Spark-O-Matics."
I just had to tell Dad about those marvelous wonders. And that's exactly what I did. After he was finished with his last patient. When we went downstairs, I was upset. No more crowd. No more '48 Roadmaster. No more Spark-O-Matics. "He's not there. He was across from that bakery on the corner."
"Too bad," said Dad.
On our return from house calls in the country, Dad said, "Want a root beer?"
"Oh, do I."
We stopped at the Baker Street A&W. And surprise of surprises, next to us was parked the 1948 Buick Roadmaster with Spark-O-Matic spark plugs. Skinny sat in the driver seat. The pretty lady with the flower pinned to her dress sat next to him in the passenger seat. In the car's rear was the kid who yelled at us to go hear the Buick's engine. Sitting next to the kid was the World War II Mustang pilot. The lady with the flower lifted a load of money in her hands. "We did good, guys. On to the next one-horse burg where we'll fleece the rubes."
"Did you hear that, Dad?"
"Hear what?"
"I-uh. Oh, never mind."
And that, Diary, was my first introduction to flim-flam artists. Since then, I've heard many more, mostly when the carnival comes to town. And that's when I recall Skinny and his Spark-O-Matics.
Dr. Nehls and Dad are friends, too. Also, Dr. Nehls is Mother's dentist. His wife and Mother are friends. Dr. Nehls' hair is white. Mrs. Nehls' hair is what Mother says is "salt and pepper," a mixture of black and white.
The Nehls are nice people. They live in a big house on the other side of the river on First Avenue. Our side of the river has numbered streets. Across the river, they have numbered avenues. That's how you know which side of the river you're on if you're not from town. If you're on First Street, you're on our side. If you're on First Avenue, you're on the other side. And if you live on the other side of the river, you might call our side, "the other side." It all depends on where you live.
First Avenue is a busy road. It runs by the National Guard Armory and a root beer stand that has the best root beer floats in town. If you stay on First Avenue long enough, you'll eventually go through Port Edwards and then Nekoosa. Each town has its own paper mill. They're smaller than ours.
Across the avenue from the Nehls' house is a city park. The Wisconsin River is on the other side of the park. It's a pretty place with lots of tall trees and plenty of shade on a hot summer day. I like its real neat railroad bridge that crosses above the river.
Dawn Nehls is a year younger than I am. She's a lot smarter, too. Besides those two things, she's pretty and smiles nice. The first time I remember visiting the Nehls, she took me across the street into the park. "We have a very unique park," she said.
She did say, "unique." So, I figured right then and there she was smart. When we saw a squirrel dash from one large tree to another, she said, "Notice anything different about that squirrel."
Because I stutter when I get excited, I just shrugged. I didn't see anything different.
"It's black," she said. "This is the only park in the city that has black squirrels."
"It is black," I said. I was amazed. I don't think I ever saw a black squirrel before.
Dawn gave names to all the trees in the park. I was so impressed. When we got near the river, she asked me, "Do you know why our river stinks?"
"Because of the carp," I managed to say.
She pointed to the junk we could see floating in the river and said, "The only reason it stinks is because paper mills, ours included, dump chemicals and junk into it.”
"Oh," I managed to say.
"Someday, somebody will stop them from doing that because the river doesn't belong to the Meads. (The Meads own our paper mill). It belongs to us."
"I don't own it."
"Oh, yes you do. You're a citizen of the United States. Aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Then, this river is part yours."
Wow. I'm part owner of a river. Neat.
When we got to the road in the park, Dawn pointed up at the railroad bridge. "Do you know what that steel structure is called?"
Structure? I think I heard the word before, but never from a kid. See how smart she is. Once again, I shrugged. It was a railroad bridge. At least, that's what I thought until then.
"It's a trestle," she said.
If I lived on First Avenue near Dawn, I'd certainly learn a lot. She's smarter than any boy I know.
Well, anyway, Diary, I hope I got all that straightened out. Because I'm writing about my walk after I finished my first piano lesson with Mrs. Majewski. And Doctor Nehls' office is above Church's, not Dr. Spaeth's.
So, there I was, standing on the corner by the First National Bank. The big outdoor clock had just bonged three times. Some kid across the street called out, "You oughta hear that car's engine. You won't believe it." He pointed down the street
He wasn't just yelling at me. He was yelling at everyone. So, why'd he think we should hear a car's engine? Anyway, I thought I should go. I love everything about cars and had time. So, instead of crossing the street, I turned and followed other people to the spot where a large crowd had gathered.
I heard the salesman before I got there. He was tall and skinny. He had a thin, dark mustache. Each side of that thin brush moved on its own. It was most peculiar. Dad can't do that with his mustache.
Skinny held a microphone, its cord attached to a speaker on the roof of his 1948 Buick Roadmaster. It had Indiana license plates. The reason I knew it was a '48 Roadmaster is due to Doc III, Dork, and my playing a game whenever Dad takes the family on a Sunday drive.
Whenever we saw a car come toward us in the other lane, the first one to call out the make and model correctly got to tap, not hit hard, the other two on the upper arm. Yeah, and if you believe that, you'll believe anything. After getting many black and blue marks, I learned to quickly identify each and every car. To this day, I still know them by heart.
Back to Skinny. He had laid his suit coat on the driver's side fender, which he stood by. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, letting everyone know he was ready to get to work. Most of his tie was stuffed between two shirt buttons. Most likely so it wouldn't dangle on the engine and get greasy.
He spoke into the mike as he held up a spark plug. "You won't believe it, folks. You absolutely won't believe it. I didn't believe it either when I first heard how this Spark-O-Matic spark plug will revitalize your engine. You won't believe it. I didn't believe it either. I thought there's something wrong here. Until, folks, until I purchased eight of these Spark-O-Matic spark plugs for my car. Each Spark-O-Matic has six electrodes . . . count 'em . . . six. Count 'em." He pointed to a nice looking lady near him. She had a flower pinned to her dress. "Would you count 'em, Ma'am, because I don't think folks are believing me?"
"We believe you," a man in the crowd called out.
"Thank you, sir," said the salesman. "A true gentleman if I ever heard one."
Skinny pushed the microphone at the lady. She kind of hesitated. Finally, she started, "One. "Two. Three. Four. Five. Six."
Skinny smiled. "You hear that folks?" He looked at the lady. "Do we know each other?" Again, he pushed the microphone at her.
"No," she said.
"So, you're not my sister and you wouldn't lie for me, would you?"
The pretty lady's cheeks puffed out. "I never," she said.
People standing around me laughed. So did I. The salesman also laughed as he started the Buick's engine. It sounded as if it was hitting on three, not eight cylinders.
"I'm sorry, lady," said Skinny. "No disrespect meant. Now, folks, you hear that? My engine sounds a little sluggish. Am I correct?"
"Yeah," yelled a couple men in the crowd.
"Well, I'll tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna replace those spark plugs I bought at our Western Auto store last week in Indianapolis. You hear me? A week ago. I'm gonna replace each with a Spark-O-Matic. You can't buy Spark-O-Matic spark plugs at Western Auto or Montgomery Ward or anyplace else. And I guarantee you won't believe your ears after you buy your Spark-O-Matics from me. You won't believe the amount of money you have left in your pocketbooks this time next year, either."
He shut off the coughing, jerking engine. While removing the old spark plugs and replacing them with Spark-O-Matics, he continued, "Folks, today, and only today, I will sell these Spark-O-Matic sparkplugs for one dollar and twenty-five cents each. That's a dollar and two bits. You're gonna improve the power of your car, increase its gas mileage. You'll up its horsepower by ten to twenty-eight. You'll get faster starts. And during your cold Wisconsin winters, that means a lot, don't it folks?"
"You better believe it," yelled a man in the crowd.
"And," continued Skinny, "you're gonna get six hundred per cent more spark action. That's what I said, folks, six hundred per cent. Spark-O-Matics are self-cleaning. They have nickel cadmium shells and unbreakable aircraft insulators. You heard me right. The same insulators that are in the P-51 Mustang. And each Spark-O-Matic has a lifetime guarantee. Folks, these spark plugs actually cost less because they outlast ordinary plugs ten to one. And for every six Spark-O-Matics you buy from me, I will give you, free of charge, this coil resistor capacitor. Free. Did you hear me?"
"We hear," said a couple more men.
When Skinny finished installing his spark plugs, he started the car. "Whoosh," the engine went.
"Whoo-wee, it does sound like a Mustang," called out the same man who had before yelled, "I believe you.” He continued. "I should know. I flew a Mustang during the war. And I'm going to buy six of those Spark-O-Matics for my Chevy."
"That'll be seven dollars and fifty cents," said Skinny. "Plus you get a coil resistor capacitor for free."
"It's worth every cent," said the World War II ace.
A line formed behind him. Men were reaching in their back pockets for their wallets.
"You don't have to push, folks," warned Skinny. "I got plenty of Spark-O-Matics."
I just had to tell Dad about those marvelous wonders. And that's exactly what I did. After he was finished with his last patient. When we went downstairs, I was upset. No more crowd. No more '48 Roadmaster. No more Spark-O-Matics. "He's not there. He was across from that bakery on the corner."
"Too bad," said Dad.
On our return from house calls in the country, Dad said, "Want a root beer?"
"Oh, do I."
We stopped at the Baker Street A&W. And surprise of surprises, next to us was parked the 1948 Buick Roadmaster with Spark-O-Matic spark plugs. Skinny sat in the driver seat. The pretty lady with the flower pinned to her dress sat next to him in the passenger seat. In the car's rear was the kid who yelled at us to go hear the Buick's engine. Sitting next to the kid was the World War II Mustang pilot. The lady with the flower lifted a load of money in her hands. "We did good, guys. On to the next one-horse burg where we'll fleece the rubes."
"Did you hear that, Dad?"
"Hear what?"
"I-uh. Oh, never mind."
And that, Diary, was my first introduction to flim-flam artists. Since then, I've heard many more, mostly when the carnival comes to town. And that's when I recall Skinny and his Spark-O-Matics.
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