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Our parents were part of what is now known as “The Greatest Generation.” Their lives were changed forever on Dec 7^th 1941 when Imperial Japan bombed Pearl Harbor.

Men and women (for the first time) left their hometowns and went off to war in places no one had ever heard of. There was an evil loose in the world, and the whole country united to clean it up. When they got back their horizons had changed, and they wanted a better life for themselves and those they loved.  Social Security was broadened to provide a retirement income for everyone. Health insurance and safer working conditions were demanded, and of course better schools for all colors of Americans were finally a reality. The G. I. Bill allowed eager young couples to own their own homes and start a family.  The resulting Baby Boom still reverberates some 70 years later.  As well-scrubbed members of the Livermore High School Senior Class of 1961, we were the products of those efforts.  

Our class graduated 60 years ago this year, and since my son Mikey & I were in Monterey this summer (see the “Down In Monterey” story) we took a little side trip to Livermore to look around. I brought my senior yearbook with me.

That’s my friend Tina on the far left, Yearbook Photo Editor.  This picture became the frontispiece for the 1961 yearbook, EL VAQUERO (The Cowboy).  Everyone just happened to be standing there waiting for the bell to ring, so Tina put her camera on something solid, set the timer and jumped into the frame. Yep, seventeen and eighteen year old students really did dress that way back then. We were of all different nationalities, income levels, abilities, talents and backgrounds, and that was OK.  We were all just trying to be our best selves … whatever that may be.            

As freshmen, we were the Sputnik Class. For those of you who don’t remember, the USSR launched a basketball sized satellite in the summer of 1957 that was the first object to orbit the earth. The U.S. rocket program in ‘57 was barely more than a part-time hobby, and all of a sudden we needed to train more rocket scientists to Catch up with them Russians.

The Lawrence Livermore Radiation Laboratory (the RAD Lab) just outside of town is part of The University of California Berkeley, and  one of our country’s leading research facilities. Suddenly it was drowning in money, and our school opened a brand new science building that fall.

About half the class were children of Lab employees, and half were from local farmers and ranchers that went back generations. All the incoming freshmen were given I. Q. tests to see if they could qualify for “College Prep” classes, to become rocket scientists I suppose. Those who didn’t make the cut went into Future Farmers of America (FFA) trade programs, and girls who were not “College Prep” trained for homemaking or secretarial skills.  At least in the Freshman class, your choice of classes were made for you.

In spite of being prohibited from taking Auto Shop, my friends and I did cobble together several hot rods and a few motorcycles. That old saw about “God watches out for little children, dumb animals and helpless drunks”… should be extended to include “and teenage mechanics.”

The director George Lucas graduated high school in 1962 and filmed AMERICAN GRAFFITI largely in his home town of Modesto, about 45 miles from Livermore. We did all that stuff, or knew someone who did, including chaining the rear axle of a police cruiser to a large sturdy pole.

 As far as I know, no one became a rocket scientist, and the USSR has ceased to exist. We now share an orbiting space station with the Russians, and lots of the FFA kids became more successful, at least moneywise, than the college kids.

Visiting the old school was interesting. The big handles on the lovely Spanish Revival front entry doors were chained shut (actual chain). You now enter campus through an ugly wire fence and a metal detector out in the parking lot. I didn’t bother trying.  

The parking lot in our day usually had several well-used pickup trucks with gunracks in the back window.  Small bore rifles and shotguns were necessary tools for those who lived on ranches, and no one thought it necessary to lock their truck’s doors. Who’d steal a family’s tools?  Some guys wore pocketknives in small leather scabbards on their belts.  Things sure change.

Of the classmates I still know, drugs, violence, and the betrayal of Viet Nam still show in the faces of some. Problems with children, and hope for grandchildren show in brave smiles. Failed marriage is a common topic.  There are some obvious health problems, some aggravated by smoking, overeating, and some just by life.  A surprising number have traveled around the world by every means possible, including flying, driving and sailing. Some are planning (hoping) to do it again.

There are PhDs, patent holders, doctors, and other symbols of societal esteem.  Overall, I’d say there are lots of successes, lots of battles won, some draws, and some really hard lessons learned in defeat.

As Steve Jobs said in his Stanford graduation address shortly before he passed, you only connect the dots of your life by looking backward, to see how your choices resulted in who you are. It doesn’t work looking forward…you have to walk forward by faith.

I’d like to think that 17-year-old baby boomer who took his first steps into the world his parents created is still here somewhere.  My Inner Child … disguised by the trappings of maturity?  Wouldn’t it be great to bump into him on campus?  After introducing myself, I’d ask him to sit down … please let me look into your eyes … and let’s talk.

Until next time, thanks for listening.

Duane

“Boys just love to play with their toys.”

That’s what Jackie Kennedy said when asked why the U.S. was stuck in a war her late husband  had predicted would be “Hopeless.”

During the Viet Nam era, both Johnson and Nixon often personally reviewed daily bombing runs.  Remember Operation Linebacker, Bomb the Shit Outa (BSO) North Viet Nam, then BSO Laos, then BSO Cambodia, then BSO parts of South Viet Nam … to keep them from going communist. 

In Saigon, the daily press briefings for an unbelieving and increasingly hostile press corps became known as the “Five O’clock follies” as the White House continued spewing fantasy.

The fictional body counts, and lines such as “We had to destroy the village in order to save it” eventually cost the support of the press and of middle America.  Were their sons really “Fighting and dying to make the world safe for democracy?”

Nam pretty much doomed both Johnson’s and Nixon’s presidencies, but neither could bring himself to stop playing.  Neither had ever been in the military, much less in actual combat.

The U.S. has been at war in one form or another since about 1941, and the last time we actually won was about 1945.  Korea … nope.  ‘Nam … nope. Gulf … nope. Syria … nope. Afghan’ … nope. But the Military Industrial Complex (M.I.C.)  Eisenhower warned us about has been and still is happily cranking out weapons to supply over 750 military bases in about 80 countries and territories around the world.  You can Google that.

For the record, I understand the necessity for the military, but I am still very much ANTIWAR. I did six years in U S Army Intel. Top Secret with Cryptographic Access Security Clearance.  I mostly defended Boston.  A total waste of time, money and, in Viet Nam, lives.  

In our latest military foray, not many actual Americans have died in combat (good) and the home team seems to be rallying after giving up some early points. This latest batch of war toys, I’ve got to admit contains some pretty cool stuff. 

Satellites, drones, AWACs, J-STARS, and Growler aircraft can supply geo-coordinates without ever flying over enemy territory.  Target info is downloaded to precision guided munitions that actually change course during flight (in case that target moves) and then bonks the bad guys from over 30 miles away.  How cool is that? With kamikaze drones you see what the drone sees, before it destroys itself and the target while you watch the whole thing from the comfort of your living room.                                              

                                                                        YEA TEAM!

Yea M.I.C… with key operations located in key congressional districts.

With our key congressmen on key fact- finding tours, spending about 135 million/day in Ukraine.

Pictured above is Ukraine President Zelenskyy shaking hands with U.S. Senator Mitch McConnell (R-Kentucky), senior member of the Appropriations Committee.  Lockheed Martin (L. M.) the largest defense contractor at $40 Billion per year, has a large facility in … drum roll … Lexington, Kentucky.  It employees over 3,000 people with a $150 million payroll, plus it keeps hundreds of in-state suppliers busy.   

L. M. makes the HIMARS rocket system we’ve been hearing so much about too.  Nice going, Mitch.  

I wonder what Jackie would think of that toy?

Now this is the kinda war we know how ta fight. Actual bridges and buildings and airports to blow up.  No more tunnels, mud huts, and caves, spending zillions to splatter. Enemy tanks … toasted. Ammo dumps … annihilated. Captured soldiers … caught on camera.

All our NATO “allies” are sending their 10- to 20-year-old stuff, lots of it originally supplied by Uncle Sam, to Ukraine. Tanks, guns, and aircraft, all on condition that Uncle re-supply those “allies” with our latest stuff at little or no cost. 

Unfortunately the SEVENTY FIVE BILLION DOLLARS in weapons we left behind in Afghan’ will be staying there. Brown University estimates we spent $2.9 TRILLION during our stay there, and $5.8 TRILLION in the general area following 9/11. No hard numbers are (of course) available from the Pentagon.  

The Pentagon gets about $800 BILLION to spend every year (Russia spends about $50 BILLION and China roughly $250 BILLION).  One congressman describes it as “A fire hose of money that ya gotta spray somewhere.” And each fiefdom in the Pentagon has its own accounting system, purposely incompatible with the one down the hall.  “It’s like having a house where each wall plug is a different voltage,” said the same congressman.  “It’s a wonder anything gets done or winds up in the right place.”

The Pentagon is rife with stories of contracts that are automatically renewed, for stuff that hasn’t been used in 10 years, and for spare parts for which there is already a 20-year supply.  Storage depots keep expanding, as it’s MUCH easier to store outdated material than it is to safely dispose of it.

Even Elon Musk is getting in on the action. One of the first things Vladimir Putin did was disable the internet connections of everyone in the area. Communication and geolocating are essential war fighting tools, just like the video game Call of Duty. Within two days, Elon had huge shipments of Starlink kits on the ground to reestablish internet access.  Anyone with a small dish and a solar battery was now able to access one of over 2,000 satellites and send voice, video, and text to the whole world.

I wonder if the conversation went something like this: “Look Elon, I know yer a rich guy, but this is the Pentagon fer criss sake!  We don’t have time for no contracts.  Just do it. Tell us the number and we’ll cut ya’ a check.”

Perhaps it’s because President  Zelenskyy was an actor in his previous job that he’s been able to keep the world’s attention for the last 6 months or so. No small feat.  And every time he survives another week, President Sleepy Joe (P.S. J.) comes up with another “tranche” to send him.  Does P.S. J. have a wad of petty cash somewhere (remember that fire hose)? We’ve sent over $54 Billion to Ukraine so far, and most of those bucks have or will come back to the M.I.C.

‘Cause they do make the best toys in the world.   

Until next time, thanks for listening.

Duane

MONTEREY CAR WEEK is a world class event by any standard. The Pebble Beach Concourse, the Laguna Seca Historic Races, The Quail, McCall’s Jet Center, plus all the art shows, auctions, new car intros … it’s literally more than you can do in 7 days.  You have to decide which events you’ll experience, and which you’ll regrettably have to miss.

Oh, and don’t forget to bring money … LOTS of money.

My son Michael and I were fortunate to go this year as guests in attendance to a couple of vehicles we had a part in restoring, or more accurately, finishing their construction after 53 years. The whole CAR WEEK event celebrated 60 years of Shelby cars.

The star of the show at The Quail was the last car Carroll Shelby ever built, the 1967 King Cobra.  Read this blog post and watch the accompanying video
(Credit: C.W.Day Productions) for a good history.

It started in the early 90’s when I picked up “tub” number 3 from the previous owner (who had forgotten he owned it) and dropped it at Shelby’s shop in Gardena to be shipped to a Shelby Authorized Museum in Dallas.

The whole thing was a massive scam, which spawned dozens of lawsuits from some of the heaviest hitters in the car hobby.  The upside was I got to meet Lee Holman Jr. (Holman and Moody Stock Car Racing) who later helped me find the long lost and elusive Mustang Independent Rear Suspension (IRS).

As you can imagine, there are long, sometimes painful, sometimes hilarious stories associated with both the tub and the IRS projects. But that may be for another day.

Both projects were featured at a V.I.P. dinner at the Los Laureles Lodge in winery-heavy Carmel Valley, where Peter Brock was awarded THE SPIRIT of SHELBY award. Much deserved. Peter is a great talent and a great gentleman. 

Pictured below L-R are Steve Johns–who gallantly completed the King Cobra project through thick and thin, spending a decade or two of time, money and effort (thanks Steve!)–yours truly, and Rich MacDonald, son of Dave MacDonald, star Shelby driver who was killed at Indy in 1964. You can Google that.  

In the background is Continuation Shelby GT-350 number 98-I, graciously brought to the event by Jim Marietta.  Jim, Peter Brock, myself, and several other guys built that car in Peter’s unheated Las Vegas shop a few winters ago as a test bed for the I.R.S.  that Shelby tried and abandoned back in 1964.  We wanted to build “The car Shelby would done back in the day … if he hadn’t been so short of time, money, and a few other ingredients.” Note the one-piece integrated bumper/facia. Great time, great friends and a great car.  Road and Track magazine tested it in the hills above Monterey and declared it “One of their ten favorite cars of the decade.”  Not too bad for a bunch ‘a country boys.

And if you’ve still got a minute or two, watch Down In Monterey, filmed appropiately enough in 1967.

Time flies, doesn’t it?

Until next time, thanks for listening.

Duane

“Daddy, I’d like to have a bed like that.”  

Mikey and I were in a Sears store.  There was a kid’s bed with plywood sides, painted on tires and some automotive decals stuck on it.

“Yeah, that’d be cool, but we could make one way better than that,” said Daddy, taking the bait hook line and sinker.

At the time I had Bob Lazier’s championship Formula Super Vee race car in my garage, along with bunches of spares, tires, wings, gas cans, etc.  
In the 8 years I lived in Vail, Bob went from an also ran in the Super Vee (VW powered) series to 1981 ROOKIE of THE YEAR at Indy. I was privileged to be a part of that journey.

We’ll just rearrange all those spares into a race car bed!

I was working at Van Waters & Rogers chemical company at the time, managing their warehouse, tank farm, and Will Call desk, so I knew a few of the boat builders, airplane guys, etc. around town.  Saturday mornings after my run up the canyon, I’d go by a shop or two for a little dumpster diving.  End pieces of fiberglass rolls that were not worth saving on a big project were perfect for me.   Price was right too.

A couple of sketches, a bunch of cardboard, some foam … this is getting out of control … and it won’t take much time, effort or money either.  

Sure.

Summer evenings in the garage became winter nights in the garage, and the garage became a full-on fiberglass body shop… kid size. 

Finally it was almost done.  Ford Blue spray paint, some REAL sponsor decals, this is looking good!  Who else has real magnesium (not aluminum) competition only wheels on his BED for cripes sake?  Mom made some custom sheets to fit the custom foam mattress, and we found some race car looking pajamas.  I’ll bet we could be in a car show!

The Salt Lake AutoRama was happening in early March, so I visited the organizers and asked if they’d like to have a Championship Porsche powered race car, and a way cool RACE CAR BED in their show.  It turns out there is a category for Non-Motorized Specialty Vehicles. “Sure, we’d love to have ya,” they said.

We all had a great time.  The only memorable incident happened as I was pushing the Super Vee out onto the show floor during the Monday night load in. Mikey was standing in the seat working the steering, and an old biker-looking guy was watching us.  Never seen him before or since.  As we went by, he looked me in the eye and said “You’re gonna have trouble with that one. ”  It was one of those moments when the universe warps a bit, and you get a peek into the future.

Turns out he was dead right, well almost dead… Mikey had sustained thirty eight broken bones, some many times.  Thirty eight pain med prescriptions, leading to addiction, then to street drugs, and the whole world that that brings.  Methadone saved us, barely.

But ya know, with all those negatives, I think there were a few positives too.

The show ran Tuesday thru Saturday.  Mike and I arrived about 8:00 PM Saturday evening for the load out, and there was a nice ribbon hanging on the bed.  We won the Non-motorized Division. Cool!  A note said the trophy presentations would be in a small auditorium starting around 9:00.  That was way past Mike’s bedtime, but we decided to stay anyway. Seated on the front row, I told Mikey we would have to go up on stage to get our trophy from the trophy queens, and would he like me to go up with him? 

“NO WAY!  I can handle this!”

Mike’s name was called, and he walked onto the stage where the spike heel and bikini clad girls (one on each side) gave him his trophy. It was about as tall as he was.  When the girls bent over to give him a kiss, the bikers and other assorted road trash in the back rows went nuts.  Come on you guys!

As we were driving home Mikey quietly asked me, “Daddy, why did those ladies have their swimming suits on?”  

“Umm, I don’t know Mike.  Maybe they were all going swimming later?  Ask Mom. I bet she’ll know.”

Mom let Mikey sleep ‘til about 10:00 AM, then took him to school with the trophy to show to his classmates.  Not sure if they ever did have the swimsuit discussion.

When friends came to visit, Mikey always showed them his race car bed, but about the 6^th or 7^th grade he was too tall to fit it.  The bed was dismantled and put into the attic of Mom’s garage to await (hopefully) a grandkid who would want it.  No luck so far.

Both Mikey and Shelley were adopted through the Mormon Church, and with the availability of commercial DNA tests they have each been able to track down their “bio parents.”  You hear stories of scandal, lives disrupted, reputations ruined, etc. etc. but I think that’s the exception.  Our experience has been one of acceptance, love, joy, and two new sets of cousins, grandmas, and uncles who all love having a new family member.  And he looks like us too.  Well, duh…  

One of the families has a five year old boy, named Michael, who has Attention Deficit Disorder ( A.D.D. — that’s Mikey) who’s had more broken bones than he has birthdays (yep — Mikey).  It’s our Michael redux except for the red hair.

Plans are to resurrect the Race Car Bed.  We wrapped the mattress, sheets and pillows in plastic before we stashed them so it should clean up pretty well.

We’ll see what the Mom involved thinks of the bed (Moms always make those kinds of decisions) and we’ll see if the little guy likes it too.

Do you think they’ll have trouble with that one?  God, I hope not.

Until next time, thanks for listening.

Duane

“PEOPLE.  It’s all about the people.”

I heard it at the first Pebble Beach event I ever attended, before it became Monterey Car Week.  My younger self was sure it was pretty much all about THE CARS though.  I loved them and couldn’t get enough of ’em.

As Pebble became Monterey Car Week, and a World Class Event, it seemed pretty obvious  to me it was all about THE MONEY.   

When Ralph Lauren won Best of Show in 1990 with a BUGATTI ATLANTIC (one of 700 or so made and advertised at the time as “The World’s Most Expensive Car”) a writer asked him where he found technicians to work on such exotic automobiles.  Ralph answered, and I’m paraphrasing here, “To win BEST OF SHOW at meets like Monterey, you must have your own World Class shop, with your own World Class craftsmen in each of the disciplines, paint, metal work, mechanical, etc.  If you have to rely on someone else, no matter how well meaning, you’ll never meet the schedule and you’ll never meet the quality level needed to be The Best.”

Yeah, it’s all about THE MONEY, and in the words of the great J. P. Morgan (1837 – 1913):

“If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.” 

Recently, a dear friend of mine gave Don Orosco (1944 – 2020) a critical component (one of two known to exist) that Don needed to win Best of Class in 2001 with the Dick Flint Roadster.  The Roadster award was one of three class wins Don collected over the years at Monterey.

Don was gracious enough to give my friend and me a tour of his restoration shop (yep, it’s World Class) at the Monterey Airport complex the day of the show.  It’s the only time we could get together … and he even introduced us to his wife.  Great guy.

Don was at a cocktail party during the 2006 Goodwood Revival when he heard a big time European collector planned to recapture the FIAT- BARTOLETTI transporter that Lance Reventlow (1936 – 1972) commissioned to haul his Chevy- and Offy-powered Scarab race cars around Europe during a mostly unsuccessful 1960 – 61 race season.

Lance was the son of Barbara Hutton (heir to both the E. F. Hutton and the Woolworth fortunes), son of a Danish Count, stepson to Cary Grant, plus buddies with James Dean. Lance either “got tired” of racing, or Mom pulled the financial plug.  There are two stories.   

He sold his race car shop in Venice CA, complete with FIAT- BARTOLETTI transporter, tools and all the World Class employees, headed by Phil Remington, to Carroll Shelby.  Carroll’s first employee, Pete Brock, moved into an upstairs office. 

Carroll used the transporter to haul Cobras and other automotive icons around Europe. 

It was subsequently used by Lotus, Ford, and others.  It even had a bit part in the movie Le Mans, being repainted Gulf Blue for the Porsche 917 scene, then a quick (possibly in the parking lot) respray in red for a scene with the Ferrari 512.  It was sent across the ocean in the late ‘60s and used by various race teams in the U.S.

Lance died in 1972 in a plane crash while scouting for real estate in Aspen.

Probably the preeminent Scarab collector in the world, Don owned two originals and one faithful replica, and he just couldn’t let that rig get taken back to Europe.   Only problem was, the BARTOLETTI had been sitting in a field behind locked gates for almost 20 years, while heirs to the U Haul fortune fought over it.  They had resisted multiple purchase offers.  The “who do we know” and “who do our friends know” network went into emergency overdrive. Five days and $80,000 dollars later, Don took possession of the transporter.   

BARTOLETTI was an Italian coachbuilding firm that took FIAT and other heavy-duty chassis and made busses and similar industrial bodies for them. Don found that no two BARTOLETTI bodies were alike. The company was long out of business, and whatever blueprints there might have been were long gone also. He had to fabricate many parts based just on period photographs.

When Don built his facility at the Monterey airport, the Building Department let him know that anything he built had to fit into the Spanish Colonial Revival architectural style of the neighborhood.  Certainly nothing that looked like a CAR REPAIR SHOP would be allowed … heaven forbid!

No problem. We’ll just remove this small hill, build our World Class shop complete with oversize spray booth here, then put the hill back in place.  Any air vents, etc., will be disguised as mail boxes or some such thing.  Don hadn’t planned on a vehicle over 38 feet long though, with space around it to work.  Somehow it all fit.

Two years later in 2008 the BARTOLETTI, restored to concourse perfection, made its debut at the Monterey Historics, hauling Don’s three Scarabs.  As it descended pit row, “The place went nuts,” according to one bystander.  The event organizers had to ask Don to move his rig as the crowd around it was blocking the track entrance.

As I think of all the names associated with this story, Don and his staff, Lance (whom I never got to meet), Shelby, and his crew at the Venice shop, gosh it’s getting to be a long list.  Most are no longer with us, but all of the cars they built are a reflection of the people who built them, their personalities, their strengths … and their faults too, I suppose.

So maybe it really is all about THE PEOPLE.  I may be forced to change my mind again…   I’ll let you know how that works out.

Until next time, thanks for listening.

Duane 

Here’s a little tale from the days of Kent State, Watergate, My Lai, and “Hell No We Won’t Go!” 

When I moved to Parkersburg WV in 1970, I still had two years left on my Army enlistment .  The only unit available was a construction battalion of the West Virginia National Guard.  None of their bulldozers moved or even started the whole time I was there.

Bored out of my mind, I fell in with a kindred soul named Jeffry Myers. He was a sculptor and photographer, winning awards even as a student at Ohio U. in Athens Ohio.  Jeff convinced our “leadership” that he should be our company photographer, and I should be his assistant.  Since they weren’t exactly short of manpower, and this would probably keep us out of trouble, they agreed.  Jeff taught me a lot about photography and cameras, and that if you are brazen enough, you can pull off almost anything.

We screwed around for most of a year, supposedly taking pictures, and posing everyone from privates to colonels in heroic poses for supposed newspaper releases.  This of course meant we didn’t have to stand in any of their stupid formations, because we were always taking pictures.  Sometimes we even had to go into town for “supplies.” I can’t remember seeing anything get published, but since I was just the assistant, maybe I missed it.

When it came time for summer camp, Jeff told the captain in charge that he only had a few weeks left on his enlistment, and he wasn’t going.  And if the captain didn’t like it, he knew where he could stick it, and then walked out.

That’s when I found that every summer camp we elected a F@#%-UP OF THE YEAR, and Jeff was the current title holder.  As his understudy, I vowed to carry on his legacy. 

I told the captain I was going to drive myself to Fort Knox, where we were going to spend the next two weeks, because I may have to leave camp to buy photographic supplies.  In my real job as an Industrial  Designer, I had access to official looking cameras, and I brought along several.

I arrived six hours before the string of trucks hauling our troops and went directly to the PX to buy an XX large cap to hide my long hair.  Outside, a one-star general was explaining to a small group what wonderful tasks would be accomplished in the next two weeks.  I walked up and introduced myself as the official photographer from the Parkersburg Unit.

General One Star shook my hand and told me how important it was for the people of the U.S.A. to know the great job their citizen soldiers were doing, and how I could be part of that “mission.”  I was to meet him at 0700 (that’s 7 AM in F. U. time) to be part of his entourage.  I knew this was going to be an interesting “camp.”

The next morning, instead of standing in formation, I sauntered across the parking lot, got into the back of the General’s Jeep, and we drove off with my cameras clicking.

For the next two weeks, the thousand or so soldiers swarming Fort Knox were actually doing some pretty cool stuff, including building a dirt dam across a big ravine, and stringing a railroad across the dam.  I never saw any heavy equipment on the project. It was all wheelbarrows and shovels.  I guess if you have a thousand unskilled and unmotivated guys to keep busy for two weeks, that’s one way to do it.

Drowning in dust and humidity, I got lots of shots of One Star posing in the foreground, leading the charge.

After a few days, The Gen asked me if there was anything I needed that would make my job easier, and the photographic record better.  “Since your projects are so massive,” I said, “it’s hard to capture their grandeur from the ground (or something like that).  If I could just get a helicopter it would make a world of difference.”

“That’s a great idea!” he said.  “Go to the Fort Photography Office tomorrow and I’ll have everything arranged for you.”

I had no idea the Fort had photographers, or they had an office, or that they had REAL helicopters.  What if they found out I was just a schmuck pretending? I could be in real trouble.

That afternoon I found the photo office, and in the best Jeff Myers tradition walked in like I owned the place.  Wow!  They had cameras as big as desks, which took spy shots from airplanes.  They had underwater cameras, cameras I didn’t know what they did, and all the guys working there were as bored as I was, and couldn’t care less if I walked out with the whole f—n’ place.

I picked out a nifty 16 mm movie camera, a really cool piece that mounted right on the helicopter’s waist gun.  In combat, the gunner leans out the side door and clears the landing zone (LZ) with his M60 machine gun before the chopper sets down, and he can film the whole process. Incidentally, life expectancy of a side (waist) gunner in Nam was about two weeks.

When I arrived the next morning, the camera was mounted, the “bird” was warmed up, the crew was waiting, and we prepared for takeoff.  I got a helmet with an intercom that let me speak directly to the pilot as I hung out the door in my safety harness, filming the day’s events. 

WHAT A RUSH!!  As we swooped down on my buddies building the dam, the ones who weren’t doubled over laughing were busy giving me both middle fingers. We got some great shots of The General as we hovered over the various sites he was in charge of, and I got a new appreciation of what government money and equipment can really do.     

On the last day of camp, the meanest sergeant in our unit grabbed me and two or three other notorious F.U.’s, and said since none of us had done a lick of work, and none of us was worth a shit, he was going to give us a taste of real work before camp was over.

He took us out to a mosquito-infested swamp where our unit had built a set of bleachers with a roof on it.  It was about 20 feet wide and about six rows deep, which put the front edge of the corrugated metal roof about 15 feet off the ground.  We were to “paint everything” before his return at sundown.  Notice he left us no food or water. There were 10 or so five-gallon buckets of cream-colored paint that must have been left over from WW II, and a hand full of worthless brushes.

Being the elite troops we were, we sat around ‘til about 11 o’clock looking at that smelly old paint, which was about the consistency of runny tar.  Somebody mumbled “Hey, he said ‘PAINT EVERYTHING’ didn’t he?  Well let’s paint everything then.”  The grandeur of the idea began to dawn on the assembled troops.

First we opened more of the cans and hoisted them onto the roof.  Someone had found a couple of brooms, and we started pouring the cans at the peak of the roof while more elite troops spread the gunk by broom as it oozed down the slope.  Got a little on our boots, too.

The bleachers were next, and once again brooms were the weapon of choice. The posts and walls were more of a challenge, but throwing the paint from the cans as an assistant spread it proved quite effective. As a group, we were very adept at inventing labor-saving methods.

When Sergeant Meany, who was supposed to have been supervising us, returned, it was obvious he’d spent the day drinking at the E.M. (Enlisted Men’s) Club.   He was dumbstruck, probably by the amazing quality of our work. It was a long tense ride back to our unit.  That evening, in an impromptu ballot, I was elected F.U. of The Year(!), narrowly defeating some stiff competition.  Somewhere I hope Jeffry is proud. 

In  January’s post we looked at the efforts of the MARBON Division of Borg Warner’s attempts to manufacture an “All Plastic Car.”  This was the Go-Go 70’s (remember Go-Go Boots and Whiskey A Go-Go?) we’d just put a man on the moon, and anything was possible.  MARBON in Parkersburg West Virginia hired me as an Industrial Designer right out of college, so maybe that was true.

MARBON had created a Large Structures Lab to promote the use of ABS (Acrylonitrile Butadiene Styrene) plastic, trade named CYCOLAC, in all sorts of vehicles.

Besides the Gold Line camper, and the CRV (Cycolac Research Vehicle) the Citroen Mehari is pictured.  Mehari is the French adaptation of an Arabic word meaning camel. It was based on the Citroen 2CV  (Deux Chevaux – pronounced dew-shove-oh).  With a front wheel drive 2-cylinder 33 hp motor it could just have easily been named the Tortoise.  Zero to 60 was listed as 52 seconds.  Sacre Bleu!    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J-odiBk6jYE

The first 2CV had crank start, three lug wheels, and offered a second headlight as an option. Maybe that explains the big dent in the front bumper. The 2CV stayed in production in various guises thru 1990.

In 1968 Citroen saw a way to rebody the 2CVas a Mehari, somewhat along the lines of the American JEEP.   My WW II vet boss said “Yeh, that’s about right.  Apparently they’ve used up all  the thousands of Jeeps we left behind when the war ended, and they need something to replace ‘em.”   

About 7,000 Meharis were immediately purchased by the French military, so maybe he was right … I wonder how that went?  Citroen even cooked up a military four-wheel drive version by taking the entire front engine and transaxle assembly, turning it around and putting an extra engine and transaxle in the back, then wired the throttles together to make a two-motored FWD Mehari.  That model was discontinued after a short run.

By eliminating the steel body and replacing it with eleven vacuum-formed ABS panels, Citroen drastically reduced part and tooling costs. ABS is a great material, but when used outside it should be painted to reduce the effect of sunlight on the surface. Or you could apply an ACRYLIC film as the freshly extruded ABS passes through the last sizing rollers.  It’s easy to do, adds a deep color (ACRYLIC is also known as Plexiglass) and it is not affected by sunlight.     

In spite of passionate pleas by MARBON and predictions of disaster by everyone who knew plastics, Citroen would not hear of spending even a few cents extra on the body. “Vee save zee money!”

Citroen and the European division of MARBON decided they would import the Mehari to the US for the 1968 model year. After the big, very welcome, sale to the French military, perhaps Citroen thought they could make some “conquest sales” in the U.S. by converting Jeep buyers into Mehari buyers.   The odds of an All American Jeep driver being overcome by passion when first spying a Mehari, not too good..

Citroen imported Mehari as a “utility truck” so it didn’t have to meet any pollution or safety standards. It didn’t even have seat belts.

A space in the Citroen booth at the N. Y. Coliseum Auto Show was reserved for Mehari’s  introduction into the Big Time, and a car left France on the most economical freighter they could find.  Almost a month later the car arrived, and we got a frantic call from our European rep. now pacing the floor in the Coliseum.  “The car looks like s—- !  They deck loaded the S.O.B.!  The red color is faded and streaked, and Citroen thinks we are all IDIOTS!   The show opens tomorrow and you’d better find a way to fix this!”

After he hung up the phone, we couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry.

We had a color lab that constantly tested new pigments and other formulations, so they had a bunch of faded examples.  Red was (and is) the worst color for fading, and we had stacks of that.  We dumped the whole problem into the laps of the color guys, with the caveat that we were going fly two of their techs to N. Y. C. before quitting time, with whatever magic trick they could come up with.  They were going to work all night with hand tools (power tools would require UNION labor) and the car’d better look great by sunup.  I’m pretty sure neither tech had ever been on an airplane, or even left West Virginia.

To their credit, they did come up with a magic solution, or close to it.  As I remember it consisted mostly of diesel fuel, with an acetone kicker (acetone is the active ingredient in  model airplane glue) followed by a topping of carnauba wax. The fortified diesel ate the oxidized plastic surface (with some vigorous rubbing) and the wax left behind a shiny surface.  Voila!

We hurriedly mixed up a five-gallon batch, put it into a black metal can conspicuously labeled CAR WAX, found a box of red shop towels and told our two boys, “Just put them on the floor between your legs when you get on the on the plane and no one will bother you.”  Try that today.

They took the last flight out of Parkersburg, transferred in Pittsburg to a N.Y.C. flight, and our rep met them for a fast limo ride to the Coliseum.  Somehow it all worked.  No one went to jail, and the car looked great by 9 AM.  The two techs and our sales guys, not so much.

The 1968 New York Auto Show.  Trust me, there’s a Mehari in there somewhere. Keep looking.

Apparently sales were, umm, disappointing as U.S. imports ended in 1969.  Budget Rent A Car continued to offer the Mehari at their beach locations in California and Hawaii for several years.  The Mehari also had a cameo in the 1973 Elvis TV special “Aloha from Hawaii via Satellite”… so that was cool.

Your intrepid reporter covering a Mehari in Maui.  Wish I had that body again … not the plastic one … the other one.

The Mehari sold about 145,000 units worldwide during its 1968-88 production run.  Some people still love ‘em, and the cars are starting to be restored. Several Mehari clubs offer help and comradery, see www.mehariclub.com, and a few parts are being reproduced.

But if you leave yours out in the sun, don’t call me!

Thanks for listening.

Duane

p.s. In an ironic twist of fate, struggling auto makers FCA (which is mostly the Italian government plus Fiat and Chrysler, who bought Jeep in 1987) and struggling PSA  (which is mostly the French government plus Peugeot and Citroen) have joined into a company named Stellantis, bringing the Mehari and Jeep brands together.

This corporate mashup has been described as “Two drunks helping each other across the street.”  Ciao!

Watching the Rams defeat the Bengals in the Super Bowl was great fun.  Congratulations to both teams for a good game.  Seeing all those million-dollar players running into each other, I couldn’t help comparing them to “the old days” when players made hundreds or thousands instead of multi-millions, and 30 years old was considered ancient.

In 1966 I was a member of Asbestos Insulators’ Union Local 35.   My buddies & I spent most of that summer insulating the refrigeration system under the then-new Oakland Coliseum. Some sports marketing genius had decided the Coliseum could host football, baseball AND be an ice rink too!  Apparently there was a huge, previously unidentified demand for ice skating in Oakland.

As a result the area under the field is a warren of tunnels, dead end passages and crawl spaces that carry the refrigerant necessary to chill the whole field to about 0 degrees F ….. even in the summer. Each one of those pipes had to have super insulation, and it was our job to wiggle, slide and grunt our way around to accomplish this, usually dragging a box of insulation, tape, snips, etc. behind us on a long rope.   What fun! 

The expensive and complicated system was abandoned after a few years for lack of interest.

As a result of our subterranean navigation, we could get anywhere in the stadium, despite locked doors and gates.  Monday morning after home games usually found us in the team locker room, marveling at the carnage and the bloodshed.  Hunks of turf as big as saucers were common. (How did that get in here?)  Puddles of dried blood, torn pieces of uniform, hair, skin, unidentifiable bodily fluids, and mud covered the floor and walls. It looked more like a slaughter house than a locker room.  We’ve all heard how rough pro football is, or was, but seeing it is something else.

The stadium was known locally as “The House of Horrors” and the Raiders name was “THE EVIL EMPIRE.”  The most evil of all was 6-3  255-pound Lyle Alzado, whom I once met. He was “intense and intimidating” both on the field and off. 

He once ripped the helmet off an opposing player and beat him with it, prompting the NFL to create a special rule outlawing the move.  You would need a rule against that? 

Both steroids and Human Growth Hormone (HGH) use were legal in them days, and supposedly “pain killers” and “energy boosters” were available by the handful from the team trainers, especially on game days.

 On Nov 17, 1968, the Raiders met the N.Y. Jets at the Coliseum in what became known as The Heidi Game. We’ll see why it was named that shortly.

The Jets fielded “Broadway Joe” Namath at quarterback, while the Raiders had Daryle Lamonica.  Alzado lined up at defensive end, with eyes locked on Joe.  John Madden (future broadcaster) was the Raiders assistant coach.

It was a cold and windy day.  Some numbnut had over-watered the field and it quickly turned into a gigantic mud bath. No love was lost between these teams, and there were so many penalties that the game took almost three hours, longer than scheduled. Namath got his jaw broken (he later claimed he’d broken it on a tough piece of steak) and there is film of him getting punched in the groin during a pile up.  No foul was called on either, and Joe never missed a play.

Back then your rotary dial B & W TV set had 3 channels, ABC, CBS, and NBC.  NBC had sold a large block of time to Timex for a special showing of Heidi, about a young girl who lived in the Swiss Alps with her grandfather.  It was very family friendly, and you can just imagine the music.

As the 7 PM start time for Heidi approached, network execs in New York were getting nervous about the game running so long (all those penalties, you know) but only the network president could bump Heidi.  It was big bucks at the time.

At 7 PM, the network lost their west coast feed just as the Jets kicked a field goal with less than a minute left, making the score 32-29 Jets.  The switchboards at NBC started to light up.  The president of NBC had finally been located in Florida, and OK’d staying with the game, but no one could get through to the west coast, as all circuits were JAMMED!

The Jets kicked off and the Raiders returned it to the Jets’ 23 yard line, called a time out, then Lamonica threw a TD pass making the score 36-32 Raiders.  Some areas could get the game on radio, and things were getting really ugly.  N.Y. fans even called the Manhattan Police emergency line trying to get the game back on.  Sports bars across the country were being trashed.  The NBC switchboard overload blew 26 times.

The Jets fumbled the kickoff return and the Raiders grabbed the ball to score making it 42–32 Raiders.  They had scored two touchdowns in nine seconds!

As time ran out, the fans for both teams rushed the field in a total madhouse. 

Yeah, they just don’t make ‘em like that no more.  In 2005, TV Guide declared The Heidi Game one of the 10 Most Memorable Games in football history. I would love to have been in the Raiders’ locker room following the victory. After things settled down the Jets’ manager asked the Raiders’ manager if they wouldn’t mind washing the Jets’ uniforms for them, as they had a game the next weekend across the bay in San Francisco.  It would save the time and money shipping laundry to N.Y. and back.  “No problem … no hard feelings.  Just let us know when you land and we’ll have ‘em ready for you.”

As the team plane arrived in S.F. Friday afternoon the Jets’ manager called Oakland to see about picking up the uniforms.  “Uniforms, what uniforms? Never heard of that.”

The Jets had to charter a plane to bring their “home” uniforms, plus all their practice uniforms to San Fran as their white “visitors” uniforms were no more.  Saturday morning practice was run with Jets wearing what ever S.F. uniforms would fit. Very confusing for the press watching the work out, as multiple players were wearing the same names.  I’m sure the Raiders were rolling around laughing.

I heard recently that the City of Oakland is thinking of demolishing the Coliseum.  Some sections are so crumbled that fans aren’t allowed to sit in them.  It’s falling down all by itself. If or when the wrecking ball approaches the darkened underworld of the stadium, and the ball swings against a door locked some 50 years ago, it may reveal a room full of old uniforms. “Look, there’s a jersey with “Namath” on the back.  Looks like the 60’s!  Could it be?” If management would like a personal guide to that forgotten netherworld, I’m available for consulting.   

The Raiders have moved to Las Vegas (probably a better cultural fit) and the town has built them a shiny new stadium.  I wonder if sometimes, on a dark and windy night, you can hear my buddy Lyle Alzado (1949 -1992) raging through the corridors.

Thanks for listening.

Duane

In 1967, my best buddy and I went to see the hit movie The Graduate, where Dustin Hoffman’s character is advised that the future is “PLASTICS!” I graduated college in 1969, and a division of Borg Warner Corp. called Marbon was advertising they had built The All Plastic Car out of a material known as ABS (Acrylonitrile Butadiene Styrene), tradenamed Cycolac. That sounded interesting, since I loved cars and wanted to embrace the future.

I sent Marbon a letter, along with a glowing recommendation from the BYU faculty, and after a couple of phone interviews they mailed me a plane ticket to Parkersburg, West Virginia.  A week of interviews, including two days at Psychological Services in Pittsburg, resulted in a job offer as their #3 Industrial Designer.  Wahoo!

 That era was known as “The Go-Go Years.” (Remember Go-Go Boots and Whiskey a Go-Go?)  Formerly staid companies were making wild bets with easy money and easy credit. Cycolac ABS was being used in everything from NFL football helmets to kitchen appliances to automobile parts.  Deacon Jones, a 6-5, 270 lb. defensive end with the L. A. Rams was our spokesperson, and every Cycolac ad ended with the tag line “Deacon Does.”

My boss was a big Scandinavian named John Helgesen, and my frequent traveling companion from the Ad Dept. was a fun-loving Irishman named Chuck Harley.  Together we covered the USA and most of Canada.  There was nothing we wouldn’t tackle!

Borg Warner is a well-established (1928) automotive corporation, and we did lots of business with The Big Three in Detroit.  Knobs, switches, chrome-plated grilles (replacing heavy, costly, die-cast grilles) made up a large share of our business. Somebody in management decided “If a little’s good a lots gotta be better.  Let’s make the whole car outta plastic!”  It was called the Cycolac Research Vehicle (CRV) and they touted it as the wave of the future.

We made or helped our customers make not only car bodies, but boats, canoes, ATVs, and my favorite, the Goldline Camper.  We designed it, our customer produced it, and it was sold exclusively through Ford dealers. Instead of plastic parts weighing ounces, we were going to sell parts weighing tens or even hundreds of pounds.  Management was ecstatic!

The Goldline was colorful, aerodynamic, lightweight, and well-insulated.  Made of four pieces, left & right exterior pieces glued together down the centerline, and left & right interior pieces made the same way, with urethane foam injected in the void between the inner & the outer. Chevy and Dodge dealers were supposedly green with envy, as they offered their square, stick built, heavy aluminum skinned campers that squeaked, rattled and leaked air & water. We were heroes, geniuses, and good looking too. Even Deacon said so.

About here is where we “shudda knowd better.” There is a thing called “co-efficient of linear thermal expansion,” or CTE, which affects all solid materials.  Wood doesn’t expand much, metals expand some, but most plastics expand and contract a lot.  For ABS plastics, the CTE is about 6 hundred thousands (.00006”) of an inch/per inch/per degree.  Doesn’t sound like much does it?  Everyone knew it was there, but no one thought to do the numbers. Let’s do them some 50 years later.

Up one side of the camper, roughly 9 feet, across the top, roughly 8 feet, down the other side, another 9 feet, and now across the bottom another 8 feet. That’s about 34 feet. Stay with me here!  34 feet X 12 inches gives you 408 inches.  

You are ice fishing in Northern Minnesota and it’s -40 outside.  Add the number of degrees outside to the temperature inside your camper (+75) which is held at room temperature by the built-in propane heater. That’s 115 degrees difference (+75 degs. to -40 degs).  

Now times that by the inconsequential .00006 inches.

408 x 115 x .00006 = 2.82

That’s almost three inches!  Not too bad unless the frigid outside is glued tightly to the toasty inside by the urethane foam filler.  That difference has gotta be accounted for somehow!

The story we all heard was, “Me and my three buddies were ice fishing all day, and at night we were in my Goldline smoking cigars, drinking whiskey and playing cards in our boxer shorts. Loved that camper, it was warm and toasty. All of a sudden, I heard what sounded like a shotgun blast and a big split appeared in the roof. I could see stars outside. A blast of -40 degree air hit me right in the crotch.” Oww!!

Yeah, well, we shudda knowd better, but we were having too much fun.

There was a new predator in the corporate jungle called Consumer Advocate, and a guy named Ralph Nader had just taken GM to the cleaners for their “unsafe” Corvair.  Marbon and Ford couldn’t shut down Goldline fast enough, and all the sold units were recalled.  Too bad.  It was a good design. No! It was a great design, if you didn’t take it to northern Minnesota in the damn winter in your damn boxer shorts.

I was in the meeting when one of our most senior executives said, “Well, maybe we don’t have the material for big structural parts.”  Cautious murmurs of agreement came from less-senior personnel all around the table.

We shut down the Large Structures Lab, and the CRV car business was sold to AMT,  makers of plastic car models. They made a few, but eventually the CRV vanished into that land of  “good idea ..but.”   

We went back to helping people design all manner of parts. ABS and its plastic cousins can be molded and textured or plated to look like just about anything.

As I sit in the cab of my new Ford truck, thinking about Marbon some 50 years ago, the handsome dashboard appears to be top grain hand-stitched leather, the heat vents are bright chrome, the center stack is polished black walnut surrounded by brushed aluminum, while the steering wheel is a combination of blond oak and hand sewn glove leather.  In the center of the wheel is a sterling silver oval with the Ford logo rendered in rich blue lacquer.

All very nice, but I know who you guys REALLY ARE!  Every one of you is plastic, disguised as something else and doing it better than the real article ever could.

Dustin Hoffman would be proud.  Plastics done in the right way really are the future, and the present.  The average new car now contains over 350 lbs. of plastic, up from about 10 in Dustin’s day.  I enjoy watching them become better, more cost effective, and now even more recyclable.   R.I.P. CRV.

Thanks for listening.

Ps.  Order The All Plastic Car By Nicholas Whitlow from Amazon. It’s a good read.

This letter was written by my mother, Persis Carling, to her mother Clara Spencer from San Francisco 80 years ago today, on Dec.9, 1941, two days after Pearl Harbor was bombed. It mentions my dad, Gerald, and my sister, Geraldine, who had been born in August. The others mentioned in the letter were Gerald’s sister and her husband, Clora and Frank Martin, and Berta, who is Persis’s sister Roberta.

Dear Mother and all,

We just received your nice letter yesterday just before we heard the President address Congress. Your letter spoke of a life free from fear and excitement while we were all excited about what was going on and what was yet to come. Everybody we talk to says they wish they were back in Utah where it was safe.

Yesterday we listened to the radio all day. They said all cities and towns from the Alaskan border to San Francisco would be blacked out tonight and that all radio stations would be cut off. One report later in the day said there had been an airplane carrier lurking off the coast of Washington.

All the schools across the bay were closed down yesterday as a precautionary measure. They have so many defense plants etc. over there they could expect heavy bombing.

They told us that one blast of a siren without a break was an air raid alarm. An “all clear” signal was a long blast from a siren with one break. they said if at any time we were on the streets and heard shots to immediately take cover. If we heard planes overhead, even if we did think them to be friendly, to lie down flat on your stomach so as not to be recognized and be the object of a direct hit.

Last night we were listening to the Lux Radio Theater when all at once it went off. Every station on the radio was silent. We were getting ready to go down to the hospital to visit a friend of ours who has a new baby. We were going to leave Geraldine with Clora while we went. Just as we got outside by the car all the street lights went off—“Geepers” it was a funny feeling—when we were going up Clora’s front steps we heard a siren but it only lasted about half a second. It came from down by the waterfront on North Beach so we just supposed it was a ship or something . We decided not to go to the hospital, so about 7:30 Frank suggested we take a ride up on Twin Peaks and see what was going on. As we rode through the streets some were all lit up with neon lights in front of business houses and people’s windows were all lit up and on other streets there were no lights at all and men were standing at intersections directing traffic and saying “lights out”. Kids were all over the sidewalks calling to every car that flashed lights on to see where they were, “turn your lights out”. We couldn’t figure it out. Riding in complete darkness is worse than walking especially around bends. Streetcars and taxies were without lights, hospitals and dormitories were blacked out, but looking down from Twin Peaks we could tell where most every street was. Market Street was one long streak of red neon signs. Mission Street was just about as bad. Fillmore and Haight were just little flickers but you could see plenty of lights all over town. We heard once that the Coast Guard was driving a submarine out of the Golden Gate. Search lights were going back and forth across the sky for awhile when we were on our way to Twin Peaks. When the radio came back on at 10 o’clock they told us there had been 60 unidentified planes flying toward San Francisco. They were spotted about 20 miles out at sea and American planes had taken off to engage them in air battle but they turned back and were being followed to see if they could determine the exact location of the airplane carrier at sea. They went on and described the unsuccessful blackout of San Francisco. It said radio stations were silenced so the enemy couldn’t spot us by radio waves. Street lights were turned off and the siren in the old Ferry Building sounded off for the first time in years which after one weak blow died out in silence. So, San Francisco was caught without any general alarm and it went on to tell how half cocked the whole thing went off. It said from now on all fire engines will be backed out of their stations and sirens turned on in order to let everyone know they mean business.

I heard every little noise last night and expected to hear the worst but when morning came we were still safe and sound and I felt like I had had a bad dream. Everything has happened in such a hurry. There aren’t any air raid shelters or even a clear space to run to if your house caught fire. I sure don’t want to be here when the fireworks start if I can help it. Gerald and Berta seem to think it’s “heap fun”, all the excitement, but it makes me feel sorta sick inside.

Sunday when news came that Japan had attacked Pearl Harbor etc. the radio sent messages out for all Army, Navy and Marine men to report for duty immediately. All policemen and firemen were called back on duty. There was either one or two policemen on every corner in the city. Trucks were going around gathering up all uniformed men on the streets. Cars were as thick as ants on a honey jar, everyone was out to see what was going on. Newsboys came out calling “Extra! Extra! Japan declares war on America!” People came running from all directions to buy a paper.

The radio is off again this morning so I don’t know what’s been going on during the night but it don’t look so good or they would be broadcasting.

I hope you have a beautifully decorated tree and lots of popcorn and apples for Christmas because maybe if it gets too hot for comfort down here I’ll hop the train and come home (if I don’t change my mind about the fireworks). Gerald would have to stay as long as there is work but he said last night if I wanted to I could take the baby and go home. I would hate to leave him here in case it got bad, I’d be worried sick, but at least the baby would be safe.

It doesn’t look like Christmas will be so “Merry” for a lot of folks this year but I guess we can be thankful we have what we have in spite of it all. Don’t buy us any presents. If we are still here you can send us a box of eats and a letter or just a letter as we don’t plan on sending gifts to all of you.

Well Geraldine is crying for her bath so I’ll close for now. Tell Aunt Clara and Uncle George I send my love.

Persis, Gerald and Geraldine