Mischief & Adventure - Part 1

Our gang’s life-blood was its collective creative energy. Winter or summer, this crew rarely spent much time pondering “what is there to do?” More often than not the 10 PM siren grudgingly pulled us home.  When we ran out of ideas, our secret weapon was - find Tubba. He was a fantastic sports organizer - the garage at his house had a basketball hoop; he lived across the street from the skating rink which served as a baseball or football field in the warm months and ice hockey rink in the winter. (Tubba played hockey in snow boots, not that great a disadvantage on a half rink.) But he was a bit older - and wiser - than the rest of us and tended to steer clear of the mischief activities we dreamed up.

One of our favorite places was “the old road”. This was our scene for high drama year round.  It extended the southernmost street of Lowry to the east and was a “zero maintenance” road.  In effect it was two ruts that could save the adventuresome soul a minute or so heading to the east-west trunk highway from the south end of town. At the east end of the "old road" stood the "stockyards" where the local trucking firm held cows and pigs for weekly shipping to South St. Paul and their demise. Certain gang members claimed to have ridden pigs down the loading chute from the "jobber", but that was an adventure that held no appeal. East winds were bad enough. 

On either side of its half-mile stretch, boulders painfully removed from the farm fields on the north and south were piled in clusters, with scrub trees trying to survive amongst them. This stretch became Mount Suribachi,  “Apache Pass”, “Devil’s Canyon”, home of the Lone Ranger, the Swamp Fox, Davy Crockett at the Alamo, or Major Rogers fighting the British. In winter, the huge rocks provided cover for snowball fights across the no-man’s land the road provided. It was a perfect hideaway for us, with forts amongst the rocks and “tree houses” to provide a lookout tower or the “crows nest” if we were in the pirate mood.

The old road forts also gave us a place to hide our contraband.  My first memory of willfully sinning is forever associated with that old road. Happy-go-lucky Frankie owned the local Sinclair station on the trunk highway across from the lumberyard, and it was a hangout for us. It was a good place to look at cars and people, and in the 50’s there were a lot of different flavors.  

Displayed openly behind the counter were packages of the devil-weed tobacco. Frankie was in-and-out so often and for predictable periods of time – those were the days of full-service gasoline stations – that we yielded to temptation and pilfered a pack of Lucky’s or Camel’s or Winston’s. Pilfered isn’t exactly correct, since we knew if we actually stole something, we were irreversibly bound for hell, so we always slipped the quarter for the pack into the till as we slinked away to the old road. So the old road was the setting for my first drag on a cigarette. I must say it was thrilling but not that enjoyable. I’m sure the coughing could be heard back at the Sinclair station. We’d hide the pack with our stash of treasures amid the rocks and it would invariably rain and turn the pack to mush. Mukka, the creative one, “bought” some cigarette papers and we tried our hand at rolling our own from the dried out mush at the bottom of the pack, but that just never seemed to work like it did on the cowboy shows. We also tried corn silk – once.  Our secret of course was quickly revealed by the reek of smoke in our clothes and breath - and we each received our punishments. Mukka’s father had him join him after supper for a fat cigar - in the closed confines of the bathroom - convenient for the retching that followed.

We also came up with endless variations on the game tag.  From pump-pump-pull-away on the ice rink to bicycle chase to boxcar tag.

Boxcar tag was played on the railroad cars idle on the siding by the elevator. There were usually a half dozen or so. This was certainly the most dangerous tag flavor we came up with, since it involved the climbing ladders to the top of these 15’ high cars, running along the top and jumping from car to car to avoid being tagged. These boxcars were not uniform in height. You can imagine the jump across that chasm from a higher to a lower car. That’s about 120 beats per minute, but the reverse could cause fibrillation in the most self-confident gang member.  

But nobody died.  

It was through this experience that I learned the fear of rejection or ridicule was far greater than the fear of death.  I fully expected to die falling off one of those railroad cars, but I went just the same. What ridiculous power the opinion of your mates has upon you. It used to puzzle me how Civil War or WW I  generals could get men to march in line to certain death. This must be why.

Another great venue for tag or hide-and-seek was the lumber yard.  The lumber yard had a long wooden shed with two levels of lumber bins and a balcony with a catwalk running the length of the building on either side and a couple 2nd level bridges crossing the great divide. Hiding places were abundant. But, the games here generally didn’t last long, since the lumberman was a retired WWII army captain and undisciplined hooligans chasing around did sit well with him.

The most popular form of tag was bicycle chase.  This flavor required acts of daring performed on bicycles, preferably after dark, and without ever being so wussy to ride on a sidewalk or street. No one’s yard was sacred – except Hank’s. You were “tagged” if the chaser’s front wheel overlapped you.

The main chase hazards were clotheslines that jumped out at you without warning. Back then, clotheslines were strung with wire, not the stretchy plastic stuff of recent invention. (that is, if you ever see a clothesline at all these days). In any case, the game invariably ended with some gang member unhorsed beneath a clothesline.  

Happened to me.  


But nobody died.

To be continued …

Fashion

In 1957 Lowry, you would never get any boy child to admit to being fashion conscious, or have the slightest clue of what fashion was. And the choices available to us at McIver’s Store or the Sears & Roebuck or Monkey Ward catalog made the idea comical. 

The mail order catalog options didn't really matter, because ordering from a catalog for kids wear almost never happened, except perhaps Superman pajamas or mukluks for Christmas. But, the Sears toy section pages were well thumbed with little arrows penciled in - hope against hope. (And I might have peeked once at the women’s underwear page, since that was such a mystery). Pajamas were the standard Christmas gift and hopefully they would be Roy Rogers or Davy Crockett models.  

Once a year, just before school restarted, my family journeyed to far away Alexandria to Iverson's Shoes for Buster Brown's and Bob’s Clothes Store for black slacks, white shirt and maybe a sweater for fall and winter church wear. 

But for everyday wear, McIver’s store was the destination, excepting perhaps for the banker, who had to wear a suit - or the town ladies - I had no idea where they got their clothes. McIver’s had the goods. Dry goods. Lee jeans, Lee work uniforms & bib overalls, coveralls, flannel shirts, work boots, socks, jackets, hats - a classic mercantile. Howard and Mary kept the place shipshape and well stocked. It doubled as a grocery, although not as well stocked as Vrooman’s up the street. 

Several businesses had apartments over their main level and McIver’s was one. Like the restaurant, there was a stairway along the north wall. McIver’s was a covered wooden structure against the outside wall. Wimpy lived in one of the apartments. (Wimpy did day work for my dad digging ditches - in total silence.  But a dependable worker.) Olga and the 3 girls lived in the other.

One of my idle interests involved McIver's Store. I would occasionally stop by the window well on the south-side and look into the basement where Howard candled eggs. If he was in a good mood, he’d invite me down through the back door and into the basement to get a close look at the process.  Cooled me on egg salad.

Our summer wardrobe choices were restrictive, but even then, long before the Nike swoosh, there was a “look” we sought. The big decision was whether your Ked’s Red Ball Jets should be black canvas or white canvas. I thought the circular rubber ball on the ankle looked better on black. And blacks didn’t need to be washed as often as the whites.  At some point Keds came out with low-cuts, but if high-tops were good enough for Bob Cousy, they were good enough for me.

The second major decision was whether we turned up the cuffs of our Lee jeans one roll or two. Since these were clothes for growing boys and were expected to last a full season, having no cuff was not an option. Or at least a foolish one if the day’s events included trying to run to first base.  So cuffs were driven both by economics and a hope that summer would produce a growth spurt.  Our jeans were always 3 or 4 inches longer than necessary plus plenty of room in the girth. Add a belt, preferably with a rearing horse buckle, a white tee shirt, and for me, the most important piece of the wardrobe, the baseball cap, and I was set to face the summer.  Shorts were just not worn, except when swimming.

One influence on our apparel wish list was the relatively new medium of television. TV antennas were popping up on most every rooftop in Lowry in the (often vain) attempt to pull in WCCO, KSTP or WTCN from the Twin Cities. The word "rotor" made its way into my vocabulary. TV's influence was in its infancy but the Davy Crockett craze made Madison Avenue types drool - and what havoc they have wrought. TV westerns found their mark on my age group. I tried not to miss evening shows "Wagon Train" with Flint McCullough and "Have Gun Will Travel" with Paladin or the Saturday morning 1/2 hour serials where the plot had the hero saving his sidekick most every week. "Tonto, you go into town and ..." How many times do you have to get beat up to know that's a bad idea? You would think that since I was nicknamed "Hoppy", I would be a fan-boy of Hopalong Cassidy, but I really didn't care for the man-in-black outfit nor the conehead hat. And since wearing a Lone Ranger mask around was a bit too quirky for me, especially over my thick glasses, I opted for a Roy Rogers look, even though breaking into song with Dale was not my idea of real cowboy behavior.

This was the era of the “heinie” crewcut, apparently named for standard German soldier hairstyles. Although the town had a barbershop, it was the rare family that went to the extravagance of paying for their kids’ haircuts. A clipper could be had at the hardware store for a couple bucks and crewcuts were pretty simple to produce.  A stool, a towel and 10 minutes. Marian did mine using a bowl to keep the sides even.  How girls got haircuts was not something I thought much about, but the reek & the squealing coming from the beauty parlor in the back of the barbershop made me wonder what kind of ordeal they went through.

The final piece of the wardrobe was a bicycle. In the summer, it was part of our attire. We rarely walked anywhere, except to church. Mine was a red and white 24” Schwinn with a carrier fender on the back, and a 12 watt battery-powered light on the handlebars with my baseball glove gently nudged against it and standard balloon tires. The flat-topped back fender was practical since it allowed a more comfortable “bump” ride for another kid.  But since going bare-foot was not uncommon, “toes in the spokes” injuries were fairly common. We were pioneers of mountain biking, even though the nearest mountain was a thousand miles away.  We understood that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, so short cuts through yards and down the back alleys were not only quicker but also more fun.

Sundays called for a bit more formality. Church attire for men always included a suit & tie. Some borderline pagans might show up with a sport coat and tie. And, always a hat – for both men and women. And women always wore a dress. For some reason, my mom thought I should wear a bow-tie added to the white shirt, black pants, socks and shoes - and white tee shirt and briefs.  

I thought it made me look like Garry Moore.

The Dahl House

The restaurant was special to me because for the first 6 years of my life, my family lived in the apartment above what I called the “Restment”. Most people called it the “Dahl House”.  Our 2nd floor apartment was reachable from Main Street through a side door and a long staircase up the north wall, but we almost always used the switchback wooden stairs in the back.

This was the social hub of the community, ably managed by Leo, Blanche, Emily & Grandma Signe. Signe was up at the crack of dawn making pies with fabulous lard based crusts and a big batch of donuts. Then she peeled potatoes and started the meat dish in preparation for the lunch hour.  And then a nap before the lunch crunch. Leo had been a WWII cook and Blanche knew the restaurant business - a formula for a great small town eatery.

The main feature of the place was the long L-shaped counter lined with round swivel stools bolted to the floor. Here the wise and the pretenders would gather for morning and afternoon coffee to dispense wisdom, discuss the weather, exchange the local news and issue pronouncements on the state of the state or nation. Along the north wall was a row of 4 or 5 booths for those who wanted a bit more privacy and between the booths and the counter stood 4 or 5 tables.  Above it all was the greasy, constantly spinning ceiling fan. Winter and summer, it was never still. And a juke box with Hit Parade winners like "Green Door" & "How Much is That Doggy in the Window".

The place had a predictable ebb and flow.  From 6:30 to 8:00, the breakfast crowd came in for the eggs any way you want, hash-browns, bacon or sausage and some time with the Minneapolis Tribune. Then an hour lull and the morning coffee crowd would file in for coffee and a donut or cookie. The morning coffee ritual was faithfully observed by all the businessmen of the community. If you came to a store mid-morning or mid-afternoon, you were as likely as not to find a “back in 15 minutes” sign on the door. If you were in a hurry, you could help yourself to what you needed and leave payment on the counter. But most times, there was no hurry and a side-trip to the restaurant was in order. This was the time for “visiting”.  Almost always the starter topic was the weather and how the crops were doing, but as the coffee cup moved toward empty - with endless refills - stories and jokes at most anyone’s expense took over. Spook driving into the ditch – avoiding a deer so he says – but on account of an old crow according to the restaurant wisdom. Wimpy, who for years I thought was mute, taking down the ladder from the hardware canopy, howling in laughter, leaving painters stranded aloft. Or a long discussion on the merits of the new plastic eye blinders for chickens or what the hoopla was over this Sputnik deal. Disgust for any and all politicians – except our own home grown variety.

The heaviest traffic was for the noon meal – referred to as “dinner” - consisting of a blue-plate special: pot roast or meat loaf or fried chicken with mashed-potatoes and gravy, a cooked vegetable, fresh baked bread and coffee - all for a buck and a quarter.  Add another quarter for a piece of Grandma G’s apple pie. Of course you could order from the menu if you wanted but it was discouraged. Emily could give you the "look" that would help you change your mind. Then from 2:30 to 3:30, a repeat of the morning coffee experience. The evening meal – referred to as “supper” – was generally lightly attended unless a smorgasbord was being offered. Most people headed for home and hearth for the evening repast. But after supper, a few souls would stop in for an ice cream cone and a visit. Sunday dinner was a special meal, even renowned, with such a reputation that many "regulars" were from neighboring towns. When State Highway 55 was under construction, the Dahl House was the place to eat, so the 6:00 AM road worker breakfast business boomed.

The place was a mecca for kids too.  Next to the front door was the wondrous candy case, an ancient glass case with shelves of temptation that could be indulged for a nickel. Nut Goodies that took two hands to hold, Sugar Daddies that would last for a whole day and relieve you of your fillings, Hershey bars big enough to share, Chuckles, Candy Cigarettes, Blackjack gum and of course, the baseball cards that I lusted after at a penny a piece with a big slab of bubble gum next to the face of a Felix Mantilla, Johnny Klippstein, Hank Bauer or rarely, a Duke Snider. I usually bought a nickel’s worth and put all five sticks of gum in my mouth at once – a habit me and my teeth regret to this day. If I hit one card in five that wasn’t a duplicate or was a duplicate that was a tradable player – like Eddie Matthews or Pee Wee Reese, it was a good buy. Trading cards was a favorite pastime and we were savvy traders, much more savvy than the general managers who did it for real – although they didn’t have the luxury of offering 2 Ted Williams and a Yogi Berra for a Willie Mays. On the lunch counter next to the candy case sat 2 gum ball machines where for a penny you could get a monster gum-ball or a handful of sugary treats. But I got my fill of bubble gum from the baseball cards so, this held small appeal.

Behind the counter sat the ice-cream freezer and an industrial strength Hamilton Beach malt machine. A malt went for 25 cents and on rare and wondrous occasions, my parents would spring for these delicious concoctions. Rich vanilla ice cream scooped from 5-gallon tubs, combined with whole milk, malt and gooey chocolate or strawberry made for an extravagant indulgence.  Leo would fill the malt glass and give you the metal container as well, so you felt like you got 2 malts for the price of one. But if you were strapped, you could settle for a nickel cone piled high.

And, to the right, near the front door, was the pinball machine, the path to glory or shame amongst your peers. I tried to match the pinball wizards who nudged and coaxed the machine to mammoth scores, but I usually ended up with a “tilt”  - which wasn’t all bad since it gave me the chance to offer up some “if only” excuses.

And the restaurant was also right next door to the tavern – another source of my education.

The Town Hall

The Lowry Town Hall, the village "community center", was a large two story red-brick building built around the turn of the century - the 20th century. The first floor housed the fire department and the water works. My father did the regular water testing and any repairs that might be needed and I tagged along, so I was one of the few kids who had the honor of seeing that well room with the pump and the gauges and the mystery of how water got from underground to that big tower high above the building. 

The back half of the 1st floor was a meeting/dining room with an attached kitchen in the back corner. The meeting room was “multi-purpose”, being the venue for village council meetings, elections, bake sales, craft sales, community dinners, smelt fries or any event involving the whole community, usually eating or voting.  

Next to it and rising 100 feet above it was the silver painted water tower with the bold Lowry painted across its belly. These towers are a landmark of every small town and provide the necessary gravitational force to deliver sufficient water pressure to every home in the community (.43 PSI/vertical ft. if you're interested). It also served double duty as a diversionary tactic for parents of tired children returning home from an outing to Grandma’s to answer the challenge of “who can see the water tower first?” Although a locked grate barred access to the ladder to the top, it was a common rite of passage to climb the thing. Marian told me that after returning from WWII Pacific duty in '45, my father took my mother dancing on top of that tower, he laughing and she screaming.

The town hall was generally referred to as the “Fire Hall” since it housed the fleet of fire engines. The fleet consisted of one truck – a pumper from the 40’s - and an ancient horse drawn rig now in the county museum. The pumper dated from the early 1900’s and in the 50's was still used on occasion - dependent on manpower for propulsion - to fight local infernos, usually burning leaves that spread into grass fires. When the siren went off at other than 12 noon or 10 at night and kept on whining, it meant fire, and every able bodied man within hearing distance dropped their work and scrambled to the fire hall, donned fireman hats, coats and boots and raced off, with a few hanging on for dear life on the back of the truck, but most sensibly following behind in cars.  And of course, with a caravan of kids on bikes close behind. Most fires were grass-fires fought with wet gunny sacks, but occasionally there was a car fire, a chimney fire or a barn fire.  

The volunteers took their task seriously, training regularly and always looked for opportunities to burn down some eyesore building for the sake of practice. The State of Minnesota furnished volunteer fire-fighter trainers who traveled throughout the state presenting training sessions.  

The Town Hall was also the site of the annual smelt fry fundraiser for the fire department.  A few volunteer firemen made the trek to the Knife River near Duluth and returned with cream cans full of smelt. (You can't imagine how many smelt fit in a cream can). Since my father was the fire chief, I got recruited for the smelt cleaning operation. It takes dozens of smelt to make a meal, so the cleaning operation went on-and-on-and-on and eventually induced a gag reflex.  Smelt and lutefisk are in the same league in my book.

The entire second floor of the town hall was “the auditorium”.  It was served by a long, steeply pitched 7-foot wide staircase.  And it had handicapped access in the form of a couple of burly guys to carry the person up and down those stairs. For emergency egress, it had an enclosed fire escape out the second floor down the south wall. A wooden fire escape. The auditorium had a raised stage and a 30 x 60 space with rows of interlocked chairs for “events”. These events were usually associated with national holidays or school events. A visiting speaker with a patriotic theme for Memorial Day or the 4th of July, school Christmas programs where the amazing musical and acting talents of the local students were put on display, occasional wild rounds of Bingo and the annual Person of the Year ceremony with the winner accepting praise and gifts with an embarrassed “aw shucks”. (My Great Uncle Dave was the honoree one year and his response to all the adulation was: "A lot of people I've always regarded as upright and honest told a lot of lies here today").

But as a kid, the best use of this big space was basketball. At some farsighted councilman’s suggestion - whose identity is unknown to me, but forever in my debt - the auditorium was converted into a basketball court during the winter, with baskets on each end to allow full court games. And that place was used. The windows were covered with wooden slats to avoid glass breakage, usually successfully.  A couple nights a week, the hall opened at 7:00 PM - so as not to disturb the sacred family supper hour - and was in constant use till 9:30 closing. Breakaway layups were risky business, as the basket was mounted on the stage whose ledge presented itself at a dangerous level. Great sweaty sport – but no showers.  

And guys only. Girls were cheerleaders.