 
Tponetom
Member
Username: Tponetom
Post Number: 191
Registered: 06-2007
| | Posted on Wednesday, January 02, 2008 - 12:28 pm: |    |
EAST SIDE DETROIT’S INFAMOUS INTERSECTION
There are many kinds of stories. Inspirational, Comical, Educational, Dramatic, Entertaining and many other moods. Some are memorable, others, forgettable.
I have smothered many sad ones but there is one that will, periodically, shake off the haunting dust that covers my memory and puts me back to the scene of an incredible sadness. It takes place in early 1940. I was 11 yeas old.
Our next door neighbor on McClellan had three sons. Two were fraternal twins, 20 years old. (Later, one of the twins would marry my oldest sister.) The other boy, Harold, was 22.
This story is about Harold.
Harold was six feet, one inch tall. Very trim in figure. Handsome in the vogue of Clark Gable. Neither a fop nor a pretty boy. He was a man’s man.
Our neighborhood was composed of 3 groups; grade school kids, (like me) a larger group of teen-agers and the old guys over 20. To every one of us, Harold was the shining icon we all aspired to become. He represented the sum total of personal and material assets that we all dreamed of. His personality and demeanor exuded nothing but class.
Harold was a pipefitters apprentice. His father was a journeyman and Harold would soon be promoted to that status.
Harold owned a 1937 Lincoln Zephyr. He also owned a Harley Davidson bike. His best pal, Freddy, (from outside the neighborhood) owned an ‘Indian.’ The mock arguments that the two got into over the merits of either bike were hilarious. Us kids would stand there, very solemn of face, listening to the two of them, and when we thought it appropriate, we would bust out laughing even if we did not understand what they were arguing about.
Harold also had a short-wave radio which was set up in the attic of his home. He would broadcast over the air using a fictitious name for his “radio station.” Ted Lewis was a popular bandleader and had his own radio program at that time. At the start of the program Lewis would use his trademark introduction, asking the question, “Is EVVVVrybody HaPPPPy? (With exaggerated emphasis on the ‘v’ and the’ p’.) Harold would mimic that phrase while “broadcasting” or when he was just joining his friends on the street. His broadcasting covered a very small area, like a few blocks or so.
The E. Warren-McClellan intersection always made Detroit’s ‘WORST TEN LIST’
of the most dangerous intersections in the city. This was before a signal light was installed and before the one-way streets, with E. Forest was inaugurated. There was just “STOP” signs for McClellan.
Eastbound Warren had one lane only if curb side parking was allowed.
Westbound Warren had 3 lanes between Cadillac and McClellan that had to merge into one lane at McClellan
We kids entertained ourselves, especially in the winter time, standing on the corner, watching most of the cars go by, while others were detained by reason of collision.
February 22, 1940
4:00 in the afternoon.
Washington’s Birthday. A Holiday
Harold left his house, got on his Harley and rode down the block to his girl friend’s house. He asked her if she wanted to go riding with him. She said she had some things to do and to come back later.
A short time later, Harold was northbound on McClellan, stopping at Forest. The car behind him had some of his friends in it. The story goes that the friends challenged Harold to a race up to Warren. Of course it was ridiculous, but Harold took off like a shot, racing up to Warren.
I was playing in our basement (3 houses from the corner) with some of my pals. We were used to hearing the “fender bender” accidents and seldom paid any anxiety to them. This time there was a CRASH! The instant we heard it, we knew something bad had happened. We raced out of the house, down to the corner. The scene was chaotic. The Harley was lying in the east bound lane of Warren, about 10 feet east of the intersection. Harold was lying on the westbound side of Warren, about 20 feet east of the intersection. One of his motorcycle boots was lying off to the side. Harold was bleeding from both ears.
The ambulance seemed to take forever. He was still alive when it finally appeared.
I went home. My sister, Joyce, was with me. She was crying. She kept looking out our front room window, watching Harold’s house.
Two hours later, Joyce looked out again and saw Harold’s mother and father walking toward their house.
Joyce said, “He’s dead.”
Harold was one of my early heroes. His death shattered my innocence of unpleasantness. Heroes din fact, die, without apparent rhyme or reason. Five months earlier, I had been lying on the same pavement, about ten feet from where Harold was lying. Why was I not killed when I got hit by a car? Such are the vagaries of chance.
Weepy old men have license to shed a tear in memoriam, confident in the knowledge that it will last but a few seconds. Another delightful image will wash away the teardrops.
I see it now. The Harley is parked out front. Harold is half sitting and half leaning on it, a Lucky Strike, (from the green and red package) dangles from his lips, his eyes at half mast suggesting a mood of languor, his motorcycle cap at a jaunty angle, his boots, a brilliant shiny black.
A gaggle of giddy, giggling girls, on either side of the street, slow their stride to a crawl, giving them more time to ogle.
A warm, devastating smile slowly grows on Harold’s face. He tips the visor of his cap back a little, spreads his arms out wide and says,
“Is Evvvvrybody Happpy?”
P. S. There are discordant notes in my ‘rhapsodizing’ of Detroit and there are some that I never want to forget. |
Ray1936
Member
Username: Ray1936
Post Number: 2500
Registered: 01-2005
| | Posted on Wednesday, January 02, 2008 - 7:21 pm: | |
Life has its nasty moments, Tp, as you describe above. For me, fortunately, none were as nasty as Harold's abrupt end, though. A broken window or a fender-bender car accident were about the worst.
Lucky me. |
Gannon
Member
Username: Gannon
Post Number: 11214
Registered: 12-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, January 03, 2008 - 5:29 am: | |
Tp,
You remind me of the manager of the nearby Green Giant supermarket at Tireman and Schafer who died on HIS motorcycle horribly, when I was a wee lad living in the Aviation Subdivision...with that tribe of kids who commandeered those islands on Oakman Boulevard of which I spoke on that thread.
Happened on our street, too, Appoline, if memory serves. Woman backed out of her driveway, directly in front of him, catapulting him over the nearby cement mixer that had distracted her.
It was quite the physics display, and has kept me from EVER being complacent and comfortable on a motorcycle.
His death has certainly extended my life...I like acceleration so much, if not for this early lesson I'd surely taken some fast bike out more than twice. I figure the third time I'd get in serious trouble well beyond my capabilities...like with fast women, too, I guess!
Cheers |
Gazhekwe
Member
Username: Gazhekwe
Post Number: 1227
Registered: 08-2007
| | Posted on Thursday, January 03, 2008 - 8:01 am: | |
What a story. That experience likely did add something to your future driving techniques. One thing, our biggest chance at immortality is living in the minds and hearts of others. Harold sure got a boost today. I bet he will be one of the first people you see when you cross over some day. He sounds like a great guy! |
Tponetom
Member
Username: Tponetom
Post Number: 193
Registered: 06-2007
| | Posted on Thursday, January 03, 2008 - 12:45 pm: | |
Ray - Gannon - Gaz
The trauma that enveloped me after that collision, has lasted to this very day. I have NEVER touched a motorcycle. Not the handle bars, nor the seat nor any other part of one. Two of my pals started 'riding' in their late teens. They both took spills and were lucky to only suffer cuts and bruises. Both sold their bikes forthwith. |
Lefty2
Member
Username: Lefty2
Post Number: 861
Registered: 07-2007
| | Posted on Monday, January 07, 2008 - 12:06 am: | |
Tponetom - you need to write a book. long winded. |
Aiw
Member
Username: Aiw
Post Number: 6488
Registered: 10-2003
| | Posted on Monday, January 07, 2008 - 11:05 am: | |
Tponetom, thanks for sharing that great story. |
Barnesfoto
Member
Username: Barnesfoto
Post Number: 4641
Registered: 10-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, January 10, 2008 - 3:46 pm: | |
a book, please, a book! |
Tponetom
Member
Username: Tponetom
Post Number: 198
Registered: 06-2007
| | Posted on Thursday, January 10, 2008 - 9:34 pm: | |
Ray-Gannon-Gaz-Lefty-Aiw-Barne s, et al,
I do appreciate the kind thoughts. I have neither phony nor feigned modesty about writing a book. It takes far more talents, and especially, personal characteristics like motivation, dedication, application, courage and honesty and, among other things, TIME, that I do not have.
The 'honesty' thing is part of the problem. Here is why. Every story I write is true. Every detail I cite is as accurate as my memory provides. The exceptions are when I state that the story is fictional, satirical or otherwise, made up.
So, here is the rub. The above story about ‘Harold’ is true. It is not my ‘created’ story and there is no way that I would use it for commercial gain. Long after his death, I learned a great deal more about him from his brother who married my sister. I could make a Horatio Alger story out of his brief life with a happy ending, but I can’t because that weepy tear begins to form.
Youthful and unwarranted death was omnipresent within my generation. When I write a story about one of them, it is only to memorialize the person and the circumstance of their passing.
Do you recall the Movie, “City Slickers” with Billy Crystal and Jack Palance? There is a scene where Jack asks Billy if he knew “what the secret of life was.” Billy said , no, he didn’t and he asked Jack what the secret was. Jack held up his index finger and said “it is just one thing, and every man has to figure out, for himself, what that one thing is.”
When I was 45 years old, I discovered my “one thing.” I have never deviated from that one thing. It is simple enough to be sappy!
In that moment of enlightenment, I told myself that it was time for Peggy and I to “stop and smell the roses.” Not incredibly, she agreed. We were both ready to resign from the ‘Age of Acquisition’ to that of entitlement, of all things that were free. Things like:
Fresh Air contaminated only by the smell of smoke from our wood stove. (I was tickled to death when Gazhekwe researched my Iron Ore Stew fetish)
Watching and monitoring the life of animals and birds, not to mention those human denizens that would visit in our area and wistfully daydream of their own wonderland, some day,,,,or maybe not.
Wild flowers by the millions and as you walked through them you tried very hard not to step on any of them.
Snowshoeing or cross country skiing on the hard, top crust of snow only to find a soft spot that breaks and lets you sink down about 3 feet. The trick is to get out of the hole and get back on top of things.
Then there were the religious services that we shared together. Starting about March 15, the ordinations began. The ceremonies were held in the (Sugar Shack) pole barn. I fired up the evaporator, collected the sap, boiled it off, finished it, bottled it and started all over again. Peggy was the ‘Jill of All Trades.’ Her main job was to fire the evaporator when I was out in the field collecting the sap. She became very adept at opening one fire door and throwing in one piece of wood and then closing the door within three seconds and then repeating the process on the other fire door. (Leaving either door open for any amount of time, like in ‘seconds’ would allow cold air into the fire chamber and slow down the boiling process. Speed was of the utmost. Golden Maple Syrup was the reward.
Finding obscure inland lakes off of the beaten path and launching our aluminum boat. We would go fishing without using any bait. We did not want the fish to intrude on our reverie.
Periodically, I had to work six months a year to keep the wolves from our doorstep.
Jan. 10, 2008.
It is 8:00 PM as I sit here writing this. There are a dozen empty apple boxes scattered around our house. They are waiting to be filled with the necessary miscellany for our trip back to
Northern Michigan and then Detroit to visit the family.
So, you see, I don’t have TIME to write a book.
Again, thank you for your kind thoughts. |
Gannon
Member
Username: Gannon
Post Number: 11300
Registered: 12-2003
| | Posted on Friday, January 11, 2008 - 2:26 am: | |
I should like to cross paths with you, TP, especially in the UP...if I could be so lucky...when you make this trip. At least you could grace us with a visit at an FSC when you make it through the city?!
My taste this year of my cousin's peaceful, serene and totally beautiful-but-tough lifestyle at the eastern edge of Marquette County across the street from the lake has me chomping at the bit...hopefully not making me less tolerant of the flurry and clutter of city life in the meanwhile.
It is likely I will end up up in the UP. |
Tponetom
Member
Username: Tponetom
Post Number: 199
Registered: 06-2007
| | Posted on Friday, January 11, 2008 - 10:45 am: | |
Gannon ;
The ever present question we got from our family and friends, when they would visit us in the U.P. was always, "But what do you dooooooooo up here all by yourselves?"
My stock answer was and still is, "I just don't have time to tell you about all the things we dooooooo. We are just too busy!" |
Gazhekwe
Member
Username: Gazhekwe
Post Number: 1271
Registered: 08-2007
| | Posted on Friday, January 11, 2008 - 11:41 am: | |
I spent some time on the shores of Gitchegumee in the 80s, and loved it. Serene, and close to the earth, the weather and all things holy. There was time to indulge in many pursuits, sewing, stained glass, painting, writing, exploring... Unfortunately, the siren call of commerce lured the other half back to the city, where somehow, there are so many distractions. I suspect age-activated ADD has something to do with it. |
Tponetom
Member
Username: Tponetom
Post Number: 200
Registered: 06-2007
| | Posted on Friday, January 11, 2008 - 3:26 pm: | |
Gaz:
Financially, our 21 year tenure in the U. P. was never a 'walk in the park.' We did what we could with what we had at the time.
We used a 55 gallon drum, with the bottom cut out, as a septic tank for over a year until we could afford a cement one. And so on.
"Be not a lender nor borrower be." (Our slogan.) |
Gazhekwe
Member
Username: Gazhekwe
Post Number: 1272
Registered: 08-2007
| | Posted on Friday, January 11, 2008 - 4:45 pm: | |
Yes, I forget what that is called, we had one for our washer discharge. Dry well? One of our neighbors, with no electric, had a hand pump to work their toilet. They would pump the tank full so it could be flushed. They were the ones who had water when the power went out. |
Barnesfoto
Member
Username: Barnesfoto
Post Number: 4646
Registered: 10-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, January 12, 2008 - 4:57 pm: | |
"there is no way that I would use it for commercial gain"
I was thinking that your stories would be a gift for more than the readers of the forum. They are a delight to read, and your writing is descriptive enough that feel as though I have taken a stroll down your block and met your friends and neighbors, people who were there decades before I was born.
In a sense, you have made some of us travel back in time. I still say you need to put all of your writings together in a book.
Thanks again. |
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