Working at the Beaver Station

To this day, I am very efficient at washing windshields, checking oil and pumping gas. That’s because, for three years at the end of high school and the beginning of college, I worked at the Beaver Gas Station on Dougal Ave. at Norfolk in Windsor.

I got that job after I had moved to the suburbs. I needed money to pay for my car, a 1966 MGB. I needed a car because I wanted to be able to go see my friends who were all downtown. As it worked out, I had little time left to see my friends since I spent 24 hours (three shifts) on weekends getting $1.25 an hour to pay $60 a month for the car loan.

Nowadays, a service station like those locally-owned Beaver stations doesn’t exist. The owner of these stations, Don Plumb, was a visionary in his time.

Most other gas stations had licenced mechanics plus a couple of guys who helped in the bays. There were no self-serve gas stations also selling cigarettes and snacks in the 60s. When customers pulled up to pumps at a regular gas station, somebody in the bay would put down what they were doing and walk out to pump the gas and maybe clean the windshield. That was not what happened at a Beaver station. 

At Beaver, as a customer pulled in, three guys ran out to the car. One greeted the customer, pumped the gas and handled the money. Another checked under the hood: oil, battery and radiator. The third did all the windows with a squeegee and paper towel, leaving no streaks and getting all the bugs off with a special sponge if necessary. If they wanted the transmission fluid checked, we had them start the engine and checked that too. If the customer asked, we checked the pressure in the tires with the gauge in our breast pocket, and if a tire was low, we followed the car to the air pump and filled the tire.

Imagine today pulling into a gas station and getting that kind of service! In driving rain, humidity and heat or ripping cold snow – Beaver service never varied.

A weekend shift had eight or 10 guys working 7 in the morning to 3 p.m. and a similar group working 3 to 11. Most shifts, we were all moving most of the time. The Dougal station had nine pumps, three to an island. The middle pumps were high test, the outside pumps were regular. Some days, cars were waiting because each pump lane was busy. When it was that busy, one person did all three jobs on a car.

There were no chairs for staff to rest. For lunch or dinner, we would grab a bite of a burger or sandwich between cars, not having time to wash our hands after handling money, dirty rags, squeegees, sponges, oil cans and everything else.

We carried rags in our back pockets so we did not burn our hands on radiator caps. We learned from practice how to ease a cap off a hot rad to let out pressure and not let hot fluid explode in our faces.

Our Beaver uniforms were dark blue pants and a light blue shirt with a Beaver emblem over the left pocket. For spring and fall, we had a jacket that matched the pants, and for winter, a heavy parka that also had the Beaver emblem.

Plumb, the visionary, was the first to build automatic car washes at his stations. That meant more guys on the shift. If you bought enough gas, you got a free wash. Beaver also gave stamps to fill little books that could be redeemed for gifts. Regular customers demanded extra stamps.

The Beaver station had two bays for oil changes and tire repairs. I learned how to put a car on a hoist, take a tire off, find a leak and repair it with a plug. I also learned how to remove a tire from a rim, and let the owner examine the hole from the inside. I could apply a patch to the inside or put a tube in the tire. In those days, tubeless tires were an innovation.

After working there a few months, I could get the nod to take the station’s pick-up truck on service calls to change a flat or boost a dead battery. Most of the guys working at Beaver including myself learned how to drive a manual transmission on the Beaver service pick-up.

The summer of 1967 and again in 1968, regular was 49 cents an imperial gallon. That’s about 10 cents a liter. I worked the midnight shift, 11 to 7. This gave me more hours and the manager, Ron Treleven, paid me $1.50 an hour. For six shifts, that was $72 a week. It doesn’t seem like much now, but I saved enough money to pay my college tuition and keep up my car payments.

Ron was always fair and rewarded hard work and capability with shift requests and responsibility. Nonetheless, he had only one response for anyone who did not call in with a reason before missing a shift. If you missed a shift, there was no discussion. Ron just said, “Hand in your uniform.”

More next week about the dog that lived at the Beaver station. 

Radio days

My Grade 6 science teacher at Victoria Ave. School, Mr. Fordham, said something that I still remember as one of the egregiously faulty pronouncements of my youth.

He relayed this obscured insight to our class just before the Christmas Holidays at the end of 1959.

“You’ll be able to tell your grandchildren that you lived in this historic decade, when the total knowledge in the world actually doubled in just 10 years,” Mr. Fordham said. “So many marvelous developments happened in the 1950s -- jet airliners, television and the first satellites in space. An era like this will never happen again.”

Mr. Fordham should have realized that the acceleration of new science and technology would continue, and civilization would be churning in its wake. Clearly, most of Mr. Fordham’s generation was the last to grow up with things not changing a whole lot.

Like a monument to that generation, my parents’ Philco Radio cabinet stood against the wall of our front hallway.

This high quality wooden cabinet was about a metre high, maybe 50 cm wide and 30cm deep (about 3x2x1 in feet). It had one large speaker in front. The speaker was behind a cloth screen protected by wooden art deco pillars. The front top of the cabinet opened forward to reveal a plate of lighted glass showing four scales for tuning: one for the AM frequencies, one for the FM, and two for short wave radio bands. Along the glass, five wooden knobs protruded: on/off; volume; tuning AM and FM; and tuning Short Wave I and II. (Photo similar)

It had been an expensive purchase, but my parents believed when they bought it that this handsome piece of furniture would serve the family for many years to come.

Inside the big radio were shelves of tubes that looked like light bulbs. When the radio was on for any length of time, you could feel the heat from those tubes as you passed by. Tubes would burn out from time to time, so my parents kept a supply of replacements. Finding which one burned out was always a chore. The radio had to be turned and its back removed. Then Dad had to reach in and replace the tube that wasn’t glowing without burning his arm on the tubes that worked.

I tinkered with those knobs to find out what sounds could come out of the radio, but only the AM band produced anything you could listen to. The others produced only screaks and static. There were no FM stations and the radio would need to be connected to a large antenna to get short wave.

I dutifully returned the dial to WJR in Detroit, which was my parents’ station. WJR carried a morning DJ named J. P. McCarthy, commentator Bud Guest’s show called the Sunny Side of the Street Club from 8 to 8:15 weekdays, the Lone Ranger and other serial dramas, the Tiger games, and no rock and roll music. WJR played Perry Como, Pearl Baily, Frank Sinatra, Mills Brothers, Dean Martin, Jo Stafford and music like that.

Big radios like these were quickly made obsolete when manufacturers introduced radios with tiny transistors. Without those tubes, radios no longer needed to be heavy, cumbersome or even plugged in.

By 1962 and some years following, I often took my plastic 6-transistor radio in its leather case all kinds of places. It was battery powered. It fit in my hand. I could move the tuning dial with my thumb from CKLW to WKNR to WXYZ without even looking. My little radio played Duke of Earl, Bristol Stomp, Ruby Baby, Runaway, Peppermint Twist, Lonely Teardrops, Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow, La Bamba, Earth Angel, Pretty Little Angel Eyes, Johnny Angel (Angel songs seemed to be big in the early 60s), and let’s not forget, If You Want to Be Happy (for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife).

Portable transistor radios came with a little ear-piece. The wire to the earpiece broke off about the third time it was used, so we listened by holding the radio up to our ear as we walked or biked. People made the same kind of remarks about us with our radios next to our heads as people say now about young people always looking down at their cellphones.

A transistor radio for me was pure freedom. Transistor radios let kids listen to what they wanted, where ever and whenever – except around moms and dads, oh, and teachers.

Also, television got better and increased the hours of broadcasting. In the 1950s, a test pattern was all you could get through the day. Broadcasts began with the national anthem around 4 p.m. and signed off around midnight.

In the early 60s, the big radio that was supposed to serve for years to come had been replaced by a console TV in the living room and a new small radio in the kitchen for Bud Guest in the morning and the ball game in the afternoon. 

Going to the Fair

Gary McLister and I saw Little Steve Wonder open the Motown Review at the Michigan State Fair in August 1963.

The fairgrounds are in Detroit on the east side of Woodward Ave. just south of 8 Mile Road.

It was Gary’s idea to go. Someone had taken him to the Fair some previous year, so he knew where it was. It was probably a Sunday because I worked late afternoons at Clark’s Market on Thursdays and Fridays and all day on Saturdays. I think back – I wonder if we told our parents where we were going. Probably not. Our plan was to be home for supper. Gary and I had turned 15 that spring.

We walked to the Windsor Terminal for the Tunnel Bus between Windsor and Detroit. That bus took passengers to the Immigration and Customs Office on the US side, where you would get off, walk in line to a Customs Officer, tell him where you were going and then get back on the bus. We may have had our birth certificates, or maybe something less officious, like a library card. Going to Detroit was not a big deal in those days. ID may not have been required. (The photo here is more recent. The Canadian flag was not adopted until 1964.)

The Tunnel Bus let us off at Grand Circus Park, the place where Detroit’s main streets radiate out from the downtown. We got on a Woodward Avenue Bus and rode it north, past United Shirt, the giant Hudson’s, Griswald’s, and the other downtown stores, past the Detroit Institute of Arts on the right and the huge library facing it on the left. Past the Olympia where the Red Wings played. Farther on north we went, past big houses and big churches, car lots and smaller stores. People got on, people got off, mostly African American people, but that didn’t mean anything to us. Gary and I had Black friends at school, we went into Windsor’s Black neighbourhood all the time. Even Mr. Lemon, our math teacher, was Black and nobody ever said anything about that. Mr. Lemon was just another (good) teacher.

The Tunnel Bus had cost just a quarter, but the Detroit bus fare was more expensive than we expected, and when we got to the Michigan State Fair, we had to pay to get in. I don’t remember how much it was, but it left us with just enough to take the buses home and maybe split a pop. No money for a hot dog, so lunch was out.

With no money to spend, Gary and I wandered the fairgrounds, taking in the sights. I think Gary saw the sign. Free Motown Review. We went through the entrance into an open area with a stage at the far end. We walked over and watched the band set up. The drum set was impressive. A set of horn players tuned up. Guitars came out of cases and plugged in. Guys in shinny suits walked around, arranging microphones, setting up their chart stands and chairs.

All this was fascinating for Gary and me. We stood right in front of the stage which was about as high as we were. We jumped up to get a glimpse of what was going on at the very back.

A few other people were watching with us by the time someone led a skinny kid up to the front microphone. He wore dark glasses and carried a really big harmonica. The kid reached out to touch the microphone and get his bearings. We realized he was blind. The skinny kid stood around, touching the microphone from time to time to be sure it was there. The band members were getting settled in their places. The kid asked “Now?” And someone in the band said “Not yet.” This happened a couple more times until the guy in the band said, “Okay, now.”

And Little Stevie Wonder yelled into the microphone, “Everybody say YEAAAHH.”

And Gary and I said to each other, “It’s Little Stevie Wonder.” We knew this song from the radio. The crowd behind us yelled “Yeah.”

And he said it again, “Everybody say YYEEAAAAAHHH!” And Gary and I realized a crowd had closed in around and behind us. The crown yelled shouted back “YEAH!”

And the band broke into Fingertips as Stevie Wonder began playing that giant harmonica and we were really into the music until we felt the crowd pushing and jostling us. I first thought, “Hey, you don’t need to push, we were here first,” but then Gary and I realized we were the only kids in the crowd who were not Black.

We slid out across the area in front of the stage and then through the crowd to the back of the area that had just about filled up. We were too short to see much of the people on stage from back there. Little Stevie Wonder finished Fingertips and then started into High Heel Sneakers.

We were getting menacing looks and motions from some of the guys in the crowd so I agreed with Gary when he said, “We better get out of here.”

We were home for supper. The bus ride back down Woodward was hot and seemed like it took a lot longer than it did to get to the fairgrounds. I looked at the Black people getting on and getting off. I felt different than I had that morning. I had known there was racism. I had seen discrimination, but I had never been part of it and had intended to never be part of it. I joked with the girl whose locker was next to mine at school the same as I would with anybody else. Racism may be elsewhere, I thought, but if I wasn’t racist, I could live in a world without racism.

That simple idea died the day Gary and I saw Little Stevie Wonder at the Free Motown Review.

Four years later, parked on the Windsor side of the Detroit River, we listened to the shouts and gunshots, and watched the glow in the night sky as the city we enjoyed and felt a part of was ablaze in riots. I knew, we knew, the Gary’s and the rest of us, that racism was something we had to find ways to undo, diminish, sweep away and out of our lives. I think we knew too that we were the generation to do it. It was on us.

Great fun for 12 cents

When The Amazing Spider-Man comic first appeared in 1963, I was the big red circle in the centre of its target audience. I turned 15 that year.

The grip that comics had on me in my teens has never completely let go. It’s been a kick seeing how those characters that were launched way back in the 60s have been reintroduced this century in movies and television.

Windsor’s largest comic book store, when I was a kid, was in the front of an old frame house on Wyandotte Street just west of Windsor Arena. It had bins of used issues and racks of new releases. Most issues were a dime or 12 cents, some large special issues were as much as 35 cents.

I bought the original and next 20 issues of Spider-Man; the first and a few others of Daredevil; the first dozen X-men; the original year or two of Fantastic Four; Thor and a bunch of others including Dr. Strange, which first appeared in the back half of an issue of Thor.

I surprise myself at how much content I still recall.

The first Avengers series had a guy who hasn’t made it to the movies. Called Giant Man or Ant Man, this guy could get very large or very small as the occasion required. He had a girlfriend called The Wasp. Neither were a great hit.

The Incredible Hulk, on the other hand, was on a trial basis with The Avengers. Some Avengers thought he couldn’t be trusted because of that temper. Hulk wasn’t excited about hanging out with them either, after various battles with super heroes in other books. All this was great fun for a 15-year-old.

I kept my comics in boxes in my bedroom closet, as well as a few that were not from Marvel: The Phantom, Blackhawks, and the occasional DC.

Marvel comics eclipsed the others because they introduced superheroes that had to deal with personal dilemmas -- like Hulk who just wanted to be normal. This was unlike DC's characters, such as Superman, who was revered and honoured in Metropolis, or Batman who was a rich guy and resource for the police. Flash was a cop. Wonder Woman was a privileged princess. Green Lantern was a fearless test pilot (I had the first issue of that too.) None of those DC characters led tragic lives or second-guessed themselves.

But in Marvel, Spider-Man was an orphan teen living with his poor aunt and uncle. And when he accidently got his powers, he didn’t want to fight crime. Instead, he tried to use his new abilities to make money. He ignored a bad guy and the bad guy turned around and killed his uncle. Realizing he could have prevented his uncle’s death, Spider-Man was a tormented kid. I loved that.

Other Marvel headliners had their troubles too. Thor was stranded on Earth because he had been kicked out of Asgard. Iron Man could die anytime; only the power device in his chest kept his heart beating – long before the invention of actual pacemakers. All the Marvel comics had these back stories. It was my introduction to literature. That notion struck me when we were taking King Lear in high school. I thought the tragedy of King Lear was the same as the tragedy of The Silver Surfer: they both gave up a secure and privileged life for a promise of adventure, then realized their mistake when it was too late. I doubt that this notion impressed my English teacher.

In English class, we were supposed to read Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Heart of Darkness, and Shakespeare. None of it held my attention for a minute.

As my teens ended, novels and short stories replaced superhero comics. Stranger in a Strange Land by Heinlein; Sirens of Titan and other Vonnegut novels; I Robot; Fear and Loathing in Los Vegas; Miami and the Siege of Chicago by Mailer. Plus there was poetry: Leonard Cohen, Richard Brautigan. And let us never forget In His Own Write and A Spaniard in the Works.

Nonetheless, once a super-hero fan, always a bit of a super-hero fan, I guess. Recently, I watched episodes of the new Marvel’s Daredevil series on Netflix.

Oh, what happened to my boxes of now valuable comic books? On a day after I was married, I came by my parents’ home I asked my Mom about my boxes of comics and things. She didn’t recall where they might be. I looked around but never found them. I didn’t live there anymore so I suppose they got tossed out. After all, why would a married man want to keep old comic books?

Your Mother Should Know

In fall of 1967, Magical Mystery Tour was released.

Earlier that summer, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band had been launched with great fanfare. Even Time magazine got involved with a cover article about how the band worked with the London Philharmonic.

Conversely, Mystery Tour rolled up unexpectedly. That day, I was having lunch at Massey Secondary School. One of the usual group at our table was away at some appointment. Shortly after lunch period began, he came through the backdoor into the cafeteria. He was exuberant and waving a record album high over his head. As he made his way to our table, some people rose from their seats to follow him.

It was our first look at the Magical Mystery Tour album: for us at the time, an event of epoch discovery. The Beatles wore animal masks in the cover picture. (Gasp! Which Beatle was which animal?) The cover unfolded to reveal a picture book aside – first time a record album had a book inside. As the people at our table looked through the pictures, word spread. A crowd gathered around. People were standing on nearby tables to get a glimpse, everyone fascinated with pictures inside with The Beatles on a bus tour.

As I was looking at the picture of John Lennon with a shovel full of spaghetti, I realized that Woolco, the only store in South Windsor that sold records, would have a limited supply. I got up and shot out the back door of the cafeteria, and ran nonstop through the back campus and the three blocks to my house. I jumped on my old bike and peddled hard to Gateway Plaza. Already, kids were ahead of me, grabbing their copies. I secured mine, bicycled home then ran back to school relieved that I had my copy of the new Beatle album, which I would be playing over and over that night.

By this time, it was half way through the next period. I expected to get sent to the office for a late slip. Likely, I’d be given a detention. However, in the school, my teacher was standing in the hall chatting with a couple of others. I understood why when I got to my classroom. Half the students were gone.

It seemed to me that nearly half the school was either out to buy the new Beatle album or gone to somebody’s house to listen to it.

It is impossible to explain the hold the Beatles had on the youth of the 60s. There has been nothing so popular since. The first three Beatles albums at one time were the top three sellers on the Billboard charts for music sales in North America. At the same time, five of their singles held the top five spots on the singles chart. And the phenomenon took off from there.

In their day, they were original in many ways and it is an understatement to point out that they were trend setters. They were the trend setters. Not just as musicians, but as thinkers. An obscure example – their manager was openly gay. This was influential. Beatles fans were unlikely to be intolerant knowing the Beatles had a gay manager.

The fab four were hard working young men who loved the music and were not afraid to try new things. In the turbulent 60s, The Beatles showed the baby boom generation that, for some, life could be what you make it. You say you want a revolution… you’d better free your mind instead.

I feel very fortunate to have grown up in the 60s, when there was an explosion of great music, from Miles Davis to Mungo Jerry, Soul sounds, California sounds, the Philadelphia sound, Chess Records, Motown, psychedelic, blues, the British invasion... It was a trip. And The Beatles were driving.