Joe Biden did not fail in the attempt to vaccinate 70% of the population. The American people failed.
Dave Thomas
8/5/2021
Uncategorized
It’s Really Pretty Simple
I voluntarily wear shoes because they keep my feet warm and protect me from cuts and bruises.
I voluntarily wear gloves when pruning rose bushes because they protect me from the thorns.
I voluntarily wear a mask because there is a deadly virus out there that is killing people and that’s not the way I want to go out. I also voluntarily wear a mask because if I should be infected and am asymptomatic, I don’t want to inadvertently give the disease to my family and friends.
Common sense tells me these are good things to do.
Dave Thomas
7/20/2021
Swimming Holes
Our town, Augusta, Kansas, didn’t have a swimming pool when I was a little kid. A pool was finally constructed when I was in high school, probably about 1951. The pool was located at the northwest corner of Kelly Road and Dearborn. One memorable note was that the head lifeguard was John Hutter, the high school coach and algebra teacher. We weren’t without options before the pool was built. Let’s recall a few.
Not having a pool during our younger days, we made use of the natural water sources available to us with one exception. When I was 12, I got my first formal swimming lesson at the YMCA in Wichita. Some of the local mothers took a couple of carloads of boys to Wichita every day for a week or two of lessons. As I remember it, we swam every day in the nude until graduation day when our parents were invited to attend. I remember that on graduation day, one of the requirements was to dive off the edge of the pool, swim across, and get out on the other side. I had never dived and didn’t know about arching your back so you would surface. I dived in and went straight to the bottom. The next thing I knew, one of the lifeguards was hauling me to the surface. My mom was in attendance and must have been real proud of my performance.
There were a number of places near town where we could swim. Mom and Dad, who were both good swimmers, once took my sister, Sylvia, and I to Elm Creek for a swim. Elm Creek is west of town and runs into the Whitewater River just north of Highway 54. We went to an area about 200 yards from the Whitewater that was just deep enough for swimming, and the folks gave us some lessons.
Camp ROKI is 3 or 4 miles southeast of Augusta. The old Camp ROKI was actually a picnic area on the south side of the Little Walnut River and on the east side of the road. The place for swimming was where the low-water bridge crossed the river. It was shallow on the east side of the bridge, and you could drive a car off the bridge and into the water. During times of drought and water rationing, when we weren’t allowed to wash cars in town, we would go out to this low water bridge, drive into the river, and wash them. On the west side of the bridge was the swimming hole. The water was deeper on that side of the bridge because for years that’s where they dug out the river gravel for use on the roads. On the south side of the river, the road had been cut through a high bank. This high bank continued for some distance to the west. A few yards west of the road and on top of this high bank, was a really big tree. From the tree, someone had hung about a 1 ½ inch manila rope. You could swing way out from the bank and hit the water feet first, or you could flip yourself around and dive in head first. The water was deep enough to tolerate a dive. This was the best such set-up I’ve ever seen.
I wish I could tell you more about Camp ROKI. Maybe the Historical Society has something. My mom told me that the townspeople used to enjoy going there for picnics,, but I don’t know if it was a commercial enterprise that you had to pay for, or if it was just a nice place to go even though it had no amenities.
In my old age, I’m getting a little hazy on location, but I’ll give it a shot. Go East of Augusta on Highway 54 for 3 or 4 miles, and turn South on a country road (it may be Purity Springs or maybe the next one) and go 3 or 4 miles until you hit the Little Walnut River. The old low-water bridge has been replaced by a modern structure that is higher and should be above flood level. Camp ROKI was located east of the road and on the south side of the river.
I was told that in the late 1940’s or early 1950’s, Dr. A. E. Bence, an orthopedic surgeon from Wichita, had purchased Camp ROKI as a weekend retreat. In the fall of 1952, Dr. Bence removed a bone growth from my left tibia.
Another swimming hole was at Dry Creek. Dry Creek was straight west on Highway 54 and about 1 ½ or 1 ¾ miles from the corner of 7th and State. There is a nice, modern bridge across the creek. Below the bridge and a few feet to the south, there is a concrete dam with a spillway in the center. The water runs over the spillway most of the year and creates a nice pool. The pool is not much bigger than a residential swimming pool, and is shaped like a bowl. On the south side, the edge comes up and forms a riffle so the water can flow out, but not with much force. It was a good place to swim and once, when fishing, I caught a 6 inch bullhead. We figured that people might be dumping their pets there because we saw a big goldfish and, another time, we saw one of those little “painted” turtles.
Santa Fe Lake was okay for picnics but the swimming didn’t amount to much. A few yards off shore, there was a raft that looked like it was made of railroad ties, and it was tethered to an anchor on the bottom. You could swim out to the raft and mess around, but that’s about all. There was nothing to jump off of or dive off of.
You couldn’t swim in the Walnut or Whitewater Rivers. They were stagnant and green most of the time and often had some oil waste floating on the top.
Approximately one mile east of Augusta and on the north side of Highway 54, there is a small pond called Holiday Lake. There was an attractive white house fronting the highway, and on the west side of it there was a dirt road or lane leading to the lake. You can also hike down the Frisco railroad tracks to get there. The lake is between the tracks and the highway. My memory fails me on who owned the house. The name may have been Behymer (bee-himer). Anyhow, the lake or, more accurately, the pond looked like it had started life as a quarry or gravel pit. We swam there a few times. Jack Watson and I went duck hunting there a couple of times. A flock of ducks actually flew in one morning. I think Jack got one, but I missed. It’s just as well. I hate the taste of duck.
I don’t want to forget Augusta City Lake. A bunch of us went for a swim one night, and it didn’t turn out well. I covered this in detail in another story. The gist of it was that the cops hauled us in, and the judge lectured us about the fact that swimming in the city’s water supply was a “no-no.”
That’s all I remember about swimming in those days. It was always a good time.
Dave Thomas
7/22/2021
Out of Control
I knew I was in trouble, but didn’t know if I was going to be thrown through a plate glass window or if my head would hit the floor and my teeth would be knocked out. This was my first try at operating one of those big floor buffers. I had grabbed the handles of that thing and hit the switch. I’m telling you, it turned me every which way but loose. I finally got the thing stopped and stood up. I looked around to see if anyone had noticed the fiasco. Of course, they had. Phil Harding, the Parts Manager, was laughing his head off. I looked over to the office and Betty Harrison, the pretty office girl, had her hand over her mouth to hide the fact that she had been laughing. Humiliation was my middle name.
All the drama and mayhem are actually part of a pretty simple story. This would have been September of 1953. I was a senior at Augusta High School and was in a work program that allowed me to leave school every day at 2:00 and go to a job. My job was at Howard Motors, the local Chevrolet/Buick dealer. I washed cars and greased them and was learning to do simple repairs. I didn’t have any great aspirations toward being a mechanic. I just wanted a job.
September was the month for showing next year’s models, and was highly anticipated by car buffs and the public in general. To build the suspense and heighten the drama, the local sign painting artist, John Bourget, was hired to paint inviting signs on the windows of the dealership. There were notices in the newspaper, too. Almost everything about the new cars themselves was a big secret. When the auto transports delivered the cars, rather than unloading them in them in the street in front of the dealership, they were unloaded on a side street. Then they were spirited away and hidden until the appointed day.
Getting back to the front end of this story, we had received three 1954 Chevrolets for the showing day. I had washed and waxed them and stashed them in the old white building on the north side of the property. The building looked like it had started life as a stable, and it was large enough to store six cars.
The day before the big showing day, my boss, Kenneth Narkley, the service manager, told me to remove the current models from the showroom, and then buff the floor. I got the cars out of there, and prepped the floor. This was going to be my first experience with a buffer, but I didn’t give it much thought. I’d seen other guys use a buffer, and it looked easy. Now, we are back to the place where the machine went nuts. I feared for my life, and Phil and Betty couldn’t stop laughing. I stood there with a stupid look on my face, trying to regain my composure and look cool. Phil didn’t rub it in. He came over and took hold of the buffer with one hand, and switched it on. He said, “To stay in one spot, hold the buffer parallel with the floor. To move, slightly tilt the buffer in the direction you want to go.” That’s all it took, and I became a qualified buffer operator that afternoon.
The next day, the show room and the cars looked great, and we had a lot of people in. My trauma and drama hadn’t kept us from business as usual.
Dave Thomas
07/14/2021
Bits of Music
At first, I thought the TV people were just trying to drive us nuts. They started putting wild music behind every commercial. Then, they started adding random noises. There were door bells, i phone vibrators, knocks on wood, and who knows what else. That’s when I realized they were trying to get our attention. But why? Were they just trying to wake us up? Did they know we had gone to sleep while watching their dull prime-time programs? It was really annoying, but I finally realized they were just trying to get us to buy the stuff being advertised.
Fortunately, the TV advertising guys realized that the wild music and noises were just irritating their potential customers. They started putting real music behind the commercials. Imagine my surprise when I started hearing some of the great old songs from the 1940’s and 1950’s. I heard “Accentuate the Positive,” “Sunny Side of the Street,” and “It’s a Good Day.” Then we got a little more current with the theme from Cheers and the theme from Welcome Back, Kotter- programs that were fun to watch. One advertiser presented a great piano rendition of California Dreaming, the song from the Mamas and the Poppas some years ago.
I’ve got to admit that I’m enjoying the commercials now, but I don’t know if I’ll ever buy anything.
Dave Thomas
6/24/2021
Land of Enchantment
We lived in Augusta, Butler County, Kansas. During World War II, Mom and Dad worked at the White Eagle (later, Mobil) Refinery. Mom was hired in 1942. She was hired as a replacement for one of the men who had been drafted. She was placed in the chemical lab, a job previously held only by men. Dad had started at the refinery prior to the beginning of the war. Jobs at the refinery were considered to be vital to the war effort so that and the fact that he was married and had two kids caused him to be deferred from the draft. He tried to enlist, but for the reasons given and the fact that he had rheumatic fever as a youth, he wasn’t allowed.
When our folks left for work in the morning, my sister, Sylvia, and I had to leave, too. We walked the block to the high school and then crossed the school grounds to State Street where we waited under the one street lamp to be picked up. Those winter mornings were pitch black and sometimes there was a heavy fog that made it seem even more frightening. I was only six, and Sylvia was five, so we were easily spooked.
We would stand under the street lamp and wait. Cars would be coming down State Street on the way to the refinery. Sometimes a car would stop, and we would be offered a ride. I would say “thank you” and explain that Uncle Dave and Aunt Rachel would be picking us up in a few minutes. Pretty soon, that big green Packard with Uncle Dave driving would stop for us. Then, Uncle Dave would drive to the refinery where he would stop and get out. Aunt Rachel would slide across to the driver’s seat, and take us to her home.
Their home was at 124 High Street, and they had it build in 1923. It was across from Garfield Elementary and Intermediate School which made it perfect for Aunt Rachel to babysit us before and after school.
You may be wondering why they didn’t pick us up at home. I’m wondering the same thing. It may have been that Cliff Drive was a narrow street ending in a cul-de-sac that was hard to turn around in. Or, it may have been that our folks wanted us to meet them in an easy pick-up spot and save them some effort. Aunt Rachel was probably baby-sitting for free anyhow.
Rachel Ana Wright married my great uncle, David S. Peebler, and they have been our closest relatives both by relationship and geographical proximity.
Aunt Rachel loved the Southwest, particularly New Mexico, “The Land of Enchantment,” and she and her good friend, Eunice Cooper, took a number of trips to that area from the 1930’s to the start of WWII. They visited the pueblos in the south, Taos, Santa Fe, and everything clear up to Gallup.
Eunice was married to John Cooper, owner of Cooper Drugs. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember where the Coopers lived as I prepared to write this story. I could see that 2-story purple brick house in my mind’s eye, but didn’t know where it was. I finally asked Keith Scholfield, and he reminded me that they lived on Santa Fe Street, next to the old hospital. Santa Fe Street! What could be more fitting?
Aunt Rachel and Eunice Cooper were forward-thinking ladies and ahead of their time. At a time when you didn’t see that many women driving or gallivanting around the country, they were doing a serious job of exploring the southwest.
Eunice was a serious collector. She displayed her beautiful collection of Native American art in an alcove, located off the living room of her home on Santa Fe Street. The space looked like the area of a trading post used for the display of “old pawn.” There were squash blossom necklaces, concho belts, silver bracelets, Navajo rugs, pottery, and probably a lot of things I have forgotten. I was completely awe-struck when viewing all of it.
Aunt Rachel was a lot more conservative. She had some Navajo rugs, a Navajo saddle blanket, some baskets, and some pottery. Her favorite possessions, though, were the beautiful black pieces of pottery made by Maria Martinez. In the early 1900’s, Maria had figured out how her ancestors had made the black pottery and had perfected the technique.
When Aunt Rachel was baby-sitting us, she made sure we were entertained. We played Chinese checkers, Old Maid, and other games. The best times, though, were when she told about her travels. She would unfold the Navajo rugs and tell us where she got them and how they were made. She had a small tom-tom made from a hallowed out cottonwood branch with a skin stretched over it that she would demonstrate and then hand over to one of us. She told about the pueblos and how the people lived.
The best part was when she told about Maria and the making of the black pottery. She would pick up one of the bowls and as he told us how it was made, she would be rubbing her hands over that slick glaze almost as if she were caressing it. Then, she would hand it to one of us to enjoy while she picked up another. I think I learned to love and appreciate that black pottery as much as she did.
Of course, the beautiful vases and bowls that are now considered as Native American art were originally produced as common kitchenware utility items. Though Aunt Rachel love the black pottery, she felt that the items should be seen, used, and enjoyed around the house. She had a beautiful black wedding vase, unsigned, but purported to have been made by Maria, that she used as a door stop. Some bowls were used to store paper clips or candy or whatever else needed to be contained. Chips and scratches appeared on some items, but that was okay because they were doing a job while providing beauty and interest to the household.
My time in the Navy was mostly spent in San Diego, but Pat and the kids and I made regular trips back to Augusta to visit relatives and friends. When visiting Aunt Rachel, we always talked about her New Mexico trips and the treasures she brought home.
Aunt Rachel passed away in the late 1980’s, but left a lot of vivid memories. A few months after her passing, her daughter, Maxine (Peebler) Fisher, and her husband, Woody, came to California from their home in Denver. It turned out that their motive was more than just a vacation. Maxine surprised me with a box containing all of that beautiful black pottery.
Dave Thomas
6/17/2021
Augusta, Kansas: Part 7- 5th Avenue
Augusta, Kansas: Part 7-5th Avenue
We’ve just come south along the east side of the 500 block of State Street. That last building on the northeast corner of State and 5th presents it’s west elevation to State Street, but there is no entrance there. If you go around the corner, to the left, you will find the door there on 5th Avenue. That door opens onto a waiting room shared by Harry Lutz, M.D., on the west and James Alley, D.D.S., on the east side. Nettie Hamlett was the nurse for Dr. Lutz. Nan Alley ran the dental office for her husband, Jim. The Alleys had a couple of sons living in Wichita. Kirstie Alley, the actress of Cheers was supposed to be a relative, and I was told in later years, her brother managed a lumber yard in Augusta.
I don’t remember what was in the next space there on 5th. Maybe a dry cleaner or a barber shop.
The next significant building, on the corner, was the 5th Avenue Hotel. The design of the building didn’t conform to the “look” of the rest of the area. The hotel looked more like a lodge you would find up in the mountains. The hotel had a lunch room known as the 5th Avenue Tea Room. After graduating from high school, during the depression, my Mom worked at the Tea Room as a waitress and hostess.
Continue east, across School Street, and you will find the town’s first super market. Safeway came to town when I was probably 9 or 10. The store was managed by Roy Smith, a very busy man. He made time for a smile and a greeting for everyone coming into the store. Mr. and Mrs. Smith had a daughter, Sue, who was a friend and classmate of mine. Sue married another classmate, Steve Allison.
Across the street, on the SE corner of 5th and School Street, was Dunsford Funeral Home. Joe Dunsford and his wife were well known and well-liked in town. Their son, Dick, and his wife, Barbara, were well thought of also.
On the SW corner of 5th and School Street was the Post Office.
Going west from the Post Office, and across the alley, was the Peckham Insurance Agency.
Going West from State Street on 5th, go a block and a half and between Walnut Street and Oak Street was the Locker Plant, owned by Bob Fisher. Bob and his wife, Ruby, had a son, Woody, who married my cousin, Maxine Peebler, daughter of Dave and Rachel Peebler. To me, the best thing about the locker plant was the ground sausage that Bob made and sold.
Dave Thomas
01/17/2021
Augusta, Kansas: Part 4- 6th Avenue
We’ve arrived at 6th Avenue, and we’ll go west from State Street. Go a block to the northeast corner of 6th and Walnut, and you’ll find the dealership for International trucks and farm tractors. I don’t remember the name of the dealership.
Go across the street to the southeast corner of 6th and Walnut, and you will find the Scholfield Hurst Motor Company. It is a Ford dealership owned by Gene Scholfield and Jap Hurst. Gene and Erlene Scholfield had a son, Keith, who was a classmate of mine. Keith and I have been friends since we were four years old. Keith is still active in the local real estate market. Jap and Geneva Hurst had a son, Alan. Cliff Harding was the Service Manager at Scholfield-Hurst, and he also drove the company wrecker. Cliff had a son, Chuck, who was a year younger than Keith and I, and a daughter, Cherry, who was 3 or 4 years older. Ed Mehl worked in the body shop until he and Doug Sawtelle joined up and opened their own body shop.
Going east from State Street on 6th, on the north side of the street, we find Safford Lumber Yard. I didn’t have any need to visit them.
Across the street, on the south side, was the City Building. It contains city offices, the library, city clerk, Public Works, the police station, and the fire house. The police and fire stations were on the west end of the building, starting with a big garage to house the fire engine and a brush rig. Next to the overhead garage door was a regular entrance door. Just inside the door was a brass pole for the firemen to slide down when they were being called out. My friends and I would stop in once in a while to slide down the pole. No one ever seemed to mind. The only fire chief I remember was Bud Presnell. He had several kids, but the only one I remember is Claude. The only two police chiefs I recall are George Lietzke and Frank Bennington. Both of them would always wave and talk to a kid.
I remember two guys as Justice of the Peace. The first was Johnny Mercer, and the second was Tom Irwin. I only had to do business with Judge Tom Irwin once. That was after the cops picked us up for swimming in the city lake. Judge Irwin let us cool our heels in jail for an hour before giving us a stern lecture about swimming in the city’s water supply, and said there would be grave consequences if it happened again.
Dave Thomas
1/3/2021
Jeff’s Story
Our grandson, Jeff Thomas, who did a couple of hitches in the Coast Guard posted a story on Facebook this Veteran’s Day. This was such a neat story, I asked him if it would be alright to post it on this blog. He agreed, so here it is!
Happy Veteran’s Day! This year I decided I would share a sea story from Coast Guard Station Golden Gate. This picture was taken from the north tower of the bridge and was submitted to the local paper. I was at the helm and we were picking up a kayaker in distress. This was one of the craziest days on the water I experienced during my entire tour there. It was Super Bowl Sunday, but also a historic day for a different reason. Queen Mary II was passing under the Golden Gate Bridge and it was the largest ship ever to come into San Francisco. You would think with a Super Bowl on, there wouldn’t be such a turnout. We were completely wrong, it was insane. If you’re really bored you can YouTube it and see how many freaks didn’t watch football that Super Bowl Sunday. The QM2 had to sail in during the ebb tide because the clearance was so tight under the bridge. The bay was the busiest I had ever seen it, I would argue more traffic than fleet week. This kayaker was caught in a 6 knot ebb current in Sausalito then flipped. With the strong ebb, the afternoon wind, and the wake from all the traffic it was like a messy river rapid and she couldn’t flip back over. She was swept passed the bridge to the west and we were heading full speed from Chrissy Field against the flow of traffic because a Ro-Ro (cargo ship for cars) was outbound in the lanes and heading right for her. If you aren’t aware, a ship that size cannot make any significant change of course, especially given the circumstances that day. We had to get on Channel 16 to let the captain know we were going to be within 100 yards of his bow while he was making about 15 knots directly at us. We got on scene and instantly swooped her out, then immediately had to get out of the way. Lucky for her ya boy Jeffrey is a straight gangster boat operator and got her first pass. It was so close that we kept her in the recess deck to wait until the large wake passed by before she was helped up. Aside from shivering and embarrassment, she was fine. We never saw a minute of the Super Bowl that day, tough duty for a Coastie haha
Credit: Jeff Thomas for the story
Dave Thomas
11/12/2020
Drafting and Drifting
Drafting has always fascinated me. The ability to create a picture that is so well detailed and dimensioned that it can be used to produce parts or structures is a great gift.
Entering 9th grade, my freshman year in high school, I enrolled in Mechanical Drawing. I spent three years learning how to be a mechanical draftsman and enjoyed the challenge. We might be handed a piston or a connecting rod or a fuel pump, and be told to produce an accurate representation of it. Interesting stuff.
My senior year, I decided to switch over to architectural drawing and learn how houses are built.
Our lone drafting teacher was H. H. Robinson. Mr. Robinson had come to Augusta High School when my folks had been students in the late 1920’s. Now, the only classes he taught were the drafting classes. His main job now was as superintendent of schools. He still enjoyed the drafting classes and always circled the room, going from drafting table to drafting table, overseeing the work and offering suggestions. He could be quite critical of lettering and dimensioning. He figured that a drawing was worthless if you couldn’t read the title block or dimensions. As a result, he gave a lettering test every week. I worked hard at both the drafting and the lettering and got good grades. However, I realized that mine was the work of a good technician, and that I had no artistic ability.
We were neighbors of the Robinsons. We moved to our Cliff Drive address a few days before my 5th birthday, and a couple of weeks before I started kindergarten. So, by the time I was a senior in high school, Mr. Robinson and I knew each other pretty well. He taught me to ice skate and skip rope like a boxer, and probably taught me a few things about being a decent human being.
We had come to the starting point of the last six weeks of my senior year. We students of the Architectural Drafting class were supposed to pick a final project. The home design magazines carried pictures of named home designs complete with floor plans. Our assignment was to choose one of those designs and create the elevations and construction details that would constitute a complete set of plans to build that house.
Mr. Robinson, with clipboard in hand, was going from drafting table to drafting table consulting with each student and then writing down the name of the design they had chosen. I had other ideas. Being a member of that sub-species known as “Teenaged Boys,” I had often heard the exclamation “Wow, she’s built like a brick shithouse!” Never having seen one of these facilities, I had wondered what it would look like. So, when Mr. Robinson stepped up to my drafting table with his clipboard, I said “Brick Outhouse.” He didn’t smile or blink, but simply wrote it down and moved on to the next table.
The project developed smoothly. Mr. Robinson dropped by each day with sound construction tips, but never with a grin or comment. For added comfort, I included a wall heater and a TV shelf with a small TV set. This was really forward looking for me in 1954 as my folks didn’t have a TV set until 1957. I finished the plans and got a good grade. FYI- it was a neat looking structure, but in no way compared with the girls formerly cited.
After graduation, I was working at Howard Motors, the local Chevrolet/Buick dealership and trying to figure out what I was going to do next. One Saturday evening I stopped in at the P & G Bakery for a cup of coffee and ran into Frank Edward Thompson. Frank Edward had been one year ahead of me, and I knew that upon graduation he had gone to work for one of the oil companies in Wichita. We got to talking jobs, and Frank said that he had become a cartographer and was drawing maps. He knew I had taken the drafting classes and wondered if I might be interested because his company was hiring. He said he would be working overtime the next Saturday and that he would show me around if I came over.
On Saturdays, the garage was only open from 8:00am until 1:00 pm. At 1 o’clock that Saturday, I went home and cleaned up, and then drove to Wichita. I found Frank’s work place, and he greeted me and showed me around. When I saw the work he was doing on those oil field maps, I was amazed. Where my drawings looked technical and stiff and boring, his drawings looked vibrant and artsy and alive. I realized then that I could never excel as a draftsman or a cartographer. I thanked Frank for the tour and went home.
Dave Thomas
10/27/2020
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