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During the 1990s, a few years before my father, Dave, passed away in December of 2000, he wrote a 35-page autobiography. Excerpts from it will be published here, as companions to the diaries my mother, Dorothy, kept in 1945 and 1946—the year she met Dave. My dad was born in 1927, in Hamilton, Ohio. The family eventually moved to the south side of Chicago.
Part 21
California or Bust
Dorothy and I bought a car. Of course, this was my first one, too. An Oldsmobile. A 1940 model, but in good shape and very luxurious. At least to us. As Christmas of 1948 approached, and with Dorothy about six weeks pregnant, we'd come up with the idea to break in our brand new, used automobile with a 2,000-mile road trip. Chicago to Los Angeles, via Route 66.
A 1940 Oldsmobile, similar to what would take Dot and Dave to California
Waving goodbye to Louie and Pauline, who we'd been living with, we departed Chicago in our merry Olds on January 1, 1949, heading southwest on Rte. 171 (Archer Avenue) and eventually joining up with Rte. 66. We were on our way, and very excited to be taking our very first trip together, not counting our honeymoon at Lake Bruce, Indiana. The two of use were also looking forward to seeing my brother, Oregon and his wife, Florence. They, like Dorothy and I, were expecting their first child.
Cold weather greeted us, however, as soon as we'd started out. The first two days had us in the car with overcoats on, and little or no heat coming from the car's dahsboard vents. Snow covered the highway. Our idea was to make good time to LA, but the freezing temperatures were finally too much for us. In Tulsa, Oklahoma, and after driving 1,000 miles we pulled into an auto repair garage.
“What can I do for you folks,” a young mechanic asked.
“We've driven from Chicago in this cold, and the car just isn't putting out any heat at all. We've been freezing. Can you fix it for us?”
He opened the hood, inspected the engine for a minute, then closed it. Opening the driver's side door, we could see him doing something or another underneath the dash. He closed the door.
“You're all set.”
“You fixed it? What'd you do?”
“Pushed the lever. It opened the hood vent, so that outside air can flow in and get heated, and then the heat can flow out into your car.”
He started the engine. Sure enough, nice, warm air came pouring out of the vents and filling the interior. I felt stupid as hell. But much warmer.
We figured our troubles might be over. Little did we know.
Route 66, as it winds its way thru Arizona and Flagstaff
At Flagstaff, Arizona, we ran into a fierce blizzard. Snow–mountains of it–surrounded us, blocking our path, and the paths of the cars around us. There was nothing we could do except wait all day for a city snow plow to clear the road ahead. We got going again, and followed that plow for perhaps as much as 50 miles, when we finally were out of the clutches of the blizzard.
Motels were cheap–roughly five dollars per night, on average–and the decor usually of the art deco variety. Food along the way was reasonable, too. We could have a good, “country” meal for no more than a buck.
We pressed on, finally arriving at the outskirts of Los Angeles after sunset. But nothing was easy on our cross-country jaunt. Dorothy and I spent the next few hours going 'round and 'round on the freeways, trying to find my brother Oregon's house. Dorothy became a bit hysterical. As I drove, she began to cry, and she couldn't stop. We'd been in the car for six days, and I could hardly blame her for breaking down. We pulled off the freeway, found a quiet side street, and slept for a few hours in the car.
When morning came, we called my brother, got directions from him (which, yes, we should have done before we left Chicago) and made our way to his house.
Dot in LA, January 1949, before the snow fell.
The weather was nice for the first few days we were in LA and staying with Oregon and Florence. But, as our luck would have it, it began to snow. And snow. In Los Angeles, in a place that rarely ever had so much as a light flurry, this snow was sticking, everwhere. As we contemplated the return trip to Chicago, we knew it wouldn't be any easier than the outbound one.
A Los Angeles street on January 10, 1949
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End of Part 21
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