Model A Memories—A Love Story

Model A Memories—A Love Story

The Milk Bar (now site of Baker’s Restaurant) on Rt.213 at Brantwood, circa 1950.

Hanging Deer at Schaefer’s Wharf, with well-liked bartender, Uncle Frank Smith—circa 1950.

The John Schaefer House, designed by architect, Armond Carroll, and built by Harry Pensel in 1953. Inset: Master Carpenter, Harry Pensel in circa 1950.

“Fifty dollars,” he said. “I’ll let it go for just fifty.” That’s what I heard Nip Pierce say in Foard Brothers’ Hardware Store back in the Chesapeake City of 1950. Nip worked on the widening of the C&D Canal in the 1930s, and he was one of several older men who gathered at Foard’s to reminisce about their lives in the water-divided town. I was a skinny 14-year-old and worked in the store for a couple of summers. I soon found out that it was Nip’s 1929 Model A Ford that he had for sale, and right away I told him I wanted it.

Oh yes, 1950—It was something special. So sit back, put your feet up, and let me return you to those days, those days of hard work, hard play, and memories hard to forget. In the news, North Korea invaded South Korea (which led to war), President Truman approved the production of the hydrogen bomb, the first credit card was introduced, and we laughed at the first “Peanuts” comic strip. In the movies, Gloria Swanson and William Holding entertained us in “Sunset Boulevard.” In pop music, Bill Haley energized us with “Rock Around the Clock” and Elvis pulsated to “All Shook Up.” In sports, golfing great, Ben Hogan, won the U.S. Open and Boston’s Ted Williams became the highest paid baseball player at $125,000 a year. And in the World Series the Yankees beat the “Whiz Kids” of Philly in four straight.

Anyway, returning to my impatient, adolescent yearnings, I just had to have Nip’s Model A and, despite Pop’s objection (“Just too much for that worn-out jalopy”), I bought it with a combination of my money and his. I swayed him by whining that I had worked hard for that car. With Clint Foard as my boss I took care of the gas pumps as well as the whole general store. And, believe me, Foard Brothers’ sold practically everything: gasoline, kerosene, motor oil, linseed oil, farm implements, pen knives, boots, candy bars, sodas, and chewing tobacco—to name just a fraction of the merchandise.

And so, with the fifty bucks hot in my hand, I gave it to Nip for the jalopy, and I report with pleasure that over the next three years I derived a thousand dollars worth of fun from it. I still recall what it was like to sit at the wheel of the ancient buggy. One’s senses were overwhelmed with an emanation of rust, grease, stale gasoline, mildew, and fragrant, damaged upholstery that must have been comfortable lodgings in which field mice had set up housekeeping. But to me it was as good as a new Cadillac, because it took me wherever I wanted to go—over roads, fields, and through the woods. It even started sometimes without having to crank it. And if you ever have to crank a car, concerned reader, you’d better hope it doesn’t back-fire and break your arm the way my Model A almost broke mine. But once started I was able to travel to see things and talk to folks I had not known before. I wish I could report that I sputtered down the roads legally, but you must know that I had no driver’s licenses and the heap was not tagged. I’m counting on you, faithful reader, to keep my recklessness under your hat and not hold it against me.

My first journey was to pick up Cousin Dick Sheridan and buck and backfire over the bridge to visit Mayor Harry Griffin, who was standing outside Chesapeake City’s first firehouse with Johnny Walter, a respected waterman who worked on the canal. The old firehouse served as our town hall since it had been replaced by a larger, more modern firehouse located on Lock Street. Then we drove up Biddle Street to talk to master carpenter, Harry Pensel, who showed us the unique house he had build for John Schaefer. After that we chugged around to Schaefer’s wharf to see a hanging deer bagged by avid sportsman, John Schaefer, as it swam along his pilings. Frank Smith, John’s uncle, said that venison would be on the restaurant’s menu for the next two weeks. On one of my last Model A jaunts (I drove around in it for about three years before it broke down), I took my girlfriend to talk to Capt. Ed Sheridan, the competent former pilot of the Gotham ferry. At the time, “The Captain” was master of the luxury-liner, Port of Baltimore. He delighted in telling stories about his incredible career on the Chesapeake Bay and its tributaries.

But now let me take you forward in time to 1952, when our over-head bridge was three years old and I had my driver’s licenses. In those times most families had only one car and our family was no exception. So, when I borrowed our 1948 Ford, my folks stayed home and watched Milton Berle, Arthur Godfrey or some such on our 12-inch, black and white TV. I begged the keys from Pop often for many outings, but mainly to speed over to Cecil Street on the North Side to pick up my girlfriend. And I have a clear memory of one hapless evening during that humid-hot summer of 1952.

We watched a horror movie at the drive-in, cooled off at Brantwood with a milkshake from the Milk Bar (now Baker’s Restaurant) and, nestled as one driver, cruised down Route 213 towards home. Little did we know that it would be quite a while before we reached our respective houses. I, of course, was anxious to get home, but my girlfriend pleaded for parking at the gravel pit on Knights’ Corner Road. Once settled we turned on the radio and deployed our air conditioning by opening all the windows. We watched mesmerized while the plump moon panned leisurely overhead on its nightly journey, as midnight gave way to the next early day.

By now, gentle reader, you must suspect how hard this was on me because, naturally, I was concerned with the grandeur of the stars and that intriguing moon, never mind the glory of those soothing, early-fifties’ songs flowing softly from the radio. But when Jo Stafford sang “You Belong to Me” and Tony Bennett crooned “Because of You,” well . . . how could I enjoy those sensuous wonders with all of the kissing going on? As distracting as it was, however, I endured the smothering until well into the night, at which time I switched on the starter only to hear a click and a buzzing noise. Oh yeah, the battery was dead all right! And, unable to crank the newer car, we walked hand-in-hand all the way down 213 to Cecil Street and her doorstep. Then I jogged across Sisters’ field, up the long bridge steps, and eventually to my farmhouse. I woke up Pop and we borrowed a neighbor’s truck to jump start the battery and bring home the family car. As you might imagine, I couldn’t borrow it for quite a while after that.

        Since that nocturnal excitement, my girlfriend has kept me around for the last 61 years, and in late summer we take mini-vacations to the Ocean City area. Even now, when the time of night is right, she still pleads to park . . . but this time at the ocean’s edge to watch the moon puncture the distance darkness, and rise to color the glistening waves with breathtaking shades of gold. And, reclined there, it’s then that I secretly thank whoever invented those snuggle-restricting bucket seats, because regular breathing is important at my age. Now our embraces make up in contentment for what they lack in fervor. After a while, when the splendor wanes and I switch on the ignition to leave, the car never fails to start, so that we miss the dubious adventure of a long, exhausting walk in the dark.