Thursday, As Promised
Back porch, south Fargo, summer night. First summer night all summer. Dad’s describing where the flood dike was, how that tree came back despite everyone’s assumptions it was a goner, how the local homeowner’s association takes care of things. Including mosquitos. I note that I haven’t been bitten yet.
“Not one this year,” says Doris, his wife.
“They’re out here spraying all the time,” Dad says.
Then he slaps his forearm.
Mosquito. Damned things. The most persistent form of life on the planet, perhaps. Dennis Prager always says he’d like to ask God: why the mosquito? What purpose does it serve? I’ve heard an answer: to remind the noblest king that he, too, is human, and hence not immune.
An hour later I’m sitting in my dad’s kitchen, one day after my birthday, which was also the anniversary of the Nagasaki bombing. He tells me he’d been contacted to add some recollections – if he had any – of rescuing prisoners of war from Formosa. As it happened, he did. Like all the other stories, I’d never heard this one; he never talks about it. Part of it had to do with sparing the kids the horror stories and putting it all behind him, but on the other hand I’ve never met anyone who lives in the present like my Dad. He’s not one for backward glances. Which is why his peers doze in Barcaloungers, and he hits the highway on his Harley, I suspect.
He said they’d steamed to Formosa after the surrender. What about the surrender? What was that like? He said the Block Island was 100 miles off Japan, sending bombers to the island. There was general happiness, as you might imagine: “We had a party on the deck. The ship’s band played, and they got the beer out of stores – two bottles apiece.” Then off to Formosa to haul off the wounded. He was on a small skiff shuttling between the mainland and the ship, putting the men in nets so they could be winched up to the deck. They were all thin. Some were in horrible shape.
They were survivors of the Bataan Death March.
Earlier that evening I’d shown his wife some things I’d put on the website, including the World’s Fair map.
“Oh, I loved the World’s Fair,” she said. “I went there with my dad when I was 11.”
Of course: she was a Brooklyn gal. But it’s like hearing someone went to Oz, isn’t it? You were at the 1939 World’s Fair. And here you are in a kitchen in Fargo in the ninth year of the 21st century.
She remembered Futurama, and the Trylon and Perisphere.
Dad’s doing fine. On one hand, he mentioned 3 times over 3 days the necessity of observing the large Mars we’ll see in late August. Yes, Dad, I know, you told me. So there’s that.
On the other hand, he’s looking forward to a big red Mars. So there’s that, and it’s good.
On the gripping hand, we spent about half an hour trying to find his GPS CD for his car. He had the CD case, but it contained Disk Two of some Irish tenor. I explained that he would not be able to use it to get turn-by-turn instructions in a Danny-Boy singing voice. I think there’s an age after which all CDs migrate to different CD cases. But he pointed out something quite sensible: in this vehicle, he knows where he’s going. What’s the point?
Later: I’m at Valvoline Instant Oil Change, where it takes 20 minutes. Apparently that “instant” is like a “day” in a literal reading of Genesis. Ten minutes to upselling of filters and fluids.
Breakfast early in the morning – Dad was up two hours before I was, of course. Ate at the Village Inn, which uses the Neutra typeface. Everyone does. It’s either Neutra or the Obamafont. Gives everything a 30s feel, to go along with, well, the 30s feel elsewhere. But not here: we drove past miles and miles of new development, and I asked my dad when the recession would slow this all down. “There’s no recession,” he said. “Not in Fargo.”
We went out to the station. OMG it’s GONE
Actually, no. The old station was on that spot. See the circle? I knew without asking: the location of the pneumatic hoist. I walked around the imaginary station, remembering where things had been. Here was the automatic chamois wringer. Here was the pop machine where I had my first Mountain Dew. Here was the customer waiting room with the card of combs and the card of Evergreen-Tree air-fresheners with the blonde doll in the red dress. There, out beyond the grave, was the concrete apron that formed the foundation for the his first foray into food service, the outdoor vending machines – why, I can see them like it was yesterday.
Dad said this wasn’t the greatest investment. The vending machines sold sandwiches, heated in an early microwave that had doors so thick the customer was convinced plutonium was involved. The roast beef got a peek of the plutonium, just for a second. If you ever had one of those meals, you know the horror – terrycloth bread, vinyl meat, smeary watery melted cheese. Awful.
These are the pillars for the store’s sign. They said Texaco at first, of course. I was always impressed that my dad owned something like this:
It seemed so massive, so industrial, so impressive. As I’ve said many times in many venues – I am repeating myself, because there are only so many memories from which one can draw inspiration, and beyond that it’s fabrication – I remember the sound of the sign creaking in the wind, the whine of the highway singing along. It was quiet out there. The hum of the highway, the trickle of KQWB from the service bays, the occasional Ding-Ding of a car rolling over the annunciating snake, but quiet.
The sign back then, ankle-deep in the ‘69 flood:
It’s not quiet anymore. Houses. Businesses. A new store next door selling recreational vehicles. A new gas station down the road, too, the long-feared NEMESIS. For years there were rumors someone would open up a station close by; it used to make me nervous as a kid. Why would someone do that? What would it mean for us? One fellow developed a grudge against my father and vowed he’d build one across the street and give my dad a heart attack. Didn’t happen. Well, eventually someone tried to build another one down the street, but ran out of money halfway through. Someone else finished it, and it’s up and open. We drove past. Nice place, but it seems to lack any way to get in, or out. Fargo has more than its share of stations that lack discernible ingress and egress routes; it’s a curse. Most of the commercial developments either have frontage roads or design rules that forbid the easy-in-easy-out pattern of the average urban corner gas station.
It’s nothing new – I recall a gas station that went bust on the intersection of I-29 and Main. It takes some doing to go bust selling gas at the crossroads of an interstate and Main, but he managed; traffic patterns were the reason. People just couldn’t find a way to get to the damned place. The station – a Texaco – was razed long ago, but I still note its passing when I drive past.
What’s this – someone’s tunneling from the warehouse to the convenience store?
No. The answer to “what’s this” is several thousand dollars. Gummint mandate. What would happen if all the barrels in the warehouse sprung a leak, and the tanks were punctured? The oil would get everywhere. So they require a berm. Never be used. Money gone forever.
Here’s inside the main warehouse of the Lileks Oil Empire:
And another, showing one of the transports. Isn’t this exciting? I promised Dad I’d put it up. Happy to oblige.
Random equipment: I like this shot.
Gasboy!
From the company history:
Started by a previously indentured servant, James Wilson, way back in 1819, a trained painter and glazier, founded William M. Wilson’s Sons on old Philadelphia’s “Merchant’s Row.” For a century, this small company, named in honor of the founder’s father, specialized in painting, glazing, and wholesale distributing.
190 years old: ye gads.
83 years old: Gasman.
One more picture. Dad always wants me to post the trucks. He’s proud, justly proud, of his fleet. There’s not one of them he couldn’t start up and parallel park. So we’ll end with this one:
The rainwater would have drained away, but, well, the berm. The Mandatory Berm. Perfec breeding ground. As I took this picture, I was bit by a skeeter.
Next: back to school one. Also, the start of the Highway Ten series at the stribblog – and this time I’ll get the )$%*(#$% url correct. I don’t know why I’m having so much trouble with the most elementary things.
Hey, did you know Mars will be extra large this month? I don’t have the heart to tell him. But I will. It’s called filial duty.
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I’m please to see Fargo is as flat as I left it.
And I posted to truck too.
Funny you should mention the gripping hand.
I just finished reading The Mote in God’s Eye books.
“on the gripping hand” – What other blogger makes “Mote in God’s Eye” references? Except maybe Jerry Pournelle.
“Gasboy” looks a bit like “Burn-E”.
If I were you, I’d be more in awe of those tankers than the sign, impressive as it is.
My maternal grandfather was a mechanic, and when I was a little girl he worked for a man who owned several Sinclair stations. He drove a truck with a dinosaur on it; sometimes we got to ride in it (that’s Kid Heaven, right there). It was a dirty, greasy truck, smelling of hydrocarbons, and to this day whenever I go into a garage, and smell that smell, I relax. Papaw! It’s the smell of security.
Happy belated birthday you old fart.
(Older than me at least.)
Pump your dad for all the WWII stories you can.
Use the chamois wringer. Write them down, record them.
Not enough of their stories have been told.
I think I speak for most of your readers: We’d like to hear/read them.
I only got a few from my father-in-law and now I can’t get any more.
My dear old Dad has sent me the same “joke” e-mail from one of his cronies, three duplicated times this week. He has Parkinson’s, and a host of other problems– they said he’d get confused and worse– maybe this is part of it. He’s had a long hard run, and done pretty well by me and our family, so I’ll read the jokes as many times as he sends them, and be grateful for the opportunity. Enjoy it. While. You. Can.
Especially loved the Bleat today, even the BOT. And not just because you wrote about your Dad.
The rainwater would have drained away, but, well, the berm. The Mandatory Berm. Perfec breeding ground. As I took this picture, I was bit by a skeeter.
He should put some drain holes in to keep the water from pooling.
Not Highway 10 related, but close. I used to live in Grand Forks (I was in the Air Force, not there by choice) and somewhere between GF and Fargo was a huge tree that if seen from just the right angle, looked exactly like a giant woodscrew, complete with screwdriver slot at the top, 2/3 screwed down into the ground. I always thought of it as one of the screws that hold eastern ND down so it wouldn’t blow away. I have a photo of it somewhere….
Welcome back, James. I too have similar memories of my dad’s Phillips 66 station on Broadway and 15th, except of course he didn’t deal with the bulk wholesale stuff. I wish I had a dollar for every time I rode my bike to that place. One of my earliest memories is being on my trike at the end of 20th Ave. and Broadway (the block our house was on) and being able to see the Phillips 66 sign, five blocks to the south. 45 years later, the sign is gone, replaced by a Stop-and-Go. It wouldn’t be visible anyway, since the elms have gotten a bit bigger in the intervening years…
Thanks for mentioning your dad’s ship, turned into an interesting google/wiki excursion. There were two Block Island escort carriers, built in the same shipyard. CVE-21 served in the Atlantic on sub hunting and was torpedoed, CVE-106 was in the Pacific and was launched 12 days after her namesake was sunk. Facinating, well to me anyway. Thanks!
I have been reading the Bleat for around 10 years? And, this is the finest one that you have ever written.
Dad and Truck and Barrels and All are absolutely wonderful!
And, as noted above, I thought you were only a visual connoisseur (movies; tv; etc). Who knew that you are an aficionado of “the book?”
Gripping hand indeed!
Would your dad also want the trucks themselves posted? I am certainly curious if they are KWs or 379s or whatever it is truckers say to each other.
Happy Birthday, and I love seeing your dad’s station, and your dad himself.
You’re dad’s a gem. I lost mine 2 years ago and miss him dearly. Appreciate him while you can.
Ha – the fuel wholesaler I work for (in Canada) imports from Lileks Oil Co.! Strange.
‘Bout time you did your filial duty in getting us a look at the operation. I’ve been wondering if he used a serif or sans-serif font on his lettering.
I have heard that one of beneficial things that mosquitoes do (at least the males), is pollinate the wildflowers. Other than that, can’t think of anything.
James, I’ve got to second the request for more of your father’s WW II stories. My Dad is gone, and I never heard any of his stories. I’ve heard a couple things second hand from Mom, but he didn’t talk to her either. Only now that he’s gone (18 years this September) do I realize what I missed by not asking for his stories. I know he helped liberate a labor camp in western Germany, and nearly died from wounds received in battle. He saw his best friend in his unit killed. And all of this happened before he turned 20. Hell, my son is 20 and I can’t even begin to fathom what effect experiences like that would have on a man. I find it hard to understand how the Baby Boom generation could ever have thought that they were somehow better or smarter than their parents. For the most part Boomers are pygmies, standing on the shoulders of giants anfd fooling themselves into thinking they’re tall.
John were you being sarcastic? Since the purpose of the berm is to stop oil from spilling drain holes for the water would be drain holes for the oil and would kinda defeat the purpose of the berm in the first place…
I beg your indulgence if I’m being a pedantic spaz with no sense of humor.
I love seeing pictures of North Dakota. I can’t get inside the heads of people who don’t like flat land in large quantities. Fond memories of bicycling from the border to Rugby to Minot, with not one oil dam to slow me. I bicycle the Texas panhandle every chance I get. Regarding WW2 stories, yes, there are many, and yes, we need still more. Other things we also need more of: old Soviet Union stories, to remind us how poisonously awful that experiment was, and new Latin America stories, to show us comically mismanaged lands can shape up. American journalism did/does an unspeakably lazy job illustrating those places, and so those places teach us nothing when they could be teaching so much. Well, at least we got one guy on the German/Japanese-empire beat.
The gripping hand? Had not heard that reference before, I so had to google it. Very interesting. On a trip to New Mexico a few years ago, we stopped at a military museum in Sante Fe. It had been converted from an old NM National Guard Armory. Just prior to the outbreak WW II, the New Mexico National Guard was mobilized. The poor bastards were sent to the Phillipines; most were captured and endured the Bataan Death March. They were a tough bunch, mostly farm boys and cowboys from NM, Colorado, Texas and Oklahoma panhandle. It’s a wonder any of them survived four years of captivity in hell.
I don’t think it’s really that bad to have 2 gas stations in immediate proximity… When I’m driving across the country, if I see an exit with only 1 gas station, I’ll assume it’s overpriced because there’s no competition to keep the prices low, and we’re probably in the middle of nowhere which generally adds to the price. I only stop if there are at least 2 gas stations. So maybe having another station down the road could increase the number of people exiting the freeway for gas (assuming the station is right off the interstate).
Bulk lubricants: the reason for the frequent mention of laxatives.
Hope that didn’t sound churlish. Each Mr. Lileks has good reason to be proud of the other.
My oldest uncle is your dad’s age. He was on the admiral’s flag ship in the pacific and saw Old Glory raised over Iwo Jima. I worked with him once putting up a deck. I thought I was going to die in the heat and he just kept on going like it was nothing. I’ve met other men their ages, men who saw bad things before they were out of their teens. They don’t seem to talk about their experiences unless you ask them direct questions. My friend asked his father why he didn’t like macaroni and cheese. “Dad you like macaroni, you like cheese. Why don’t you like macaroni and cheese together?” His dad then went on to explain that macaroni and cheese smelled like burnt flesh to him. It turns out that my friend’s father went from boot camp to Pearl Harbor two weeks after the attack. He was a medic. Ships in the harbor were still burning. He said he was walking through a ward and ran into his brother lying in a bed. He said that was great because his brother being injured was allowed all the ice cream he could eat and he could share it with his brother. They both got so sick he said.
There is a reason why these people are called “The Greatest Generation.”
Awwww….I grew up with my daddy owning gas stations. Could anything be cooler than being 8 yrs old and cashiering? The best part? Signing the receipts from Napa and other auto part stores. That & working the hot dog wagon during Coke promotions….hot dog and a coke…. $0.25. We went from Exxon to Amoco and now we’re Conoco. (And even though I work for an insurance company…it’s WE are Conoco….)
@John
Sorry but I can’t deal with large quantities of flat land. I’m from So. Cal, now living on the coast of Maine. When I moved here we drove cross country. The most painful part of the trip was Nebraska on I-70. The featurelessness of the land drove us nearly insane. When we crossed into Iowa it was very slightly hilly, not much but had a lot less…flat.
@Fred
Did you notice the little winkie-smiley-face emoticon at the end of JohnW’s post?
MikeH, try driving from I-70 from eastern Colorado through western Kansas. Talk about desolation. You only want to drive it at night so you don’t become too depressed.
some folks can’t handle infinity….
I worked three Summers in a gas station during my college years. I should of hated it, is was not glamorous, not an internship, low paying, the station was old, no name generic self service station with flickering fluorescent lights.
I actually enjoyed it, selling cheap smokes, gas and oil to lower middle class and poor people who counted their change, bought cigs and said they were putting the rest in gas. I read and listened to Dodger games at night.
I think I would like owning a station as a retirement business. Somewhere in southern Idaho or northern Nevada. Or not.
Let me echo the comments of others here to urge your father to tell his stories. My father was a Marine and I knew he survived three(!) amphibious landings because I asked my mother and she told me. The only reference he ever made to his time in the Pacific was once when he was wearing shorts for a few days one summer, something he never did. Strictly long pant pants for him. He had a terrible rash on his legs and I asked him what had happened. “Jungle rot. The medics told me I may never be rid of it.” Interestingly, I did learn he was on the Block Island also. I didn’t find out until his wife (my mother had died years before) handed me the folded flag from his coffin that he was a Marine Raider. And now I’ll never know much of the rest.
Your dad has a nice, clean shop.
Somehow that’s important, but it would take me forever to find the words to explain why.
Glad that your father’s doing well, James. The 1939 World’s Fair bit surprised me, too. I happened to stumble across some stuff about it on David Szondy’s site. They buried a time capsule there that was supposed to last 5000 years. The care they took to determine what could (and should) be preserved, how to do it, and how to make the contents intelligible to people farther removed from themselves than the Hittites is astonishing:
http://davidszondy.com/future/timecapsule/timecapsule1939.htm
To try to prevent the time capsule from being forgotten, they printed up a book (that you can read on-line http://www.archive.org/details/timecapsulecups00westrich) and put copies of it in libraries and monasteries all over the world. To quote from the introduction:
“In our time many believe that the human race has reached the ultimate in material and social development; others that humanity shall march onward to achievements splendid beyond the imagination of this day, to new worlds of human wealth, power, life and happiness. We choose, with the latter, to believe that men will solve the problems of the world, that the human race will triumph over its limitations and its adversities, that the future will be glorious.”
Hard to believe that someone from that era (even as a girl) is still alive. It seems like a different civilization.
“.. he was a Marine Raider”
Well, you can be very proud in any case.
In the novel Cryptonomicon, by Neal Stephenson, one of the main characters, Bobby Shaftoe, is a WWII Marine Raider – he describes it as being “like a Marine, only more so”.
testing. please ignore.
If the puddling is problematic, then your Dad needs a simple Oil-Water Separator (OWS). Monstrous and expensive ones are available commercially, but if he only wants it to slowly drain periodic rain accumulation, just make something like this. (I hope that’s the code for this site)
A couple of years ago I attended my Uncle Ray’s funeral. At the somber event, we were all somewhat stunned when the church doors opened and an Air Force Color Guard loudly marched up the aisle. They proceeded to the front, lowered the Flag, folded it with precision, then presented it to my Aunt Red. Absolutely stunning!
After the service, I joined the Color Guard under a shade tree and expressed my great appreciation to the group for the gesture. I asked the Major accompanying them if that sort of gesture was made for all or many retired AF personnel and she said, “Well, the Air Force had a special fondness for your uncle. Did you ever hear about his service during WW II?” I indicated that I was aware he had served then and had heard he was once a POW. To me, when I was a kid I envisioned something along the lines of Hogan’s Heroes. She said that he had been shot down over Europe and made a POW, but he escaped and made his way all the way back to the Allied lines on foot…Four Freakin’ Times!
Who knew?
James, you have the Dad I always wished mine was. Will you mind, awfully, if I love him too, vicariously?
I’ve always thought the Mote books would make splendid movies.
One of the great things about Niven (and Pournelle) is that their aliens were so non-human, as opposed to Star Trek, where almost all the aliens are human shaped, and have human emotions.
The Larry Niven book I’d REALLY love to see made into a movie is “Lucifer’s Hammer”. No suspension of belief required, minimal CGI needed, and the story could be boiled down to screenplay size.
“Ringworld”, of course, would involve several movies to do justice, and incredible amounts of CGI work. Maybe a TV series, when Lost goes off the air? I can only wish!
Mad props to Mr. Lileks for using “On the gripping hand” conversationally. I’m new here, and was actually drawn in because my site is running films of the “Futurama” exhibit from the World’s Fair in question, and I was hunting around for other information about it. I don’t know what your policy about posting links is, and I don’t want to seem like a spammer or anything, so I’ll post that separatedly so you can delete it if it’s inappropriate or otherwise inadmissible. In the mean time, I’d love to know more about their experiences at the World’s Fair, and about the naval rescues at the end of the war.
I’m fascinated by that sort of immediate post-war stuff, which never gets talked about. JG Ballard recounts his experiences in China immediately after the war, where he mentions that pretty much the day after the Japanese Army surrendered, they were placed under UN control, and kept in position as peacekeepers, and occasionally sent off to fight the communists. Amazing! I had no idea (That was in “Kindness of Women”)
Here’s the Futurama link http://www.republibot.com/category/tags/days-future-past
First Day of Kindergarten and Third grade for my lovlies, so I am late to Bleat Patronage today. As always, posts about your Dad, or your Daughter, always make my day better. Since Natalie was born about 11 months before my daughter, I’ve continued to use the Bleat as a Crystal Ball (with appologies to Styx) to determine what looms for my near future. Always a good forecast (Pokemon, My Little Pony, Webkins, et all).
My Dad passed in 2005. He was a Marine, invaded Okinawa in 45 and turned 18 on the island. Never talked about combat, only about his buddies, boot camp, and shore leave. His last year with Cancer, he finally revealed a bit more. I’ll keep it to myself, but suffice it to say, the recent spate of War Remembrances has it close to right: It was always about your buddies in your unit.
More significantly, I recall reading your work about your Mom after she passed. It was like a touchstone for me when my Dad was diagnosed, and we experienced that last long painful year together. I still go back to it periodically today. Just to make sure I don’t forget. And that I remember it correctly.
At any rate, I think that I can speak for a majority of your readers when I say with kind admiration: The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Thanks again for sharing the treasure of that good man, and his equally good progeny.
Kudos on the “gripping hand” usage, and for using it correctly. Few know of it, and fewer use it correctly.
Love the WWII tales. My dad’s 82, and served in the Merchant Marine during and after the war (enlisted at 17, in 1944, right out of HS). I am very fortunate to have copies of every letter he wrote home to his mom and dad during that time (Grandma saved them all, and bound them in a book). He begins by complaining about the rolling of the ship (I think his first assignment on a shop was the first time he’d ever even seen the ocean), and describes the various characters in the crew, including a drunken captain that everybody hated. By the time the letters ended, he was an old salt, and everything was routine. An amazing document that I will always treasure.
Thanks, hpoulter. I was even before I knew and I am. “Only more so” describes him pretty well. I had 17 years of active duty until I left home for college.
James, What a great post. We all love hearing about and seeing your dad. A man of a great generation. Also in inspiration to all small businessmen. He has lived through times of great tribulation, but also the time of great opportunity for those who were willing to work hard and think large. May he continue to live a long and productive life. Thank you for sharing him with us.
A few things:
1) Happy belated (which I sometimes mis-type as “bleated,” LOL) birthday to our esteemed host!
2) I had forgotten that your dad’s wife (is the “stepmom” term proper when the kids are grown?) is named Doris. Out of respect, I won’t razz you about that.
3) It’s great to see your dad so active. My parents, a few years his junior, are the same way, gallivanting all around the world and playing golf whenever possible. Sure, they have their share of occasional medical hiccups, but they’re living out their “senior” years in ways that I never saw my grandparents do.
4) The giant TEXACO sign will always remind me of an event that happened to me when I was 13: A tornado came through the shopping area where I had just finished ice skating with a group from church. After tearing off part of the roof of the skating rink (and tossing bits of that through the back window in the car in which I was riding) and opening the roof of a nearby movie theatre like a sardine can, the tornado skipped across the street, where a Texaco station with one of those big signs was next to a Denny’s. Not thirty seconds after a guy had parked his car underneath that sign and entered Denny’s, the sign was snapped by the tornado and fell right on top of the guy’s car, crushing it. I’ll bet that guy said a few extra prayers that night (or found religion in the previous absence of same).
@MikeH
Sorry, I meant I-80 through Nebraska. We did take I-70 from Southern Utah to Denver where we took I-76 to I-80. Sorry for any confusion.
Oh yes James: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!
My uncle was stationed in India during WWII doing logistics work, setting up bases, etc. He wrote all his experiences down when he returned home to West Virginia, and they were recently printed up for the family.
He never had the combat experience that kept so many vets from talking about their time in the service, so his account is full and detailed. Very interesting reading, seeing how the Army looked from the supply side.