New Ford “Tin Lizzies” were lined up parked in front of the apartment house that was our home in St. Louis. Professional employees got up from their breakfast tables and bent to the hard work of cranking the old Ford’s motor into a balky life.
Mind you, Henry Ford knew nothing about self-starters. Drivers cranked their motors into reluctant “put-putting.” In short order this business came to a stand-still, and the arduous muscle-work had to be repeated.
Starting was done at the front end. Inside the cab, part of the machinery, was a piece called the “spark” — a semi-circular piece moved by hand till the old motor showed promise to keep running smoothly.
Our father taught my brother how to work the sparking system. As Dad cranked up front, Charlie worked the “spark,” when the motor caught, Charlie set the spark to keep the ornery four-cylinder motor purring — which, after several tries, it did.
One of our neighbors, a youthful man in his twenties, asked dad if he could borrow Charlie on cold mornings to help get his car running. There developed a friendship that became a most unusual historic union.
It turned out that the young Ford driver was a mechanic at the St. Louis airport where he spent his days making aircraft motors run. From time to time our parents let Charlie go to the field with him to the bench where he soon got more than a speaking acquaintance with special tools that made the Fords run. At no time did Charlie get an invitation to fly.
Then one day out of the blue St. Louis was awash in red, white and blue. Flags flew “two-blocked” at full mast to catch every breath that blew. Bells rang, people without number took to the streets, sirens shouted news.
Why? A young American pilot had just flown solo across the Atlantic.
Who? Charles Lindbergh, the young pilot who lived on the first floor.
Paul Seamans is a permanent resident of the Charlene Manor nursing home. He is a retired elementary school principal and writes the Said and Done column for The Recorder.