As a sometime journalist and a full-time reader, my taste in journalistic writing, I must confess, strays from the ace reporter with a press pass stuffed in his hatband and a speed graphic at the …
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As a sometime journalist and a full-time reader, my taste in journalistic writing, I must confess, strays from the ace reporter with a press pass stuffed in his hatband and a speed graphic at the ready, who adheres to the sacred “five Ws” and the “inverted pyramid,” ever on watch for crime and corruption.
My favorite journalists are guys like TV’s Charles Kuralt, Russell Baker, Anthony Bourdain, and, closer to home, Patrick Reusse, the late Will Jones and Larry Batson and Peg Meier, the last three from the Minneapolis Tribune. More recently, since my arrival in River Falls, I’ve also come to appreciate the late Earl Chapin, a one-time weekly newspaper publisher (Warroad, Minn.) and mid-20th century roving reporter for the St. Paul Pioneer Press.
Chapin is gone now, but not forgotten by his West Central Wisconsin readers who remember his rovings to obscure little hamlets like Pigeon Falls and Albertville (“which,” he wrote, “you should visit if you can manage to find it.”) Chapin also dove into the ethos of contemporary culture with wit and precision.
A case in point dealt with his article “You Auto Read This,” which my friend Charlie Van Asse shared with me gleaned from his late father Ted’s trove of Chapinobilia.
Back in 1957, Chapin noticed long before I did the once close, but fast disappearing, connection between the automobile and its driver. In other words, people bought cars that appealed to their hearts rather than their mileage ratings. If my dad were still alive he’d appreciate Earl’s take on Dad’s first auto, a 1926 Model “T” coup. Here’s Chapin:
“To own a Model T was like raising a child. It came into the world as naked as a newborn babe. You reared it and clothed it. You helped it grow with anti-rattlers, a rear axle truss, a running board, spare tire holder, a moto meter with wings, a foot warmer and a musical horn. You developed a love for your Model T like a father to a prodigal son. A popular parody ran like this: ‘Its rod and its pistons burneth out, it anointeth my head with oil, its grease cup runneth over.’ But it was your boy, even when it tried to break your wrist when you cranked it. [eds. Note: See my uncle Leonard’s partial plate!] There was something sublime about this relationship, and the tenderest memory I have is seeing a Ford owner back his Model T up a steep hill, a necessity that had to do with its gravitational fuel feed system.”
My dad would have asked how could anyone fall in love with a Lincoln when it so closely resembles a lowly Ford Taurus?
These days I find time to peruse the grocery store parking lot while I sit in my car when Ruth buys the groceries. It doesn’t take long to notice that every car looks like mine. Gone are the days when my father bought a new Pontiac every five years, not just because the neighbors knew by the new and unique design of each year’s model, that Harold had a NEW car. Oh, how I long for the days when you could tell the difference between a Ford and a Buick, which had real, if senseless portholes carved into its hood, or by being able to spot a Packard because of the swanky grille that set it apart from all other vehicles!
Here's another tidbit from Chapin:
“There was a delightful variety of automobiles which gave the pride of individuality to possession. You could buy a Moon, a Dort, Briscoe, Maxwell, Case, Franklin, Cev, Chandler, Essex, Star, or a score of others. Each had its real or imagined virtues which were vociferously proclaimed by its owners. Auto dealerships were like lodges. Owners, enthusiasts all, they basked in the camaraderie of a common bond. It was like religion. The only togetherness today’s driver has with his automobile is when he runs it into a concrete abutment.”