The Way West In '52

The Gribble family started 1952 in a new home. On or about New Year's Day (or maybe it was the day after Christmas, it's been almost 60 years!) we packed our belongings into the family car (a 1950 Ford sedan that had been purchased a few months before) and headed about an hour and a half south for a new home in the community of Sebring, Florida. Orlando had been our temporary home for about six months while my dad went to school to learn the operation of a Linotype machine, an amazing piece of now obsolete equipment that produced lead type for printing presses. This change of profession was necessitated by a back injury he had suffered a couple of years before while working in the construction industry. Now the HIGHLANDS COUNTY NEWS, located in Sebring, had hired him as a Linotype operator.

Sebring was located about midway between the Atlantic and Gulf coasts. In the 1920s it had been part of the Florida land boom that saw an influx of northerners looking to winter in a warmer climate. By the '50s much of that interest had passed the place by and it was a relatively quite town on the main inland north-south route, known as the Orange Blossom Trail. This highway went right through the center of town, where there was a traffic circle with streets radiating out to all the points of the compass. We settled into a wood frame place that was an ugly reddish color that reminded me of creosote, the stuff they put on telephone poles. It had changed hardly any at all when the photo below was taken nearly 20 years later and, indeed, looks much the same today (though now painted white).

The first order of business was to get me enrolled in school. It turned out to be a huge institution that served grades 1 through 12, all in the same building. I soon made friends with the sons of a local attorney and judge that lived up the street in the next block and life returned to pretty much to normal for the new kid in town. As I remember, we made numerous weekend trips back up to Aunt Trix's place in Lake Helen. Later, as spring and summer came around, we got out and about in the area, visiting nearby parks and taking one trip south to Miami to visit Uncle Bill and Aunt Nita.

But as summer turned to fall it was announced the we'd soon be pulling up stakes again and moving to California. Seems the HIGHLANDS COUNTY NEWS job wasn't what my parents had hoped it would be and they'd heard from Uncle Bill and Aunt Nita, who had recently moved to Los Angeles. They said come on out and so that was the new plan. I liked Sebring (still do) but don't remember much regret at the prospect of leaving. A good part of the reason for that being that the previous Christmas I'd received a beautiful large scale Smith-Miller toy truck and trailer and it was marked as having been made in Santa Monica, Calif. Naturally I thought (or hoped) that there was a pretty good chance that we'd relocate right next door and I would somehow have access to their whole line of trucks. So I was plenty OK with going to California.

And so it was that sometime in early October we again packed everything into to family car and set off for California. The first stop may have been to see Uncle Norman and family in Thomasville, Georgia. I remember the visit but can't recall now if it was then or during a visit we'd made a couple of months earlier to see the folks in North Carolina. Be that as it may, we soon headed west across the Florida panhandle and into territory new to all of us. I can't say that it was particularly scenic but I did spot some oil derricks out among the endless pines and that was something I hadn't seen before. I may have counted them at first.....but soon lost count as we traveled briefly across Alabama and on into Mississippi. I experienced more than a little anxiety when the highway suddenly entered a two lane tunnel that traveled beneath Mobile Bay. I was afraid that at any moment water would come rushing in. My dad had told me that even the honking of a car horn might cause a tunnel to cave in and I noted with alarm that some cars did honk -- probably even ours at some point! But we made it through OK.
That first night we made it as far as Gulfport, Mississippi. I remember we stopped at a nice motel or tourist cabins that looked out onto the Gulf of Mexico. The sun was setting on a lovely fall day and it was an altogether pleasant place to be staying. This is the first time I remember ever staying in lodging outside someones home and it must have been exciting if for nothing else but that. Progress for the first day had been satisfactory, if not overly exciting. With the exception of the tunnel. I prayed there would be no more tunnels between there and California.

Next morning we were on our way west again. Now into Louisiana, the highway cut through miles of swamp. We passed north of New Orleans, which was a bit of a disappointment. Somewhere along the way a stop was made to have something done to the car, perhaps an oil change. And it seems as though the headlights were adjusted too. Our parents liked to fix meals in the motel after we stopped for the night and to that end would seek out lodging with a "Kitchenette" included. I do not remember a single stop at a restaurant or cafe (fast food joints were practically unknown then) on the whole trip. And I surely would have remembered as "eating out" (or, in this case, even while traveling) was just not part of the family routine. I don't remember lunch but presumably it consisted of sandwiches. So it was that at some point we stopped at a roadside produce stand or country market. Our parents went in and returned with food. But they'd seen something interesting inside which they discussed with considerable amazement. What they saw was a young child with pierced ear rings in her ears. Apparently this was something alien to the culture we'd come from and they were incredulous at the sight. Later, Uncle Bill and Aunt Nita would tell us that it was a practice of the Mexicans, purportedly to ward off evil spirits. That claim seems a little dubious but, in any event, I think we all realized that we were traveling into a land where people and their customs were different. And that much would prove to be very true.

Sometime after dark we stopped at a motel in Houston, Texas. I remember it now as a rather seeding looking place, though as stated before, there was not a lot in my experience to compare it with. There was a surprising amount of activity outside our door and it would soon become apparent that a loud impromptu hillbilly jam session was in progress in one of the rooms with at least one singer/guitar player. The party went on until late. For many years to come my dad would tell the story of being kept awake most of the night by they partiers but I don't remember being all that bothered by it. Later I would come to wonder if the country performer was anyone that went on to fame and success? Perhaps a young Willie Nelson? But I do remember the whistle and headlight of a train passing, seemingly right outside the rear window. We had not even known there were tracks outside. We awoke the next morning, probably not too rested, to continue our journey across the vast expanse of the state of Texas.

From the front passenger seat, as we rolled along, my mom would occasionally remind my sister and I to look up from our boredom and bickering to take in sights that we "might not see again". As we moved on into Texas I didn't need to be prompted. The landscape began to get a lot more interesting as, for the first time in my life, I got a real look at the landscape of the American West. I was not disappointed. The green of pine forests and swamp land gave way to the wide open spaces of the prairie. The mountains (a sight still pretty new to a kid from Florida) were rocky and flat on top. My dad told me they were called "mesas". This was the west I'd seen in cowboy movies and comic books.....and it was REAL, passing right outside the window of the Ford. This scenic wonderland would continue, with few interruptions, right up until we got to Los Angeles. And I would be watching and dreaming most of the way.

We would stop for the night in Fort Stockton, Texas. For many years to come my dad would attribute this to a lack of sleep resulting from the noisy party of the night before. Also, our progress for the day (which actually had been considerable) would cause him, again, for years to come, to declare that Texas could not be crossed in one day of driving. Years later, on my own first cross country drive, I would have to prove him wrong by pushing my VW bug from Vicksburg, Miss. to El Paso, Texas in one long day. That's a crossing of two states -- Louisiana and Texas (including a stop in Dallas to check out Dealy Plaza and the Texas School Book Depository). So there! Anyway, Fort Stockton wasn't the prototypical old western town but at least by now we were very solidly "out west". And I was feeling it.

We headed out the next morning, probably reaching New Mexico by mid-day. Somewhere along the way, for some reason, we left the main road. At some point there was apparently a need for a clarification of our direction of travel. As luck would have it there was a gentleman on the side of the road with a wheel barrow or cart loaded down with what looked like firewood. My dad pulled the car to a stop and yelled out to guy. An old gentleman with a weathered face turned and started to approach but then, without saying a word, turned again and headed back toward his cart. Apparently we weren't going to get an answer from him so we took off. And again, this would become another story that our dad would tell over and over again, usually with the added twist that he thought the guy was headed back to the cart to get a stick to defend himself and that we had to get out of there quick. Traveling on west, we reached Willcox, Arizona before sunset.

Checking into a motel on the main highway, we settled in for the night. But before too long there came a knocking at the door. The door was opened and there stood a man in a big Stetson hat, fancy Western shirt, trousers and cowboy boots. There may have even been spurs. And around his waist was a belt and holsters holding two pistols! He looked as if he'd just stepped off the movie screen. I don't remember his exact introduction but he was a local, coming to provide a hearty Western welcome to the tenderfoot travelers from the east. He then commenced with one yarn after another, most featuring himself as the good guy up against the outlaw element from that section of the country. There were even stories of gun play right outside our room! And though it was hinted at it was never really certain if he was a part of law enforcement or not. The visitor stayed for quite a while before leaving and, once again, our dad would complain for a long time to come about the rest he had missed. I do remember being impressed by our visitor. But at the same time I was savvy enough to realize that this episode had been decidedly on the bizarre side and that worried me a little. Perhaps I even imagined that we were in some sort of trouble in this strange new land. But finally the visitor did leave and we got some sleep. Before we left the next morning I peeked out the rear window and it was pretty open country all the way to the mountains. There were gullies and sagebrush and it wasn't hard to imagine the visitor from the previous night out there exchanging shots with the outlaws. At eight years old, probably encouraged by my dad's considerable natural skepticism, I was already pretty cynical about what passed for history in the movies and print. But the encounter of the night before had me believing that just maybe the popular image of the Old West wasn't all bunk after all.

We were on the road early the next morning but not before taking time for a snapshot of my sister Becky and I sitting on a rail fence in front of the motel. Almost immediately the highway cut through an area of spectacular rock formations. This brought to mind dramatic scenes from "Winchester '73" with Jimmy Stewart, which I'd seen a few months before in a theater in Sebring. So wasn't hard to imagine desperate hombres up in the rocks with bullets flying and ricoheting off the boulders. And before too long we began to see that iconic symbol of the West, the giant Socorro cactus with arms up stretched toward the sky. This was pretty heady stuff for a Hopalong Cassidy fan from back east! So on we traveled across the real West. Finally, though we'd traveled less than 350 miles to reach the California border on the Colorado River at Blythe, it was announced that we were stopping here for the night. This was probably by design as Uncle Bill and Aunt Nita both worked during the day and an early arrival in Los Angeles the next day would have been unnecessary and inconvenient. We were in California now and that was an achievement we could stop and chew on for a bit. We settled in for the night but not before a trip to the local Safeway. From the name of the place I got the mistaken notion that they sold insurance there. Yep, I know that's dumb -- but that's what I thought.

And so the next day we set off on the last leg of out trans-continental crossing. The desert in California was not as picturesque as some we'd seen. But the mountains were indeed impressive. Even our dad, who grew up in the Smoky Mountains of North Carolina, had not seen anything like these giants that rose to 10,000 feet or more on some peaks. Maybe that is why in the early afternoon he decided to detour off the main highway and actually drive up into the imposing San Bernardino mountain range. This highway had a unique name, maybe the "Rim Of The World Highway" or something else that promised a spectacular view of what was down below. As best I remember though this panorama was not to be seen because of haze or smog. The latter was very common in LA at the time because, as crazy as it sounds now, everyone still burned their trash in backyard incinerators and the prevailing ocean winds blew the resulting pollution up against the mountains. Also, I was expecting we would get to the top of the mountain, which would seem quite a feat. But at some point short of the crest we turned and started down, probably because we needed to be on our way to LA. Or there may have been an issue with the car starting to overheat. I don't remember. But I do remember vividly that a bathroom stop was made on the way down. Only there was no bathroom. And for some reason my dad insisted that I make an attempt at a #2. I protested that felt not the need but he was adamant. So I squatted as instructed and tried mightily .....but to no avail. Years later I would hear that the bear does it in the woods. Or, in another often heard alternate version, even the Pope. But I could not. Finally, with time ticking away and having failed my dad (not for the first time.....or the last), the attempt was abandoned and we rolled back down the mountain and on toward Los Angeles.

As late afternoon approached the orange groves and rural areas gave way to a city. A big city. But as we failed to pass near downtown it didn't really give the impression of the large city I was expecting. Finally we were traveling west on Century Blvd., into the rapidly sinking sun. Several landmarks caught our eye, most notably the spiral spire of the Century theater. We didn't know it then but we were within a few blocks. Pretty soon we saw it, a two story duplex on the left. That's where Uncle Bill and Aunt Nita lived, on the second floor. They greeted us warmly as the sun set and.....we were there.....or here.....finally in California!

We would stay at the duplex only a few days. The landlord lived downstairs and complained about the extra people living in the apartment so we moved a couple of miles away to stay at Uncle Roose and Aunt Laura's place on 83rd street. This too didn't last more than a few days before we finally moved into a house on 97th street near Normandie Ave. Uncle Bill told their landlord to go to hell (probably literally as Uncle Bill was that kind of guy!) and moved in to share the place with us. This turned out to be a HUGE blessing as they had a TV set! So that was the first access that our family ever had to TV on a daily basis. Plus Uncle Bill and Aunt Nita were really cool people (with no kids of their own) who spoiled my sister and I considerably. On the down side, it was soon time for me to enroll at the 95th street school. It was an OK school though, if you had to go to school. I was a little out of the habit by then and I'd probably missed two weeks by that time but don't remember that it caused any real problems. I do remember kids choosing sides on the first Tuesday in November, Presidential Election Day. I knew enough to choose the Eisenhower side and yell his name as loud as I could at the Adli Stevenson supporters. Finally a adult came by and told us all to knock it off.

And so we settled into our new lives in California. Everthing was great until about June when Uncle Bill and Aunt Nita decided California wasn't for them. They packed their stuff into their Studebaker and headed back to Florida. We were sorry to see them go. And most especially so because the TV set went with them! Within a month or so we would move from the place on 97th to a house that Uncle Roose had bought in Redondo Beach. He charged my parents $75 a month, about the going rate then. After the cahotic moves of the previous 9 months we would stay here until 1958. Our dad never sought work as a linotype operator again. At first he worked in a wood shop but soon started back in housing construction as a union carpenter.

So it was that we were without a TV for several very long months. It seemed every other kid had one in the home -- but not us. Finally our parents bought one though and we were never without again. And we all lived in California from then on too. So I'd have to say it had been a good move. I can't complain.