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.

To Rue Or Not To Rue

I've always loved the seldom heard term "rue". As in, "you will rue the day.....!". So forceful, yet so quaint, it seems to speak from another time. So I am somewhat disappointed that, as of yet, no one has come forward to offer such a judgement on my recent acquisition of a tattoo. Perhaps some kind soul will soon oblige.

Let's start off with some reasons how and/or why someone might come by a tattoo.

#1. I was drunk. Very commonly heard and featured in the Jimmy Buffett's "Wasting Away In Margaritaville". You know the story -- a night of drinking and, the next morning, (in the lyrics penned by Mr. Buffett) "...how it got there I haven't a clue". In fact, at a recent round table discussion over morning coffee at a rural store, one local offered up that he'd never known anyone with a tattoo that wasn't drunk when they got it. The others present readily concurred.

#2. I was in prison. Yes, though strictly prohibited by most penal institutions, tattooing does go on in "the joint". The results vary in quality from terrible to excellent. In fact there is a whole genre of tattooing known as the "joint style". Almost always involving black and grey work without the use of color, this was originally because equipment and supplies were hard to come by for the clandestine practice of prison tattooing. But over the years monotone has become the accepted and preferred style. Now black and grey is a popular and sought after style practiced on the outside as well. So these days black and grey tattoos may bring to mind the gangster/prison image but actually represent a popular fashion in tattooing.

#3. I got it because many cool/famous people have one. There is seemingly some truth in this. Let's see now -- Lindsay Lohan, Justin Timberlake, Paris Hilton, Johnny Depp, Snoop Dog, Angelina Jolie, 50 cent to name just a few. Still not convinced? How about Jesse James, The Pickers and The Pawnstars? And those as for those without tattoos -- the President, the Pope and so forth. All in all, I think, a pretty solid indication that tattoos are way cool!

#4. I need it for ID. A reason often cited through history by solders going off to war. Obviously a tattoo could assist in identifying the remains of a fallen solider. These days DNA testing would probably be a better method of confirming identity.

#5. I like to piss people off. An excellent reason and often quite effective. There are a small number of people who are offended at having a tattoo brought into their line of sight. If that is a concern you might consider that these same individuals are probably the type that take delight in finding most things around them objectionable most of the time. So in reality it's a win/win situation and such an encounter should prove rewarding to both parties.

#6. I want to give back to the tattoo community. It seems that everywhere one goes these days there are tattoos to be seen. We are often astonished, amused, revolted, puzzled, confused, surprised or delighted at these totally unexpected encounters but go on our way and probably never give it another thought. But the object of the above cited emotions remains with the wearer to the grave. So I don't think it's too much to ask that some of us will be willing to acquire suitable epidermal decoration that others may enjoy in the future.

#7. I am a rebel. This is not a real strong point these days as so many people have tattoos. And marking your body hardly compares with forms of rebellion that bring severe social ostracism and even danger into the picture. So a tattoo is a pretty cheap form of rebellion -- and shouldn't everyone want to be a rebel on some level?

So anyway, enough of that. Please feel free to ascribe any or all of the above to my decision to get a tattoo.

Many years ago I was just beginning to work full time at the defense contractor North American Aviation. This was a new and exciting time in my life and I learned and saw a lot of the adult world that was new to me. For the purposes of this post I'll mention one guy with one tattoo. I did not know him and don't remember ever speaking with him. A bit older than I was, he often worked within a few feet of me but was obviously more skilled at his trade and entrusted with considerably more responsibility. I soon noticed that he had a tattoo on the inside of his lower arm featuring a profile view of a woman's face. There was also an abundance of hair, both piled on top of her head and cascading down over her shoulder. I thought it was pretty cool. Perhaps a portrait of his wife or girlfriend. It also somewhat resembled an old time Pachuca, the 1940s/1950s equivalent of what we'd call a Chola (a word I had not heard at the time) today.
At the time this would have been far more unusual and artistic than the usual tattoos you'd see
and it remained in my mind.

Skip forward a few (or even more) years. I really can't remember when or where but at some point I came across an illustration, a pen and ink drawing that closely resembled that tattoo I remembered from North American. It immediately became obvious that this drawing was from a much earlier era and it was very likely the inspiration for the tattoo. Further research revealed that the artist was Charles Dana Gibson, a very well know illustrator in late 1890s and the early 1900s. In fact, in the era just before printing technolagy allowed for half tone reproduction of photographs in newspapers, artists like Gibson were the sole source of affordable picture illustration in the print media. Mr. Gibson was more skilled than most and was particularly noted for his drawings of young women. So much so that a whole genre of the fashion/glamor illustration of the day came to be considered the Gibson Girl look.






I didn't think much at the time about there being a story behind the drawing but at some point later on I would become aware the that model was a very well know personality of the day. Her name was Evelyn Nesbit and she was a model and a stage actress. Born on Christmas day in 1884, her father died when she was young. By the turn of the century Evelyn and her mother had moved to a modest apartment in New York City. The attractive young girl soon found work as artist's model and a chorus girl in the production "Florodora". Soon one of the most in demand models in NYC, she attracted the attention of Stanford White, a prominent architect and well know playboy. He was 47 years old and she 16. Over the next few years White endeared himself to Evelyn's mother and took liberties with the daughter. By 1905 Harry K. Thaw, son of a wealthy family and a dope fiend, had persuaded Evelyn to marry him. Then on June 25, 1906 an insanely jealous Harry Thaw walked into the Cafe Martin in the Madison Square Garden and fired three bullets at point blank range into Stanford White's face. Thaw was tried twice for murder and found legally insane the second time. Evelyn testified for the defense in the second trial and reportedly was supposed to receive 1 million dollars for her efforts from Thaw's family. But she never got a cent. Harry Thaw went to an institution for a number of years and was then judged sane and released. Evelyn had a modest career in the entertainment industry and died in Santa Monica, California in 1967.

So I hope that provides some insight on the subject of my tattoo. Yes, it may look like a Chola and like it was done in the "joint" but it's actually an iconic and widely recognized piece of American art featuring a famous figure from The Gilded Age. After all these years I am quite pleased with it!

Rajo Jack

While hunting for old photographs at the Torrance Street Fair I came across this snapshot. The name emblazoned across the subject's chest vaguely rung a bell. I'd heard it somewhere before. As is often the case these days, as soon as I got home I did a Google search and turned up the very interesting information that Rajo Jack was in fact one of the very first African/American race car drivers!

Dewey Gatson was his real name and he was born in Tyler, Texas in 1903. By the time he was sixteen Dewey was on the west coast and working as a laborer for the Doc Marcell Medicine Show. He early on showed an aptitude for mechanics and was soon in charge of maintaining the shows fleet of vehicles. By the early 1920s Dewey had taken up automobile racing, a very popular sport in a nation that was still adjusting to, and much intrigued by, the horseless carriage.

Racial prejudice was very prevalent at the time, even in sports. Jackie Robinson's historic entry into major league baseball was still 25 years away. Young Mr. Gatson was likely the only black man attempting to drive at most races he attended. But he wanted badly to compete and resorted to the ploy of using the name Jack DeSoto and claiming to be Portuguese. At other times he is said to have identified himself as American Indian and avoided being photographed. Eventually he was generally, if not universally, accepted and apparently quite well liked. He went on to win a number of important races on the west coast and was at the apex of his career when this snapshot was taken on March 8, 1937. By this time he had obviously gotten over his reluctance to be photographed.

Dewey was often the mechanic as well as the driver of his machine. The Ford model T engine was a popular choice for budget minded racers of the era but it needed considerable modification to make it competitive with purpose built racing engines like the Miller. A number of companies offered equipment to enhance the model T's performance, among them a firm known as RAJO. Dewey came to use RAJO speed equipment and eventually was a distributor for the product. At some point he dropped the DeSoto moniker and added RAJO, thus becoming Rajo Jack.




Rajo Jack's perseverance is exemplified in a memorable story. The day before a 100 mile race in Oakland he was faced with the unhappy fact that his race engine was in pieces. Not to be deterred, he loaded the car on a truck, along with the dissembled motor. He then loaded a few tools and summoned his wife to drive the 400 miles north from their home in the Los Angeles area. As they traveled he proceeded to assemble the car's motor, finishing the task shortly before their arrival. Jack then qualified third and went on to finish second in the race.

At the time the AAA was the sanctioning body for major league auto racing in the United States.
Possibly because of racial prejudice, Jack was never a member and his activities were confined to the so-called "outlaw" circuits of the west coast with occasional forays into the mid-west. As a result he never competed in racing's premier event, the Indianapolis 500.

Auto racing ceased during the war but when it resumed after the hostilities Rajo Jack was again a part of it. But old racing injuries and the loss of an eye while performing stunts on a motorcycle made his participation difficult and he soon retired. Jack died of heart failure on Feb. 27, 1956 and is buried at Roosevelt Memorial Cemetery in Carson, California. The name on his death certificate was reportedly listed as "Rajo Jack".

Today, despite a strong effort by racing's sanctioning bodies to promote minority participation, few black drivers have emerged and fewer still have been as successful as Rajo Jack. Taking into account the considerable obstacles he faced and how he dealt with them there's little doubt that Rajo Jack (and, I would have to say, NASCAR's Wendell Scott from the 1960s) still rank as the greatest black drivers of all time. That may change someday but for now it's simply the truth.

Someday a movie will be made about Rajo Jack!

And this is a studio portrait of the man himself, Dewey Gatson --AKA "Rajo Jack". Might I suggest Snoop to portray him in the movie version of his legendary life?

Merry Christmas

This cool scene, calling to mind Gram's Christmas Village, was produced by Bob at Rat Rod Studios. There is also an animated version that can be viewed at RatRodStudios.com, along with many other unique and artistic scenes. I supplied the photograph of the car for this composition.

Lil' Buckaroos

Kids have been playing "Cowboys & Indians" almost since the opening of the American frontier began. By the 1870s sensational (and mostly fictitious) accounts of the exploits of Buffalo Bill, Wild Bill Hickok and others were available in the so called "Dime Novels" of the day. These luridly illustrated paperbacks were published to appeal to young boys and appeal they did. Many of the legends of the Old West, some persisting to this day, originated in these cheap books that were often written by Easterners who'd never even been West.

By the turn of the century the newly invented medium of the cinema was showing dramas that depicted Western story lines. One of the first and perhaps the most famous was "The Great Train Robbery". Seeing the life and death struggles of cowboys, indians, outlaws and lawmen played out on the screen only encouraged youngsters to imitate the scenes in their play. Almost every boy participated and soon many girls too.

In the picture above, which dates from the early 20th century, a couple of boys act out a gunfight scenario in what looks to be an actual Western location. How lucky are they?

By the late 40's, early '50s a would be cowboy could buy just about everything he needed for a complete outfit. This kid is hardcore, camping out in backyard!


This fortunate little fella has two guns, just like the silver screen heroes seen in the Saturday matinee. Looks like he knows what to do with them too!

This cute little cowgirl has a complete outfit -- including the ever present cap gun.

And perhaps the luckiest kid of all, though indeed, he my be a little too young to appreciate it. The handsome pony is splendidly fitted out in the best manner, complete with a Winchester rifle that is so realistic that it's hard to tell if is real or a toy. The animal and his tack are far superior to that offered by the door to door photographers found wandering neighborhoods enticing kids and their parents to buy pictures of the little buckaroo atop the pony. I have a feeling the pony is a gift from an adoring relative or family friend.

Kid's games of "Cowboys & Indians" probably reached its high point in the 1950's. After that other interests, like science fiction and eventually video games, began to push interest in the Old West and its characters aside. Today Western movies occasionally capture significant box-office interest but it is mainly driven by adults, in most cases those same kids seen in these pictures -- now grown up and nostalgic for an earlier time.

But it was fun while it lasted!

Cap Gun Wars

In the late 1950s, when television Westerns were at the height of their popularity and just about every kid wanted to be a cowboy, there were two cap pistols that stood at the top of every kid's wish list. These were the Fanner 50 made by Mattel and the Stallion 45, a product of the Nichols Company of Pasadena, Texas. Both were fine weapons (well, alright "toys") that actually chambered metallic replicas of real cartridges. Individual caps could be placed inside each cartridge to produce a "bang" and a little smoke. And in the case of the Fanner 50 "shootin' shell" feature, plastic bullets could be seated in the cartridge to produce an effective range of, oh, several feet. Pretty neat stuff or, as Mattel's commercials repeatedly told us, "if it's Mattel, it's swell!"

Another of Mattel's claims was that the Fanner 50 was "the most authentic cap pistol in the world". I would dispute that assertion and did in fact choose to arm myself with the Stallion 45. I was not too concerned with the fanning function as my research of history had revealed that this technique was seldom employed in the Old West. As for caps that went "pop", I had my favorite vocal indication of a gun shot and that would suffice. I also knew that, though I may have received the gun as a gift, no one was going to replenish my supply of caps. And I couldn't afford to do so myself. So the whizz-bang (and very saleable) features of the two revolvers were mostly lost on me.

For nearly as long as I'd been interested in Cowboys and Indians (a popular term at the time) I'd been fascinated by and sought to learn more about what the times were really like. Even at this early age I recognized that much of what I saw on TV and in the movies was a fraud. Of course my attention to and concern with detail went largely unappreciated among my playmates. My insistence on authentic details and elaborate set ups to our scenarios was often greeted with impatience as they sought to get on with the shootin'. I could be kind of a pain in the butt.

So authenticity was my most important consideration. I had several gun books (a subject covered in a previous post) and I very well knew what a Colt Peacemaker looked like. Take a look at the photo above. The gun at top is an original Colt .45 caliber Peacemaker with original elephant ivory grips. The gun below is a Nichols Stallion 45. How much more authentic can you get in a pot metal cap gun? It's obvious that the patterns for the casting molds of the Stallion were made from an original Colt. The handle is the same size as the real deal (which may have been a problem for younger buckaroos). The original Peacemaker was a single action, meaning the hammer had to be fully cocked before the trigger would discharge the piece. The Stallion 45 (and the Fanner 50) are double action, meaning that pulling the trigger cocks and discharges the weapon. For this reason the Stallion 45 has a slightly larger trigger guard. The Colt offered standard barrel lengths of 7.5" (shown here), 5.5" and 4.75". The Stallion struck an easy handling compromise at 6.5". The Stallion 45 included cartridges that load into the cylinder in exactly the same way as the Colt. It's a beautiful piece and I think I chose well.

For comparison here are a couple Fanner 50s. The deviations from the actual Colt revolver are fairly obvious. The cylinder is shorter and the area behind the cylinder (called the recoil shield) is longer. The trigger guard is much larger and elongated to accommodate the double action trigger. The hammer spur is wider, presumably to facilitate the "fanning" function. The overall size of the Fanner 50 seems slightly scaled down from the original Colt Peacemaker. These differences aren't necessarily bad, they're just differences. Having never owned one I cannot speak to the function and reliability of the Fanner 50. I can say that 50 years on my Stallion 45 no longer indexes it's cylinder properly and the loading gate does not stay closed. It's to be expected that hard play has taken its toll on most toys and these cap pistols are no exception.

The Fanner 50 seems to have been the more popular with the junior cowboy set. Mattel apparently had a huge advertising budget and their entire line of toys was represented by skillfully crafted commercials that would be nearly irresistible to kids. Prices for collectible Fanner 50s range from $100 to $500, depending on condition and accessories (like holster and original packaging) that might accompany the gun. The Stallion 45 seems to command a little more, probably because fewer were produced. Going into the late '60s interest in the Old West waned and production of most of the top of the line cap pistols gradually dried up. Western style toy guns are still available today (with, of course, the red tipped barrel to distinguish them from real guns) but seem rather uninspiring compared to those from the halcyon years of the TV horse opera.

All things considered, I don't think there's any doubt that the Stallion 45 was in actuality "the most authentic cap pistol in the world.

The Fanner 50

In the late 1950s television featured many popular shows set in the Old West -- or at least the script writer's conception of it. They were wildly popular with kids and adults alike and amounted to some of the most important programing aired by the networks. Naturally, a variety of cowboy/gunfighter/lawman merchandise would come to be offered, particularly to the younger audience interested in reenacting the exploits of their heroes of the silver screen. Cap pistols (and long arms) had been around since the previous century but a more sophisticated audience now demanded toy arms that more convincingly replicated the characteristics of real guns. As the design and function of cap guns reached its zenith during this period the Mattel toy company offered the Fanner 50. The commercial above was designed to illustrate their products and at the same time convince every kid that they had to have one.

The Fanner 50 was an excellent cap gun. Originally designed for repeated fire using a roll of caps, the later model utilized individual cartridges that each incorporated a single cap. It loaded the cylinder's chambers with cartridges just like the real revolver and actually fired a plastic projectile while producing a small puff of smoke! The realism was nothing short of remarkable and the fabulous marketing campaign put forward by Mattel made it probably the most desired toy six shooter available. A lot were sold.

In another post I've noted my objections to the Fanner 50 as compared to the Stallion 45 but there's something very interesting in the commercial clip that indicates Mattel my have tried a bit of slight of hand to disguise these deficiencies. Play the video, pausing the action at :04, :11, and :36. Compare the profile of the pistol with the picture of a Fanner 50 at the top of this post. It's not the same gun! Apparently an early prototype or even a real Colt Peacemaker was used in the filming of the commercial. In actual fact, the Fanner 50 loads from the opposite side rather than the gate (clearly seen at :11) shown in the commercial, which is identical to that of the real Colt -- and the Stallion 45. Apparently "truth in advertising" was taken rather casually in this slick and very appealing ad. So, though it may be "swell", the Fanner 50 is hardly -- as the commercial claims -- "the most authentic cap pistol in the world". For my money, that title goes to the Stallion 45.