Steamy incidents

Hot stuff

The last time I remember seeing a source of water to cool a boiling radiator was on the way to Weaverville. Halfway up Buckhorn grade on Highway 299 there was a spring. probably Artesian water, that ran year-round.

It was encased in a granite base, the kind they made during the WPA or Conservation Corps years of the Depression.

I never needed to stop there to cool off the variety of vehicles I used in those years -- mostly older and ranging in size from a brace of Metropolitans to a Rambler American, to a stately 1955 Studebaker pickup truck with a hill holder to a borrowed Ford 100 pickup with a gasoline tank that sloshed liquid from side to side as the vehicle leaned into and out of curves.

About 20 years ago, someone in authority decided the water should be turned off. As I remember it, the action was not taken on a dry year or because the water no longer flowed beneath the ground.

To make sure motorists got the message, signs informing motorists of the spring in both directions were taken away The stone structure and the pipe that held the water were torn out, too.

Perhaps it was the advent of nearly universal use of cooling system liquid that spelled its doom.

Too bad.

With the demise of that spring, the last I have noticed in my travels around the state, some one of the truly reassuring fixtures of the highway died.

In those earlier days of driving when a trip into the mountains or across the desert was more of an adventure than the drudgery it is today, a source of water for the radiator was as important as that of the gas station.

Back then, one of the more enjoyable parts of the drive -- a good way of passing the time on a long trip -- was the conversation triggered when someone spotted an overheated car or truck at the side of the road.

The newer and more expensive the vehicle, the more comments. A new Cadillac or Lincoln drew quite a bit of derision while an older Ford or Chevrolet, expected to wind up there, were mentioned in more kindly tones that shared the misfortune of the drivers.

One of my favorite memories involving an overheated auto occurred at an important juncture in my career. I was riding up the Cajon Pass in a new Mercury Comet driven by the publisher of the Victor Press. About half-way up the pass, the Comet fell out of orbit, its radiator steaming as the publisher guided it onto the shoulder.

We were on our way to Victorville so I could look over the Victor Press and the town. I had been offered the job of editor at the twice-weekly newspaper. The publisher, also the general manager of the Ontario Daily Report, had offered me the job while I was a reporter at the Report.

Carlton Appleby proved just how cool he was when the radiator boiled. He didn't even get out of the car to open the hood, he just kept pitching the job to me. By the time engine had cooled off and we had topped the pass, I was pretty well sold on the job.

In addition to those welcome springs along the highways of the past, there were several other aids for those who ventured out on trips during hot weather.

People crossing the deserts could rent a device that sprayed water onto the radiator as you drove through the heat. They would hook it up for you on at Las Vegas or St. George, Utah, and take it off on the other side. My memory of the device is that you controled the water flow with a foot pump.





In addition, almost all desert travelers carried gallon canvas bags of water on the front bumpers of their cars. The water evaporating through the canvas kept cool for drinking or radiator.


Bag of cool water

Perhaps the neatest device of all was the window cooler, a scaled-down version of the swamp coolers I would learn to love in later, pre-airconditioning year in the desert.

You hooked the cooler onto the front passenger side window allowing an opening an inch or two deep for the air to blow in. You filled a small tank with water that would drip onto the excelsior. I can't remember if there was a fan or not, but the air blowing through the streamlined silver device made many of my earlier trips tolerable.

Most of the time back then, such cooling was available only when faced with treks across the burning sands. For those who lived in the Imperial Valley or say Bakersfield, there was only one type of relief during the hot weather: The 460 airconditioner.

That technique, not quite as efficient as the window swamp cooler, involved driving with all four windows cranked down and sailing along at 60 miles an hour, ergo the 460.

Although the advent of the airconditioner has made driving during the hot months much more comfortable, it is not nearly as interesting. The cooling spray from the window swamp cooler, the refreshing cool drink from the canvas bag and the entertainment offered by discussing stalled motorists or mechanics wrestling a water sprayer onto your car, those are all gone.

But they are not forgotten.

Milo Sorghum: The Final Years

Milo Sorghum’s resurrection and final, fading years were spent with the pseudo farm editor, now a silver-crowned, crusty newsie in the service of the free-booting pirate publisher Billy Dean, Billy Dean in the far-away realm known only by the dreaded inituals ANG.


Milo, in the nether world since his contrived death at the hands of the pseudo farm editor’s henchman, would remain in printing purgatory for a few years as the editor toiled the hellish existence of a copy slave not too far removed from the life of the galley slaves of yore.


Instead of pulling at oars to the beat of the drums, urged on by the bite of the whips of the overseers, the copy slaves pulled at glowing boxes, hacking away at the offerings of cityside slaves, a floor below. The beat of the drum had been replaced by a series of deadlines, times certain and as inviolate as the speeds demanded in the galleys. The overseers were replaced by a copy sergeant and his band of bully-boy (and bully-girl) sidekicks whose main goal in life was to keep the poor copy slaves choping copy and slapping on headlines.


In the sanctuary of the copy slaves, there was a dark pall of cynicism and an air of smugness that was pervasive. It took our pseudo farm editor two years of toiling in this sad existence before he escaped and helped Milo live again.


One of the knights of the Kingdom of Billy Dean, Billy Dean, brokered the escape, offering the editor a chance to breathe in the cleaner air of another level of the ANG realm where writers toiled to create stories.

To encourage the writers to be more creative in their work, our hero decided to use a program of rewards that had worked for him at other newspapers. In those places, various colored stars, certificates of merit and ice cream cones were awarded those who went above and beyond the call of duty.

Ah, but it was not to be. A newly beknighted superior would not hear of spending any of the treasure of the dreaded King Billy Dean, Billy Dean on such frivolity. Our hero found himself lacking the resources to pay for medals, trophies, certificates, ice cream cones or even multi-colored stick-on stars.

It was at this point, that the spirit of Milo Sorghum rose from the ashes. Our hero devised a plan in which imaginary awards would be given those who deserved the ones denied them by the skinflint supervisor. A variety of Milo Sorghum awards were provided to the worthy -- handed down in e-mails and occasionally posted on the bulletin board.

The announcements went into great detail in descibing the type of imaginary jewels and metal in each prize, i.e. The Milo Sorghum Award for Valor, a beautifully worked gold-encrusted display of crossed heads of sorghum with two emeralds on each. The award can be worn as a medallion on a gold chain or as a broach.

Although our hero missed the days when reporters proudly displayed the varied colored stars -- red for good work, green for better work, silver for exceptional work and gold for the best -- on their computers in the style of football players using them as evidence of their tackles, passes, catches or sacks, he found the writers seemed pleased by the imaginary awards.

And so, in the final years of our hero's time in the newsroom in the Kingdom of Billy Dean, Billy Dean, the spirit of Milo Sorghum lived on. Finally, when our hero was knocked from his steed by the lance of one of the evil money counters of Billy Dean, Billy Dean, the second life of Milo Sorghum came to a close.

That has been several years. The farm editor imposter lives a quiet life, sometimes dreaming of the glory days when he and Milo battled through the newsrooms in a quest for excellence in agriculture and journalism.

Of late our hero has begun to wonder if Milo might make another appearance some day. After all, our hero has created a ficticious company that runs three ficticious ranches in California and Bana California.

Where could someone like Milo be more at home?