The Ride

            Yet another one about Uncle Matt. This story doesn’t have him tramping across the great outdoors, but rather finds him in Shorty Winn’s barbershop in downtown Narrows. That building still stands today at the intersection of Main and Center Streets.

             Seems about a dozen local personalities were in there one day, just loafin’ and whilin’ away some time. And, quite naturally, doin’ a whole lotta’ talkin’ ( please note. The apparent huge numbers of typo’s and grammar errors in this work and others to follow are not mistakes, but intentional. For instance , your eyes will scan GONNA’—LOTSA’—THIS HERE—THEM THAR—OVER HYONDER—CONSARNED---etc. Folks, it’s the English language used exactly as my “characters” would’ve spoken it. )

              From outta’ nowhere into the establishment walks this barbershop-supply salesman, real non-chalant  and whistlin’ a merry tune. To Uncle Matt, all salesmen were “drummers”. One doesn’t often hear them referred to as such in this age of fancy-dan names and silly titles, but in the hey-dey of “characters” Matt called them drummers.

               This drummer was there to sell Shorty some hair-tonic. But that was mostly a ruse, designed, so to speak, to “get a foot in the door”. A cleverly disguised front, that’s what it really was. Behind the false façade were dark, sinister and ulterior motives that would clearly show the extreme deep depths man would stoop to in taking advantage of his fellow-man.

                The glib-tongued shyster from the big city was gonna’ try to catch Shorty off guard---he’d “unload” some hair clippers, a few dozen combs, towels and assorted other tonsorial items, stuff that hadn’t been selling well lately. He had an excess of such wares (more aptly described, junk. ) in his car. This “hick-town” barbershop seemed a good place to unload.

                Mr. Winn, I’m pleased and happy to announce my company has taken on these new lines, and can now cater to meet your every barbering need”. Typical drummer talk! All the while this fast-talker was opening 37 leather cases he toted all over the eastern United States displaying his third-rate merchandise. “Now for instance, these electric clippers” This guy was full of hogwash, and various other substances cluttered his innards too. “They’re so silent you can’t hear them”

                “Uh-huh”, Shorty muttered. “But do they cut hair, or pull it?” His query went unanswered.

                  About this time one of Shorty’s regular customers came bouncing thru the door. He had a brush pile adorning the top of his head, a truly unruly mop and had lately heard himself referred to as vagrant, bum, hobo and even tramp. Simply because he was 3 month’s late in visiting Shorty’s place . The dude came callin’ today to get his hair thinned. Sheared, shorn, cropped, trimmed, whatever. This chap hoped to be 7 pounds lighter when Shorty had completed work on the ghastly mis-shaped head of the gent seated in the chair.

                Hopefully his friends and neighbors would allow him to continue dwelling among them after the haircut. That was the deal that’d been struck yesterday (nowadays males have their hair styled---back in olden days it was cut ). But even today I opt for the latter. Mainly because my hair ain’t  too pretty. This statement isn’t intended to sound sarcastic. If’n I had pretty hair I’d get it styled.

                  Shorty seated his customer comfortably in the swivel-chair and proceeded to wrap a bedsheet around his shoulders. The fella’s arm came from under it immediately for the express purpose of scratching his nose. My organ of smell does the exact same thing---starts itchin’ the very second I’m seated in a barberchair.

                   By this time the drummer had his displays ready. Those open leather cases covered 85% of the floorspace in Shorty’s barbershop. This caused grumblings among the loafers---gosh durn man, just to get back to the “little boy’s room” was akin to running an obstacle course.

                    “Go right ahead with your customer, Mr. Winn. I’ll tell you about my products. Oh, I nearly forgot. Take these clippers and hook them up. I’d be mighty obliged if you tried them”. That, ladies and gents, is known as an oblique movement.

             The first part of that harangue hadn’t gone un-noticed by Shorty. The salesman had actually given him permission to proceed with hair-cutting! Well now, Shorty was thinking to himself---mighty thoughtful of the cuss!

              “Guess not today. Been usin’ this pair 15 years. They sorta’ fit my hand”, drawled Shorty. “Maybe next time”.

                The drummer promptly closed the leather case containing 83 pairs of hair clippers. That big sell wouldn’t be made today--- not in this shop. Matter of fact, the big one hadn’t happened anywhere lately. Might as well quit luggin’ this junk around. That rash notion was quickly shot down though. He just might happen upon a slew of  “suckers” before this day ended.

                 Hardly missing a beat, the salesman became real dramatic in telling how great his other products were. Talcum powder, a finely-ground stuff applied to scrawny necks. Ya’couldn’t purchase a brand having the quality he was totin’ around. And how about after-shave lotion, that aromatic stuff used on freshly shaved faces? According to his long-winded oratory, his brand was guaranteed to attract the prettiest girls around . On hearing this remark,the loafers echoed as a chorus: “Buy 16 cases, Shorty”!

                 Yessiree doggie, everything in his line of products were the very best money could buy. And they probably were. This fella’ had an honest look about him and sounded oh so sincere. He was wily though in the tricks of the trade, and reasoned now was the time to ease up on his sales-pitch.

                  Mr. Salesman said he’d just arrived in town , having driven directly and non-stop to Narrows from Charleston, West Virginia. The trip had been made in a Terraplane, a beautiful automobile. Considering the distance involved and “driving time” as he related, the drummer  had told an entirely reasonable story. Granted though, he was a fast driver, certainly no moss had gathered neath the wheels of his Terraplane.

                  Uncle Matt had listened with great interest to this particular segment of the conversation. I’m tellin’ ya’ right now , this part hadn’t been lost. The old man hadn’t been heard from in quite a spell. He’d sat patiently as the drummer ranted and raved about “driving time”. Now it was his turn to tell of an automobile trip he’d once taken. All eyes were riveted in his direction as the aged fella’ laboriously rose to his feet.

                   Shorty had started cropping hair from his customer’s noggin, and by the time this episode ended, that dude would change barbers!

                  Seems Matt had a son named Charlie, and he lived “way off up yonder” in the nation’s Capitol. Charlie was the proud owner of a Whippet Car. When Matt pronounced it however,  his vocal chords made it sound Whoopit Car. This sleek auto derived it’s name from that swift canine racer, the Whippet, a smaller version of the greyhound who chases robotic rabbits around racetracks.

                 Matt always referred to his offspring as “My son Charlie”. One  summer back during the 1930’s he’d gone up there for a visit, fully intending to stay a month. But lo and behold, after only a week he bacame homesick and wanted to get back to “the Narz on New River”.

                Charlie knew the feeling; and he agreed to drive his old man back to that familiar stomping grounds in a sleek Whippet Car ( the first rolled off the Willys assembly line in 1926, but production ceased in 1931. The Great Depression , wouldn’t you know. ) “Okay. Pop,” said Charlie . “we’ll get ourselves a good night’s sleep, hit the floor early and hit the road about six o’clock in the morning”. Which is exactly what they did.

             And this is the statement made by Matt to that drummer and assembled congregation in Mr. Shorty Winn’s barbershop on that long-ago day during the Great Depression: “My son Charlie drove a Whoopit Car  from Washington D.C. to Narz, Virginia in one hour and thirty minutes”.

             What?! One hour and thirty minutes! Holy Hannah and hells bells too! Egad, man! Adamantly and emphatically Uncle Matt said it was true and, furthermore, he’d swear to it on a stack of Bibles.

              Shorty had speeded up considerably in cutting that fella’s hair. He’d sorta’ gotten carried away listening about motor vehicles, and his clippers clipped as never before. In trying to keep pace with Charlie’s Whoopit Car, he’d cut that chap’s head bald as a pool cue. The man arose abruptly from the barberchair, looked in the mirror, made a threatening move toward Shorty, cussed him out---and walked out without paying.

               Everyone in there were formed a unanimous opinion; Matt and Charlie had made “fair to middlin’” good time on the trip down from Washington. I’ll carry that summary one step further. Even to this day of powerful 400 horsepower engines, I predict their record will endure forever and eternally!

               The drummer made one observation. A lot of territory had to be covered in his line of work. Geez, man. He was definitely drivin’ the wrong kind of car! Right away he was gonna’ swap that Terraplane in for a Whoopit car!

               It is 300 miles or thereabouts from Washington to Narrows. If my arithmetic is correct, they’d come zooming down the Valley at 200 miles per hour! Zounds! Charlie had kept the “pedal to the metal”. This---back in the days of narrow, twisting roads. Before most had even been paved.

                When driving in those days drivers were equipped at all times with goggles to protect their eyes from dust. But crash-helmets and seat-belts hadn’t yet made their debut. If I’d been along for that ride I’d have wanted both---strapped tightly to the last notch. On the other hand, I plain don’t think I would’ve climbed into a vehicle driven by Charlie!

                 But I would’ve very much liked to have been standing somewhere in the Valley that day and watched Charlie’s Whoopit car  as it came roaring thru Winchester, Harrisonburg, Staunton, Lexington and points south. More’n likely recognizable only as a blur!

         Old time weather records indicate a strange phenomena occurredin the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia that particular day during Herbert Hoover’s administration. A cyclone had touched down at it’s northern end and followed the floor of the Valley to it’s southernmost point. It had stirred up the durndest dust storm ever seen in the eastern half of these continental United States. That’s the weather bureau’s version …you and I , well, we know better.

            Now then, an explanation is needed before going further. It concerns the stories already told in this book, plus a few more to follow. Could I prove any of them?

            I’m often asked this question , and it’s an extremely difficult one. Sorta’ puts me on the spot. As for concrete evidence, there is none to offer. Clear photographs, documented papers, newspaper clippings? I’ve nothing of that nature in my possession, not one single scrap of anything to substantiate what is written on these pages.

           But I have put in several years research on this work. I’ve talked with hundreds of people, and besides all that, these are the things I’ve lived with all my life. I try to be a trusting soul, an eternal optimist, and just don’t believe anyone would tell me an untruth. You ask if I believe.

           Why sure pal. Certainly…