During the twilight of the fifties, the Englander Company manufactured a commercial sleeping slab with a mechanical vibrator at its core. One of their top salesman, John Houghtaling (hotel-ing), peddled the unit to customers in the lodging industry. When a number of clients complained that the buzz-boxes were burning out, he took it upon himself to find out why.

The Magic Fingers Control Box

For almost two years, he conducted a relentless campaign of under-the-bed research. Mattresses were dissected, bedsprings analyzed, and motors monitored. After disassembling the mysterious motion transducer and studying its intricate workings, he discovered that “there wasn’t much to it.” Inside, what was initially perceived as a mechanized marvel consisted of nothing more than a simple electric motor with a small counterweight attached to its driveshaft.

Houghtaling began to tinker on his own and soon devised a much more reliable version. It was small, powerful, and a snap to replace. Best of all, his visionary design had a specific advantage over the existing competition: it could easily be mated with any mattress. Now, anyone handy with a screwdriver could install one of these new massagers—right to the inside of a bed’s box spring! An quad arrangement of special, grooved mounting posts made easy work of attaching the vibro-module between the cushioning coils. The inventive Houghtaling even patented the unique design approach.

Sampling the subtle waves of relaxation emanating from his reconfigured recliner, he coined the phrase “Magic Fingers” and set upon the task of marketing it to the masses. Sales representatives from across the country were recruited in a loose franchise arrangement. For an investment of $2500, would-be dealers received eighty of the vibrator units, three days of training, and audio-visual materials. After that, it was the dealer’s responsibility to locate potential customers, handle installation, facilitate repairs, and finally—collect the sacks of coins accumulated at the end of each month.

A compact control head (attached by wire) held the loot and activated the magical oscillations. Bolted down securely (in later years) to the night stand, it served as both a pay receptacle and housing for the timer. When sleepy overnighters dropped one quarter into the coin meter, it tripped a mechanism—allowing fifteen-minutes of operation. The setup worked without a hitch for a number of years until basic honesty went the way of the dodo. Suddenly, anyone and everyone (including some motel employees) began breaking into the coin meters to help themselves to the proceeds!

John J. Houghtaling Canadian Patent Drawing, circa 1962

For the hapless distributor, the resulting losses could be quite substantial. During the heyday of Magic Fingers mania, over 250,000 units were buzzing along at both the independent and major chain accommodations … nationwide. With an average of eight quarters brought in by each unit during the time span of one month, an entrepreneur maintaining a few hundred vibrators could pull in a considerable chunk of change. Since Houghtaling didn’t demand royalties, top salesman could make a good living.

By the 70s, an aggressive attempt was made to thwart the pilferage by employing magnetic stripe technology. Room renters received a card from the desk clerk during check-in that could be credited with incremental amounts of time. Back in the privacy of their rooms, a modified control head read the debit card and activated the Magic Fingers. Unfortunately, costs to continually upgrade the system to reflect the latest technology were prohibitive. Card readers that were initially “high-tech” were quickly rendered obsolete by the fast pace of progress.

Eventually, coin theft became such a problem that Houghtaling couldn’t sell distributorships with a clear conscience. Somebody would set up business and effectively go broke in just a few months. But the Magic Fingers wasn’t licked yet: In the early eighties, the General Stamping and Manufacturing Company of Hialeah, Florida acquired rights to the gizmo and began marketing it to residential customers. While demand from the motel industry waned, seniors remembered the therapeutic gadgets from their cross-country journeys and eagerly purchased them for home use (without coin meters).

Today, fully functional models of the venerable Magic Fingers mattress can still be discovered—and enjoyed—at a smattering of tourist courts, cabins, and no-tell motels on the retired routes of Highway 66. Along with “refrigerated air” and “a television in every room,” Houghtaling’s shimmying shaker has found a place of permanence in the pop culture of the American road. And, oh yeah … has anyone got change for a dollar bill?

What do McDonald’s, Wendy’s, Burger King, Denny’s, Arby’s, Roy Rogers, Taco Bell, Jack-in-the-Box, and Kentucky Fried Chicken have in common? All have their distant origins in the diner, that unsung institution of roadside America that began over one-hundred years ago, decades before there were automobiles, drive-thru ordering windows, milkshake mixers, and remote-controlled speaker boxes.

Invention of the American Diner

The precursor to the fast food eatery began in 1872 when Walter Scott, a myopic pressman for the Providence Journal (and one-time street vendor), became serious about selling food and refreshments in the streets. That year, he abandoned the security of his job and swore to dedicate his life to street vending. “I decided that I’d quit other work altogether,” he revealed to a Providence Journal reporter. “I figured I could build a good trade in a little while … and make a decent living out of it.”

Friendly Counter Service, Interior Counter Scene, and White Castle

Scott had the moxie to make it work, along with an unheard of plan: instead of wearing out the soles of his shoes and roaming the streets of Providence, Rhode Island, he decided to buy a horse drawn delivery van. Rolling on four wagon wheels, he would take his food to the people.

His wheeled pantry caught more than its share of onlookers: on each side of the rig, Scott hacked out a rectangular opening! Through what may have been America’s first “walk up windows,” he fielded orders and served the passersby with a simple fare of egg sandwiches, coffee, and pie.

It proved to be the perfect setup. Scott prepared the comestibles at home, packed them into the van, and trotted around Providence to secure the top sales location for the day or night. When foot traffic thinned and business waned, all he had to do was hitch up his horse and roll off to a more profitable street! For a vendor selling food in the urban environment, this was the best possible configuration for sales.

Scotty's ©2008 Gabriele

A Welcome Alternative to Sit Down Fare

The roving lunch wagon format was welcomed by customers, too. At the time, most American cities were ill-equipped to handle workers who desired a quick bite to eat … at a reasonable price. A few city hotels featured lavish sit-down restaurants, but these were hardly a practical choice for the working man on a budget. Like most of the other fine eating houses, the prices were exorbitant and the atmosphere tailored for the more affluent, well-heeled clientele.

Of course, there were a few bars and nickel dining houses where men of toil could go elbow-to-elbow with crowds of drunken men to wolf down a plate of grub. At many of these dives, the patrons were privy to a free lunch, as long as they purchased a drink or glass of wine. Not surprisingly, it was an uncivilized way to get a meal. One writer of the age described the method of dining as one of “gulp, gobble, and go!”

Besides the lack of atmosphere, the drinking buffets had limited hours and only offered their spreads at noon. After dark, getting a bite to eat was difficult since most bars didn’t offer food and the low-budget hash houses closed for the night. Even the high class eateries shut their doors after the dinner hour. For these reasons, late-night workers were destined to go hungry unless they brought along their food from home.

It’s no surprise that Scott’s late-night lunch wagon became a friendly beacon in the dark. Before long, his wagon was a regular haunt for hungry insomniacs, red-eyed carousers, municipal workers, cab drivers, deliverymen, trolley car conductors, policemen, and even the well-to-do. After Scotty took up residence in front of the Providence Daily Journal offices, former co-workers and friends became devoted fans. Here was the paradigm for streetside dining … based on service, speed, and quality.

The Lunch Wagon Asserts its Domain

With all that it had going for it, it didn’t take long for other entrepreneurs to take notice of Scott’s operation. A Providence policeman by the name of Ruel Jones was the first to copy the setup, with one major difference: he hired a local wagon maker to build a custom unit equipped with a serving shelf! Lunch wagons were improving.

Chili Bar-B-Q Lunch (Photographer: Arthur Rothstein, Library of Congress)

Ruel’s cousin, Samuel Messer Jones, was the next to gain prominence in the trade. He started out small and saved up the $800 he needed to design and build a lunch wagon that allowed the customers to stand inside to eat! His “distinctive night lunch wagon” was built with fine woods and adorned with ornate etched glass windows. With Sam Jones’ entry into the business, the level of lunch wagon beauty raised up a notch.

Around the same time, a hopeful street salesman by the name of Charles Palmer got the idea to work the shift after Jones closed his own operation down. Palmer thought that the night was a great time to sell food and reasoned that there “were a lot of people going to the theater, to square dances and sewing bees, drinking in the saloons, and so on … who had to go home sometime.” While on their way to their humble abodes, he planned to feed them and rake in the after-hour profits.

Indeed, the late-night clientele was plentiful and by 1891, Palmer made history when he took out America’s first patent for a lunch wagon! Although lunch wagons were a regular sight on the city streets, not one operator had the vision to register their design! He went on to do quite well in the streetside dining trade and contributed many innovations to art of wagon design, gaining notoriety by building “lunch wagons of every description, made to order.”

Enter the “Original Lunch Wagon King”

However, Palmer didn’t etch his name into the history books as the sandwich man who dominated the early American diner trade. Nor did Scott, or even Jones. The title of “Original Lunch Wagon King” was reserved for Thomas H. Buckley, a former janitor and cook who worked his way up from relative obscurity to gain widespread prominence in the lunch wagon business. His claim to fame and way to fortune were the famous eateries known as “The White House Cafes,” a line of gleaming wheeled wagons that lent a respectable image to the trade and pulled the industry further away from its somewhat working-class, beanery image. The homemade wagon was definitely seeing the last of its days.

The Owl Stamp

In all respects, Buckley’s Cafes set the new standard for beauty: the windows were frosted, made of blue and red flash glass, or etched with the portraits of past presidents Washington, Lincoln, or Grant! The exterior walls were painted a bright, titanium white and then decorated with ornate paintings depicting famous events in history. Inside, fine finished woodwork and brass fittings raised the bar of comfort. Buckley took the basic concept, added a touch of luxury, and kicked the trade into a new realm.

By 1910, Buckley’s beauties helped to establish the lunch wagon as a permanent part of the city scene. And what a scene it was: with its densely populated towns, the New England region became a hotbed of lunch wagon construction. As fast as they could, manufacturers like Wilfred Barriere, Albert H. Clossen, P.J. Tierney, and the Worcestor Lunch Car Company began turning out compact, mobile restaurants.

Meanwhile, electrical power gained a foothold. A number of towns began taking their horse drawn trolleys out of service to replace them with electrically-powered units. As trolley companies scrapped old cars, they caught the eye of men who were out to make a fast buck in the diner biz. The idea was simple: buy a few of the junked cars at bottom dollar, outfit them with a small stove and other equipment, and sell them as cheap lunch wagons. For those who couldn’t afford a costly Palmer or a Buckley, it was a quick way in. Soon, a raft of these trolley lunches joined other diners in the street and things got crowded.

Birth of the Stationary Diner

With all of the horse drawn delivery wagons, hansom cabs, and lunch wagons rolling about, established cities implemented laws to ban the food carts. Others imposed restricted hours of operation. As the rules tightened, any operator who wanted to remain in business had to find a permanent location and set down roots. As the dust settled, electrical lines, sewer pipes, and solid foundations replaced the wagon wheels. The stationary diner was born!

Once the diner found its equilibrium, the industry took off faster than a burger patty sliding across a griddle. Three major diner makers emerged and formed the basis of the American diner industry: At the top, the Worcester Lunch Car Company earned a fine reputation with lunch cars of wood and porcelain panels. Diner maker P.J. Tierney pioneered comforts such as the indoor toilet. Irishman Jerry O’Mahony added a new sense of class to diner architecture.

During the 1930s, prefabricated diners reached the height of roadside design when manufacturers built beautiful, streamlined structures. J.B. Judkins produced a curvy model called the Sterling Streamliner and even the Worcester Lunch Car Company came out with a fast, angle-ended building. Suddenly, roadside restaurants looked faster than the car customers they served!

Over the next twenty years, diners kept pace with the tremendous growth of the automobile industry and by the 1950s, the diner was no longer the tiny vending wagon it once was. Now, it was a big, full service restaurant! Draped in stainless steel panels and decorated with multicolor bands of neon tubing, motorists recognized it as a solid symbol of American enterprise.

Yes sir, when the public was in the mood for a simple meal that they could purchase at a fair price, they patronized diners. While there was increased competition in the form of drive-in restaurants (with their carhop service) and later walkup fast food stands, the diners managed to hold their own—especially along the East Coast.

Fast Food Overtakes the Diners

Unfortunately, the regional loyalty enjoyed by the diner was not enough to sustain the format nationwide. With the speed of cars and pace of life increasing, people were in a big hurry to work, play, and eat their meals—preferably—in the front seat of their cars. The very idea of leaving one’s vehicle to sit down in a cramped diner booth wasn’t as attractive as it once was. The front seat was America’s new dining room and like it or not, speed became the new creed. Quality was on the way out.

The Diner, April 1950 Cover

When America’s diners could no longer compete with the proliferation of budget burger bars and prefabricated food, they slowly retreated. Established diners entered a sustaining mode and hung on with their fingernails. As the nation entered the 1970s, many of our nation’s diner men cloaked their buildings with wood or brick to hide their identity (perhaps their judgment was affected by the crazy disco beat). Suddenly, diners were viewed as greasy spoons and thought of as a liability rather than asset.

As some operators sold out and closed their doors, many took to the challenge and remodeled. Some adopted the architectural leanings of the day and built diners in the Colonial style. Functional structures were passé. It seemed like restaurateurs wanted to copy the Howard Johnson’s look and make the roadside over to appear as it did during those frowsy days of antiquity.

Meanwhile, a few of the diner men took the outer image of their diners over the top with decorative embellishments. Suddenly, the once classy roadside appliance that was the diner emerged as a monument to Grecian style. On the opposite end of the spectrum, those who saw the future took off with the space age Jetsons styling that the remaining diner makers were currently offering.

To the diner aficionado, it seemed that the stainless steel dream of the American diner was degrading into a nightmare, that is, until the aging masses of baby boomers suddenly rediscovered the magic of sitting on a stool, eating a blue-plate special at a counter, and playing their favorite fifties tunes on their own jukebox controller.

A Nostalgia For Diners Emerges

Suddenly, enthusiasts were writing about diners, painting pictures of them, restoring them, and spreading the gospel of real diner architecture and inexpensive comfort foods! When the movie “Diner” hit the theaters, audiences recalled the magic of their teenage years and sought to relive the days of their favorite diner booth. Ever so slowly, the diner made a pop culture rebound and suddenly, they were “cool” again.

Today, the restaurants that began as simple, horsedrawn lunch wagons have seen a grand resurgence. Diner manufacturers like Kullman Industries, DeRaffele, Diner-Mite, Starlite, and more are fielding a multitude of orders for new diners. Many original diners are now listed on the National Register of Historic Places. The mom and pop eateries that have survived the lean decades are basking in the glory of the reawakening, too. Customers are returning, and old classics are seen regularly in television commercials, motion pictures, and print advertising.

As fast food quality continues to wane and customer service falters, America’s fast, friendly, accommodating diners are taking up the slack. Ask anyone in the diner industry and they will tell you that “The report of the diner’s demise has been greatly exaggerated!” In the same spirit of Walter Scott’s first lunch cart, they occupy a place of prominence along the great American roadside and are ready, willing, and able to serve well into the new millennium. Nothing could be finer than eating breakfast, lunch, or dinner in an American Diner!

Article text and images ©2008 Michael Karl Witzel, All Rights Reserved.

The American Diner

Please email the author for reproduction permission.

If you are a fan of diners and other roadside eateries, be sure to look for Witzel’s book, The American Diner (Motorbooks Stock Number 127144AP, Hardcover, 10” x 10” size, 160 pages, 50 b&w illustrations, 150 color, $29.95).

This title is currently being reprinted in a paperback edition, but original hardcover copies can be found here on Amazon.com.

Tokheim Moneymaker

Americans drive more than 2.5 trillion miles per year in cars, trucks and sport utility vehicles—a distance equal to 14,000 round trips to the sun! To rack up this amazing mileage, the U.S. motoring market consumes 146 billion gallons of gasoline every year.

With so much refined petroleum being bought and then pumped into the tanks of cars, one might conclude that the American motorist is entitled to a quantity discount. Unfortunately, today’s commuter holds no such influence. The prices at the pumps are outrageous and continue to climb. In many regions, consumers shell out an average of three to five dollars for every gallon of gas.

What do we get for our money? Only the refined liquid, along with the privilege of dispensing it into our own automobiles. For good or ill, the gasoline station in America has adopted a business model that is defined by speed and self-service. Much to our chagrin, the present-day definition of “convenience” means do it yourself.

For this reason, today’s self-reliant automobile owner is burdened with a growing list of car-care responsibilities. In addition to pumping our own gasoline, we must check the level of motor oil, top off the radiator with water or anti-freeze, clean the windshield, change out worn wiper blades, replace dirty air filters, and keep our tires inflated to the correct air pressure. Never mind that it costs an extra seventy-five cents to extract air and water from a vending machine! That’s another story.

Travel back in time fifty years and you will quickly discover that the scene at the American service station was dramatically different than it is today. The most obvious difference? The price of gasoline. While economists argue that today’s cost per gallon is well in line with inflation and the current cost of living, there is really no denying that refined motor fuel was a good deal cheaper in 1955, no matter how you pump it.

Once upon a time in America, fuel efficiency was not an issue. Our highways were packed with the biggest behemoths that Detroit could build—chrome-plated, fuel-injected, 283 cubic inch gas guzzlers. With an attitude typical of Alfred E. Neuman, owners of Ford Country Squire station wagons, Chevy Nomads, Buick Roadmasters, and other highway cruisers were unfazed about how much it cost to feed their greedy, four-barrel carburetors. “What, me worry?” Gas was plentiful … and cheap!

As miles of virgin tarmac unrolled to service the growing legions of Motor City steel, filling stations proliferated. By 1969, there were 239,000 gas stations in America (today, the total is less than 100,000).

Pump-a-rama ©2008 Witzel

The resulting competition caused a street-side scramble, leading many American petroleum peddlers to adopt the tenets of “programmatic” architecture. Based upon the clever idea of combining both a building and a billboard into a single, eye-popping structure, this mimetic style of construction became the ideal motif for myriad roadside businesses—gas stations included.

Station owners eagerly adopted the format and almost overnight, the roadsides were transformed. From the 1920s and on, fantasy facades festooned the American roadscape with visual whimsy. Along well-traveled corridors nationwide, gas stations shaped like airplanes, castles, Chinese Pagodas, dinosaurs, icebergs, light houses, tea kettles, teepees, and windmills made filling up the family flivver a lot of fun.

As it turned out, morphing the gas station’s appearance proved only partially effective in grabbing attention. Equally important was how people perceived the product being sold. This was demonstrated during the 1920s, when tall “visible register” pumps allowed customers to see the gas they were buying. High atop the pump, a clear glass cylinder displayed the fuel before it went into a car’s tank. To differentiate between grades of gasoline and to enhance sales, companies like Gilmore colored their fuel, as they did with their “Blu-Green” brand.

Back in the “good old days” of gasoline, Petroleum refiners captured the public imagination by enlisting friendly mascots, too. The Brontosaurus affectionately known as “Dino” trotted onto the scene during the 1930s, boosting sales for Sinclair gas. In 1959, Humble Oil put a friendly face on it’s fuel with the stylized image of a tiger and the slogan, “Put a Tiger in Your Tank!” Standard Oil Company of New York’s (later Mobil’s) “Flying Red Horse” also grabbed its share of eyeballs: Affixed to buildings and sign poles, the neon Pegasus blazed a crimson trail across the sky and branded itself into the hearts and minds of motorists.

But the affable nature of yesterday’s gas station was defined by more than personable mascots, wacky architecture, and cheap Ethyl (the first brand of no-knock, leaded fuel). It was the employee known as the gas station “attendant” who established a real rapport with the public, demonstrating first hand the art of personalized customer service. His or her mission was clear: refill customer’s fuel tanks, act as a tour guide, provide maintenance advice, and front as a good-will ambassador for the oil companies.

U.S. 1, N.Y. Ave., Washington DC, Circa 1940

To this end, pump jockeys of the gas station’s golden age actually looked like they cared. Sporting a crisp uniform—complete with a bow tie and five-point hat—the typical attendant rushed out to your car after the “ding-ding” of the driveway air hose signaled your arrival. After that, it was full service all the way. Attendants “wiped the windows and checked the oil,” inflated your tires, and made doubly sure that your car was road worthy and safe to drive. Indeed, the memorable Texaco ad slogan, you can “Trust Your Car to the Man Who Wears the Star” was more than advertising hype.

Fifty years ago, gas station attendants worked diligently to earn our trust. They used every promotion they could think of to hook in anyone who might buy a gallon of gas. Giveaways played a big part in winning over—and keeping—customers. In exchange for their loyalty, gas station visitors received goodies such as foldout road maps, drinking glasses, dishware, calendars, collectible coins, car washes, matchbooks, trading stamps (remember S&H Green Stamps?) and a multitude of other fun freebies.

Clamoring in the back seat to latch onto the latest giveaway, kids loved filling up, too. And why not? Station owners took pleasure in handing out trinkets to future customers. Coloring books, comics, coin banks, stuffed animals, stamps, buttons, pens, lollipops shaped like station logos, and other gee-gaws were the stuff kid’s dreams were made of.

Unfortunately, the passage of time has all but erased the memories of how enjoyable it once was to fill up at the service station of old. Now, foreign imports and fuel efficiency dominate the street. The station attendant has evolved into a cash register attendant and friendly mascots have been stylized out of a job. Station architecture has been revamped to conform with the banality of the mini-mart ideal. Gasoline is just another impersonal—and expensive—commodity.

Super-sized for high-volume sales and maximized for profit, it isn’t likely that the gas stations of present day will ever revive the lost art of the classic American service station. The ultra-modern convenience store—with its Big Gulps, triple lattés, and lottery tickets—will continue to define the market. Until “big oil” goes the way of Dino the dinosaur, commuters have only one thing to look forward to at the pump: paying more for gasoline. “Fill ‘er up ma’am?” Well … at least the memories are free.

Circular Texas Pig Stand, Beaumont, Texas

“People in their cars are so lazy that they don’t want to get out of them to eat!” The proclamation still rings as true today as it did when candy and tobacco magnate Jessie G. Kirby first uttered the words in 1921. At the time, he was trying to interest Rueben W. Jackson, a Dallas, Texas physician to invest in a new idea for a roadside restaurant—a sort of fast-food stand, although at the time he didn’t call it that.

Kirby’s idea was simple: patrons were to drive up in their automobiles and make their food requests from behind the wheel. A young lad would take the customers’ orders directly through the window of the car and then deliver the food and beverages right back out to the curb. The novelty of this new format was that hurried diners could consume their meals while still sitting in the front seat.

Of course, the Roaring Twenties were ripe for such a brazen idea. Adventurous folk perched atop flagpoles, danced the Charleston at around the clock dance marathons, and consumed bathtub gin at speakeasies. During Prohibition, freedom of travel emerged as the new thrill, fueled by automobile ownership that soared from six million to twenty-seven million motorcars by decade’s end.

When Kirby and Jackson’s Texas “Pig Stand” opened along the busy Dallas-Fort Worth Highway (West Davis Street) in the Fall of 1921, hoards of Texas motorists tipped their ten-gallon hats to “America’s Motor Lunch.” Here was the ultimate dine-in-your-car convenience—starring Kirby and Jackson’s newest hand-held creation, the “Pig Sandwich.” Prepared with tender slices of roast pork loin, pickle relish, and barbecue sauce, it quickly gained a loyal following among harried commuters and carefree joy riders. A frosty bottle of Dr Pepper (another Texas favorite, invented at a soda fountain in Waco) accompanied the motoring meal.

Pig Stand Still Life With Coca-Cola and Carhops ©2008 Witzel

But the tasty curbside cuisine wasn’t the only attraction at America’s first drive-in restaurant. The flamboyant car servers who worked the curb—or “carhops” as someone coined the phrase—were truly a sight to behold. “All the car hops were young men, probably 12 to 15 years old,” recalls Richard Hailey, successor to the Pig Stand throne and acting president of Pig Stands, Inc. “The carhops were very competitive. As soon as they saw a Model T start to slow down and turn tires towards the curb, they’d race out to see who could jump up on the running board first while the car was still moving.”

With its good food and derring-do curb service, the legend of the carhop grew as the reputation of the Pig Stands and its signature barbecue sandwich spread. Propelled beyond the borders of Texas by one of the first franchising arrangements in the industry, the number of restaurants multiplied quickly. Between 1921 and 1934, more than 100 Pig Stands were serving up “A Good Meal At Any Time” in Texas, California, Louisiana, Mississippi, New York, Florida, Oklahoma, Arkansas, and Alabama.

As the demands of the American automobile owner changed, fast food innovation shaped the Pig Stand legacy. According to Hailey, “It was California Pig Stand No. 21 that pioneered drive through car service in 1931.” Unheard of at the time, customers drove right up to the building to make their order, while the cook served the meals to occupants waiting in their car. Fast forward seventy years: Today, virtually every American fast-food chain restaurant relies on the “drive-thru” window format to service busy commuters arriving in their motor vehicles.

1301 N. Zang Blvd., Dallas, Texas, Circa 1920s

Royce Hailey, patriarch of the Pig Stands clan and father to Richard, was one of the pioneers. Inspired by the same spirit of pluck and entrepreneurship that made the Pig Stands an American success story, he started his career as a Dallas carhop at age thirteen. In 1930, he leaped up onto his first automobile running board and never looked back. When he hopped off twenty-five years later, he found himself president of the company. By the dawn of the 1960s, he led the company to sell off all of the out-of-state stands and concentrate solely on the Texas locations. In 1975, he became sole owner of the company.

But a knack for business and people skills was only part of his legend. As popular restaurant history tells the tale, the visionary Hailey “invented” the chicken-fried steak sandwich during the 1930s. Not satisfied with one culinary creation to his credit, he also helped to create the super-sized slice of grilled bread most natives of the Alamo city know and love as “Texas Toast” (according to many food historians, the Pig Stands are also credited with creating fried onion rings during the heyday of the 1920s).

Son Richard purchased all interest to the Pig Stands company in 1983 and forged ahead with the tradition of serving American comfort food to a public still in love with their automobile and the freedom it affords. “Today, diners can still get an over sized piece of Texas Toast, giant onion rings, a milkshake, and a tasty Pig Sandwich,” he says. “The best part is that we still sell the same Pig Sandwich made the same way that is was made so many years ago.”

Along the great American roadsides, it seems that the more things change … the more they stay the same. For fans of the “World’s First Drive-in Restaurant,” there’s still nothing that compares with dining on a tasty Pig Sandwich and a bottle of Dr Pepper while seated comfortably in America’s favorite dining room: the front seat of a car.

Tydol Flying A Gasoline Uniform Patch, Circa 1940s

During World War II, Allen P. Bell was transferred to the Air Base in Kingman, Arizona to work his tour of duty as an aircraft mechanic. On his 21st birthday he stepped off the train, walked down old Route 66 a ways, and observed the desolation. “What is this God forsaken place?” he asked himself. He made his mind up right then and there that once discharged from the Air Corps., he wouldn’t return. Operating a service station—much less living there—was the farthest thought from his mind.

Nevertheless, the two-lane twist of concrete designated Highway 66 had other plans in store. When the war finally ended, Bell entered the job market and discovered that aircraft mechanics weren’t in very high demand. Stuck in the desert without prospects, he decided to try his luck at automotive repair.

Unfortunately, the life of a grease monkey proved to be unfulfilling. To make matters worse, the pay was meager. About that time, the good fortune of the highway smiled his way and presented itself in the form of an idea: “Why not manage a filling station?” After all, gasoline rationing was finally over and Americans were taking to road in record numbers. Automobiles would always need fuel and there were was plenty of room for stations attendants that knew how to treat customers right.

At the same time, Bell figured he could take in a little mechanical work on the side, choosing only jobs he wanted. “I was never into overhauls and all that nuts and bolts stuff,” explains Bell. A few years of tearing down and reassembling aircraft engines with his arms up to the elbows deep in grease cured him of that. The standard filling station routine of repairing flat tires, replacing broken fan belts, and tuning the occasional carburetor would be sufficient.

Under the Tutelage of Whiting Brothers

The year was 1947 when Al Bell got hooked up with a busy Whiting Brothers station down in the desert town of McConnico, right along the alignment of the old road. It pumped out a fair amount of gallons, but not enough for the enterprising Bell. At the end of nine months, he mastered the basics of managing a station and decided to move on. He was soon responsible for running a Mobil station on the Walapai Indian Reservation in Peach Springs (in a leasing arrangement).

Behind the station, a couple of roadside tourist cabins provided Bell with a little extra income from travelers, and later—trouble. One day, his young son Bob Boze was playing where he wasn’t supposed to and got his hand tangled in the maid’s washing machine wringer! Without proper emergency medical facilities in town, Bell loaded him in the truck and raced all the way to Kingman to the nearest doctor. Luckily, his arm was saved.

Later, the accident caused Bell to reconsider his remote location—and career—at the Flying Red Horse outpost. Concluding that safety was more important than pumping petroleum, he decided it would be best for the family to move back to Kingman. But, homesick for what he thought he was missing in the east (and recalling the youthful proclamation he made only a few short years ago) he announced to the family that he was moving the entire clan back to Swea City, Iowa. There, he had a lucrative offer to operate a brand new Phillips 66 station.

Bell Returns to the Desert

Far from the road that first sustained him, it took more than half a decade for Bell to realize that his fortunes didn’t lie in the heartland. Six years of icy winters and plowing of snow took their toll. What’s more, his wife Lilly had lost two babies in the interim—coloring the surroundings with unhappy memories. With her ongoing problems with asthma, Al decided it was time to hit the road again. They would pack up and head west, back to the desert cauldron that Bob Bell swore he would never return to.

Flying A Gasoline Advertisement, Circa 1960s

And so, like so many others seeking a new life at the end of America’s two-lane rainbow, they packed their vehicle full with all of their belongings and pointed the car west. Arizona was their final destination and would be their new home … this time for good. Al Bell didn’t know it at the time, but a prominent refueling assignment in Kingman—right along Highway 66—was waiting for his return.

Once settled in Arizona, the highway called Bell to action with a combination of circumstances. It all started to fall into place when he was visiting a friend that ran the flashy Flying A station up on 14th Street. Bell was complimenting his fellow station man on the great setup when the proprietor jokingly asked if he wanted to buy it. For a second, Bell imagined himself pumping fuel under the glow of that fantastic sign out front and the hoardes of customers he could win over with his own brand of service. For the time being, he suppressed his excitement and shrugged off the inquiry.

A short while later, a company representative from the Tidewater Oil Company began to telephone Bell at home, each call bringing with it a progressively better offer to take over the station. When the deal finally got so good that he couldn’t refuse, he agreed. With his experience and personal insight on how to run a refueling business, he was primed and ready to take the reigns of super service station with one goal in mind: to someday, pull in over $100 per day from the rush of motorists plying the two-lane.

The Las Vegas of Gas Stations

With that monstrous marquee, it would be easy. A double-sided, two-hundred and nine bulb show stopping extravaganza featuring a swooping arrow lit with sequential flashers—there wasn’t another sign like it along the entire length of the Will Rogers Highway. Mounted below its dual, electrified arrows, blazing tubes of neon branded the ultimate selling point motorist’s brain: “Jugs Iced Free!” In an era when Thermadore air coolers served as automotive air conditioning and the words “cooled by refrigeration” sent chills up and down one’s spine, it was the perfect slogan to attract travelers inebriated by Arizona’s desert heat.

Luckily, part of the arrangement Bell made with the refiner was the cover the electric bill. It was a good deal, since the three story signpost sucked up more than $150 worth of juice in one month! From Memorial Day until the end of September, it shone without rest. Driving in from the outskirts of Kingman on a hot summer’s night—it appeared like a roadside apparition, one that belonged more on the Las Vegas strip than in the quiet community of Hilltop. Motorists were attracted to the Flying A Service Station as if Al Bell had installed a huge electromagnet and hidden it inside one of his garage bays. Vacationers, snowbirds, outlaws, truck drivers, and those in search of a new life out west were drawn in and stopped to get gas. During the summer, hundreds of cars streamed in for service, many coasting on fumes.

To the motorist, it was like entering the promised land of petroleum: Their were eight lanes and four service islands—each equipped with three gasoline dispensers. When a car pulled in, four young men dressed in white cotton overalls with their names embroidered on the breast pocket attacked the cars simultaneously. The first boy in bow tie asked the rehearsed line “Can I fill it with 100 plus Octane?” The second lad proceeded to wash all of the windows—the front windows, the side windows, the back windows—everything made of glass! Meanwhile, the third service attendant rushed to check the air pressure in all of the tires while a fourth pump jockey began checking the oil level under the hood.

California Bound and Jugs Iced Free

As the height of the American service ethic and gas station style was being played out on the concrete, Bell’s son, Bob (fully recovered from his wringer accident and an active little leaguer) sprinted to the drivers side window and asked the burning question that was on everyone’s mind: “Got any jugs you want iced?” A heavy-duty York ice machine cranked out the precious cubes at the rate of 450 pounds a day, providing steady work for the younger Bell and a means to save money from tips. He was only nine years old when he began toting the frozen crystals to the customers and worked the Flying A every season until he was out of high school.

Bob Boze Bell recalls those busy days with fondness: “What was amazing about working at the station was that everybody in the 50’s and 60’s was bound for California. Many thought it was the promised land out there—you could see it in their eyes. They would come out of their cars—and it would be July in Kingman with a temperature of 103 degrees outside—and they’d ask how far it was to California! I’d say about 60 miles. They’d say: Oh, thank God! Well, I didn’t have the heart to tell them that 60 miles away was California, all right—Needles, California, the hottest place on the planet Earth, next to Death Valley, which was their next stop after Needles! Sometimes, I wished I could be there with them just to see the look on their faces when they crossed the border and realized it was 122 degrees outside!”

Working for tips from the customers he replenished with ice, Bob spent most of his childhood at the Flying A. Curiously enough, the pocket change paled in comparison to the goodies he picked up by other means. It seemed that every other day another customer would ask if he could trade gas for merchandise. “We’re out of money and we gotta’ make it to California” they all said. Of course, their cars were packed with personal belongings—items that suddenly became less important than a gallon of gas.

Bob’s dad was sympathetic to their plight and always found something he could use in exchange for a tankful. And more often than not, the traded items ended up in the hands of an appreciative ice-boy! The great highway brought in more stuff than could ever be imagined, including a set of World War II binoculars, cameras, a Bowie knife, drums, fishing poles … everything a boy loved. Ironically, the trunks of the passing automobiles became an extension of the junior Bell’s toy box.

Real Adventures in Pumping Gasoline

Still, the collection of merchandise was just a minor benefit of working the station. There was nothing to compare with the real-life adventures that were played out daily at the Flying A. Who needed television?

One afternoon, an actual police chase passed right out front. Bob was pumping gas at the time when he heard sirens approaching. He stood there with the filler nozzle in hand, watching the pursuit in progress. The cop in the cruiser, Floyd Cisney, was his little league coach and a part-time driver in the Kingman demolition derby! Cisney pulled up alongside the speeding car, passed it, and turned—forcing both vehicles from the road. “That part of Route 66 was a bottle-neck for stolen cars,” explains Bell. “Cisney held the record for nabbing stolen autos with 5,000 arrests to his credit … God—it was exciting!”

During a more serious brush with a criminal, Bob’s best friend lost his dad in a shoot-out. Sheriff Tarr was killed—shot in the stomach—at his inspection station on Highway 93, north of town. As Bell tells it, “There were some crazy kids who stole a car and were pulled over. Tarr asked them to empty their trunk and a gun was produced. He told them to give it up but they shot first. It was written up in Life magazine as a wild west shoot-out! During those three months of summer, the area around the Flying A was a wild place !” The roadside escapades had such an influence on Bob Bell that after his first year of work, he bought a book on the true west with his saved tip money. He became hooked on the excitement, and decided to make the subject his life’s work as an artist.

Hollywood Comes to Call

Even during slow times something interesting was always going on around the station. On a cold winter’s day in ‘61, Bob and his dad were sitting next door in the Tideway Cafe when a couple of curious characters pulled up in the lot. When the duo got out of their car, it was obvious to everyone that they were wearing beanies. They began acting strange, gazing around and holding up their hands to make a small frame—just like Hollywood directors do when they were scouting a good location for a movie. “I know they’re from Hollywood” piped the younger Bell. “I just know it!”

Al went outside to get the scoop and returned, informing everyone that they loved the layout of the station, the pumps, and most of al—the “Jugs Iced Free” sign. They wanted to put the Flying A Service Station in pictures! A short while later, a flick starring Cornell Wilde called Edge of Eternity debuted in theaters. According to Bell, “It was a real B movie about a death at the Grand Canyon, a real time capsule of the Kingman area” The station scene was shown on screen for a total of thirty seconds, showcasing the flashing ice sign, the station, and the Tideway Cafe.

Harry Tindle ran the attached Tideway in cooperation with the Bells. It was a classic diner without tables, just fourteen stools around a counter where people would sit and eat. “We worked together” explains Bell. “Somebody would come in and ask where they could get a good sandwich and I would say right next door. Somebody would ask Harry where they could get a tire fixed and he would say right next door! You gotta’ work together … we ran a real good business there.”

But it was more than just hype. Both operations provided the kind of service customers liked. “I’ll never forget the breakfast” brags the elder Bell. “Boy … he had a grill right in front where you could sit and watch him cook. He was sharp! Bacon and eggs, hash browns, toast, coffee—all for one buck!” With all the motels in the area and people always in a hurry, business was brisk—enough to afford Kindle a pink Cadillac and power boat! They were often parked nearby, potent reminders of an American dream come true.

Reaching the Goal of High Volume

In 1959, Al Bell grabbed the brass ring for himself when he reached his earlier goal of earning $100 per day. Unfortunately, the success proved to be a double-edged sword. When Tidewater Oil took notice of his substantial receipts, an inevitable ultimatum came from corporate headquarters: they wanted to re negotiate a part of his lease in an attempt to siphon off more of the profits. According to Bell, the refiner informed him that he was “makin’ too much money!”

When the talk of a rent hike elevated into a full-blown fighting match—Bell walked, taking his experience, know-how, and service station savvy right along with him. The luck of the highway was still with him, however: the Phillips Petroleum Company was opening a new refueling business in the Kingman area and they wanted him to man the pumps! Another operator took over the circuit breakers at the Flying A Service Station and—not surprisingly—it “went successfully downhill.”

Eventually, Phillips Petroleum bought out the Associated Flying A stations in the west and the winged trademark slowly faded into obscurity. But that wasn’t really important. The sixties were more than half over, the country was undergoing a radical change, and Al Bell was getting out of the gas station business. His legs were giving him problems and his doctor advised that he take a load off. Running a gas station was no longer as easy as it used to be. It would never be again.

A Way of Life is Bypassed

When the implementation of major freeways rerouted most of the traffic around the old businesses in Kingman, the classic pumping venues were relieved of their status as highway havens. The great river of automobiles once flowing along Route 66 was reduced to a trickle, and there just weren’t enough customers to keep all of the businesses profitable. As a result, many closed. Others transformed themselves to accommodate the changing business.

With the advocacy of Ladybird Johnson’s “highway beautification” program, it didn’t take long for the “Jugs Iced Free” sign to be dismantled. Sadly, no one seemed to mind that a colorful piece of Kingman’s roadside history was being destroyed. After the twelve gas pumps and other evidence of refueling were removed, a business selling pottery and concrete bird baths occupied the shell of the former superstation. The Tideway Cafe’s great grub, the snappy full service attendants, the gleaming rest rooms, the young little-leaguer running out to the cars, visions of a pink Cadillac, and tons of complimentary ice cubes had evaporated in the searing heat of the Arizona desert. The memories of Al Bell’s Flying A Service Station had faded fast, as transitory as the ripples in the pools of rain water collected in the decorative basins for sale along the road.

In 1947, Art Lacey opened a small, five pump filling station along Highway 99E in Milwaukie, Oregon. It was the same year he had his biggest—and his best—idea: Why not mount a full-sized, four-engined airplane on top of a roadside gas station business?

The Bomber Gas Station, Milwaukie, Oregon

When he heard that the military was scrapping a few WWII leftovers that never saw any active duty, he hightailed it to Oklahoma’s Altus Air Force Base to check out the grounded surplus. There, he laid eyes on the three-dimensional billboard he was dreaming of: a Lockheed B-29 Superfortress! When he learned just how much it was going to cost, he opted for economy. At the “bargain basement” price of $13,750, the slightly smaller (and just as impressive) B-17 model was really a much better buy.

With the assistance of some local farm boys, the craft was unpickled and readied for the journey home. There was only one problem: Lacey didn’t have a pilot’s license! During the war, he was an engineer and had garnered only eight hours flying time in a single engine craft. Despite this wrinkle, the reward of perching a full-sized bomber on a gas station was too great to let formalities tie him to the ground. Lacey would take the controls anyway.

Still, there were regulations to satisfy, so he plopped a flight cap on a mannequin and strapped it into the co-pilot’s seat! Despite the bravado, his first test flight proved unsuccessful and ended in a “wheels up” crash. His second airplane was a loss as well—totally trashed in a balls-out belly landing. Fortunately, both were written off to “wind damage” and a third ship was prepared for flight. With a little luck and a lot of prayers, it proved to be the charm.

This time, Lacey took a few extra precautions along with two pilot friends (real ones) with him. They got underway without a hitch, but had some harrowing encounters en route. A blizzard over the Sierra Nevadas was the worst, equaled only by missing the mountains by mere inches. At one point the team was so lost that they had to buzz a town in order to read the street signs.

Amazingly, they somehow managed to make it to Troutdale, Oregon in one piece. There, the last leg of the trip proved to be the most difficult. No one would issue a permit to move the plane across town! Having come too far to give up his grand plan, Lacey simply strapped the montrosity on top of four trucks and rolled it to the station site. The overwide load netted him a fine for ten dollars.

Compared to the future income produced by the station, the amount was laughable. In the decades that followed, the Bomber annihilated the competition and grew to become one of the nation’s premiere station attractions. At the height of its glory, a phalanx of forty-eight computerized pumps churned out motor fuel at the rate of five-million gallons per year! Lacey made a fortune.

Eventually though, even the Bomber ran out of airspace. On June 6, 1991, its flight plan was cancelled. Faced with a new wave of competition from quickie gas markets and a whopping cost of $250,000 to replace the underground storage tanks, Lacey turned in his wings. The famous “bomber complex” would continue to serve with its motel and dining facilities, but the petroleum pumping operation made famous by its static, B-17 Flying Fortress was to close its bomb bay doors for good.

Today, Lacey’s grandson, Jayson Scott, hopes to restore the old airplane to its former splendor. He’s formed a non-profit organization (The Bomber Foundation) to preserve the bombastic bomber and estimates a cool million to bring the old warbird up to specs. Plans are in the works to build a multi-faceted community center to house the vintage flyer and preserve it for generations to come. If all goes as planned, Art Lacey’s Bomber will remain to remind visitors both young and old of America’s most fantastic filling station—well into the 21st Century.

• See the Bomber Restaurant and Catering web site

“Wian plopped on some relish, and began stacking up a ridiculous caricature of the hamburger—a double-decked delight pushing burger creativity to the outer limits!”

The Big Boy Himself

Robert Wian learned the restaurant business the hard way.  When his father’s furniture business faltered during the early thirties, he took a job washing dishes at the White Log Tavern to help out.  Although fresh from high-school, it didn’t take long for him to become manager. His experience was soon rolled over into a better job at the Rite Spot, a Glendale eatery favored by Angelinos.  There, he learned all the rules of the eating-out game—realizing he had a growing desire to become his own boss.

When two elderly ladies considered selling out their ten-stool lunch counter on Colorado Boulevard, Wian saw his opportunity. Still, he had to make a painful decision: sell his prized 1933 De Soto roadster to get the bulk of the $350 asking price or pass over the deal.  It was a clear choice.  The car found a new owner and Wian got the money he needed.  The eatery was his!  He renamed it Bob’s Pantry and began to work the counter alone.

Members of Chuck Foster’s Orchestra adopted the Pantry as a late-night hangout and stopped in frequently after gigs.  High-school pals of Wian’s felt comfortable there, filling up with numerous hamburgers, gallons of Hires root beer, and packets of cigarettes.  One frosty night in February of 1937, bass musician Stewie Strange became bored with the usual midnight snack and uttered the historic question, now ensconced in legend: “How about something different for a change, Bob?”

Bob's Pantry, Glendale, California (circa 1934)

In a teasing mood, Wian was quick to accommodate.  He proceeded to cut a sesame seed bun into three slices and flipped two burgers onto the griddle.  While the meat sizzled, the band watched in fascination as leaves of lettuce and slices of cheese were readied on the sideboard.  Finally, the cooked patties were lifted from the hot plate.  Wian plopped on some relish, and began stacking up a ridiculous caricature of the hamburger—a double-decked delight pushing burger creativity to the outer limits. The band loved it!

A few days later, chunky Richard Woodruff wandered in through the front door.  He lived down the street and often came in to sweep the floor and perform other busy work for Wian.  Only six years old, he was already exhibiting a “Wimpy” sized appetite for hamburgs [sic]—with a stomach to match.  He figured out his own way to get ‘em and charmed both the lunch time customers and Wian with his plump physique and droopy overalls.  It came as no surprise to the regulars why Bob Wian christened his unique sandwich the “Big Boy!”

After a local cartoonist sketched a rendition of the urchin on a napkin, the tousled hair and chubby cheeks became a trademark adorning the front facade.  News of the great-tasting “double-deck” cheeseburger spread and within three years, Wian opened a second eatery in Los Angeles.  By 1949, he was franchising his sandwich (and its youthful mascot) to operators in a half-dozen states.  Meanwhile, a trio of his own Big Boy dinettes prospered. Featuring “snappy service” drive-in lanes and inside seating, their transitional design bridged the carhop era with the coming age of coffee-shops.  In 1964, Wian’s built his last open-air unit.

Bob's Double-Deck Big Boy Cheeseburger

A few years later, McDonald’s franchisee Jim Delligatti wanted to bring out a “new” idea for a sandwich when he remembered Wian’s tasty double.  During the fifties, he managed a West Coast drive-in and was impressed by the numerous imitators of the twin burger.  But whether whether or not he was influenced by nostalgia or his own imagination remains unclear … what’s certain is that he developed a close copy of the bi-level Big Boy.  Later, he admitted that the conception of this burger clone “wasn’t like discovering the light bulb—the bulb was already there … all I did was screw it in the socket.” Of course, no credit was given to Wian for his original creation.

Delligatti’s Big “Mac” was introduced nationwide at McDonald’s outlets in 1968.  The stacked sandwich was an immediate hit, soon accounting for nineteen percent of sales!  But, that was no surprise for Robert C. Wian, Jr.  His double-decked sandwich—created at the spur of the moment to satisfy the desire for something different—had already built a food empire.  Another variation on the theme couldn’t hurt.  He—and everyone else acquainted with hamburger history … would always know the Big Boy was Bob’s.

Back in the fifties, while cruisers were haunting the drive-in restaurants found along the loop, couples were finding entertainment in places that weren’t so brightly lit. With many of the same characteristics that made curb service so popular, the drive-in theater became a secondary destination for the mobile teen. There, the admission was affordable, parking plentiful, and the snack bars overflowed with popcorn and soda. Best of all, the audience could watch a movie in private, choosing to focus their attentions on the flickering screen or the person that was sitting next to them in the front seat.

Circle Drive-in, Waco, Texas (demolished)

It’s precisely the arrangement that Richard Milton Hollingshead, Jr. was working towards when he first began to experiment with the idea of an outdoor picture show. It all began during the height of the depression while he was employed as general sales manager for the Whiz Auto Products Company, his father’s company. Eager to develop his very own enterprise, he studied the purchasing habits of the public and came to the conclusion that there were a few basic things that people were loathe to live without. After the basics of food and clothing, movies and automobiles topped the list.

Inspired by the revelation, he began thinking about how these two obsessions could be combined. On a hunch, he positioned a Kodak silent movie projector on the hood of his car and focused the flickering beam on a makeshift screen that he nailed to a tree. To simulate the film’s sound, he positioned a small radio receiver behind the panel.

While seated in his car, he peered through the windshield and took stock of the view. He found the moneymaker he was looking for: movies-in-your-car! Hollingshead continued working on the details until he perfected a practical arrangement to patent and in June of 1933, opened America’s first Drive-In Theatre in Camden, New Jersey.

At first, Hollingshead’s unconventional motion-picture parking lot where “people could enjoy talkies in their car” was plagued with problems and was a little slow to gain acceptance. While the grand opening boasted a packed lot, the nights that followed saw a drop. Warm summer temperatures limited the attendance. Because three shows were scheduled for each night, there was some difficulty in clearing the lot after each screening, too. Eventually, these smaller kinks were smoothed out, leaving one hindrance that was painfully obvious: the quality of the films.

In those days, five of America’s top eight movie production companies owned most of the nation’s indoor movie theaters. At the same time, they controlled the channels of film distribution and instituted arcane rules that limited incursions from outside competition. All of their efforts went into marketing and promoting commercial product to run in their viewing outlets. As a rather unfortunate side-effect of this cinema oligopoly, the upstart drive-in operators that were threatening to siphon off some the revenues were required to hand over exorbitant fees for movie rentals.

Despite the many limitations that were imposed by those in power, the number of drive-ins boomed after World War II. In just three years, the one-hundred and two drive-ins that were doing business in 1946 had swelled to over 1,000 strong. By that time, the defacto consortium of production companies was fragmented by an antitrust suit that forced the majors to sell their theater holdings. Still, the industry remained relatively hostile and drive-in operators continued to cry for better films. Relegated to running stale product instead of first-run picture shows, the American drive-in became the bastion of the “B” movie and would remain so until the end of its glory days.

Strangely enough, the vast audience of American movie-goers didn’t seem to mind. The drive-in industry was spoon feeding them the idea of a “total outdoor entertainment package” and they were wolfing down every bite. Where else could an entire family pile into an automobile and be entertained with a minimum of hassle or expense? At last, invalids and the physically challenged had an outlet where they could see their favorite stars burning brightly up the silver screen. Since one’s own car provided the seating, overweight individuals who were concerned about the petite chairs at the indoor movie house were afforded new comfort. More important, young couples with small children were freed from baby-sitters. When they desired entertainment, they took the little ones along!

In some areas of the country, the “ozoners” were becoming so popular that the female portion of the teenage job market began to suffer economic hardship. In 1947, a small gang of six baby-sitters picketed the packed house at the Aurora Drive-In near Seattle, Washington to voice concerns about the family-style convenience. Toting placards that read “Down with drive-ins, more work for baby-sitters!” they made their feelings on family fun quite clear.

Despite the furor, the protest was one of the most short-lived in the history of the drive-in. Eager to silence the cries of foul, theater management appeased the disgruntled protesters with a complimentary movie and free hot dogs! As quickly as it had started, the revolt against the drive-in was forgotten.

Heinrich Geissler invented one of the first genuine prototypes of the non-filament lamp in 1856. To create artificial light, he used high voltage alternating current to excite the carbon dioxide gas sealed inside a glass tube. But there was one major drawback: The energized gas reacted chemically with the power electrodes, causing their deterioration. Eventually, pressure dropped and the depleted tubes began to sputter.

Sammies Bar-B-Q Sign, Fort Worth, Texas

A few years later, D. McFarland Moore, former employee of Thomas Edison, solved the pressure problem. His contribution was a device that replenished the lost gas as the electrodes broke down. He was so confident of the new light’s lifespan that in 1904 he sold his first commercial sign installation to the proprietor of a Newark, New Jersey hardware store. Filled with atmospheric gas, it was the precursor of the “neon” sign.

In France, Georges Claude continued experimenting with Moore’s tubes. Instead of using carbon dioxide, he substituted rare gases like argon and neon. When excited by high voltage, argon was found to glow a grayish blue, and neon a fiery red. He also introduced a corrosion-resistant electrode, registering the design patent in 1915. Now, neon-filled tubes held pressure indefinitely, paving the way for practical sign applications.

While visiting the Claude Neon Factory in Paris, car dealer Earle Anthony was wowed by the distinctive glow of this rarefied gas tubing and decided to exploit the colorful sign technique at his Los Angeles car dealership. In 1923, he installed two blue-bordered signs that spelled out the word “Packard” in searing orange script. This was neon’s American debut, and passing vehicles jammed the boulevard to get a closer look at them.

By 1932, the patent for the non-corroding electrode expired, clearing the way for neon’s spread—coast-to-coast. Free from restrictions, sign shops became numerous. Suddenly, roadside businesses of every description wanted neon signs. By the end of the thirties, the majority of gas stations, drugstores, and drive-ins were decorated with a rainbow of electrified color.

As its popularity grew, neon lighting was often incorporated into the design of commercial architecture. The rounded corners of Streamline Moderne were the perfect fit for tubes of glowing glass. Mimicking the speed and movement of passing cars, bright tubes of plasma swooped, swirled, and danced, reinforcing the architectural illusion of forward momentum.

Street side, advertising signs attained a new boldness. Hand-painted boards were transformed in attention-getting productions of porcelain-enameled metal and hollow glass pipe. As animated characters hawked product, swirling arrows pointed to food and fun. America’s roadside businesses flickered to life, a bold palette of electrified color lighting the way with a neon buzz.

Neon Museums:

The Museum of Neon Art - Los Angeles, California
The Neon Museum - Las Vegas, Nevada

Neon Art Links:

Plasmarama - The art & science of plasma art
Traveling Light 2000 - An Exhibition of Luminous Glass Art
GlassArtists.org - Neon Glass Art from assorted artists

Neon Appreciation:

American Sign Museum - Sign museum of Cincinnati, Ohio
Bourbon Street Neon Gallery - New Orleans neon signs, photos by Andrew Wood
Flickr Neon Gallery - Flickr group dedicated to neon, over 6000 pictures
Historic Neon Signs of Los Angeles - Amazing collection of neon images
Kilokat’s Antique Light Bulb Site - Collection of antique discharge tubes
Lost Highway Museum - Old sign collection in Pomeroy, Washington
Motels of the Southwest - Interesting articles and neon images
Neon Historic Photo Gallery - Neon sign photos, U.S. and Western Canada
Roadside Peek - Cavalcade of classic roadside neon
San Jose Neon Gallery - San Jose neon signs, photos by Andrew Wood
Tesla Memorial Society - Neon pictures dating to 1893
The Googie Gallery - Random retro sign pictures
The Neon Survey - Survey of the Vegas strip by University of Nevada
Vancouver Museum - A virtual tour of Vancouver’s neon lights

by Michael Karl Witzel

With its fervent aficionados, traditions, and wildly varying regional styles—each with its passionate advocates—barbecue is much more than a way of cooking meat: It’s a cultural ritual.

Barbecue Roadtrip, Published by Voyageur Press

A history as entertaining as it is informative, this book is the first to explore American barbecue’s regional roots. Nationally renowned food commentator Mike Witzel takes readers on an eye-opening (and mouth-watering) tour of the histories, techniques, culture, competitions, traditional side dishes, and classic hot spots associated with barbecue’s four major regionally based styles.

With hundreds of photographs and illustrations, print ads, signage, and more, this account offers a rich picture of American barbecue in Texas, North Carolina, Memphis, and Kansas City (home to at least 100 barbecue restaurants and the world’s largest annual barbeque contest). Pork or beef, sweet or spicy, marinated or rubbed, basted or slathered in sauce, cooked slowly or seared, over coal or wood chips, here are the styles from which all American barbecue is derived, in all their rich flavor and folklore.

For those who wish to do further research, the book provides a listing of top barbecue joints in all 50 states.

• Hardcover: 192 pages
• Publisher: Voyageur Press (October 15, 2008)
• Language: English
• ISBN-10: 0760327521
• ISBN-13: 978-076032752

√ Learn more about Barbecue Road Trip at the official web site

Barbecue Links by Region:

Famous Texas BBQ Joint
http://www.saltlickbbq.com/

North Carolina Barbecue Trail
http://www.ncbbqsociety.com/trail.html

The Lowdown on Kansas City
http://www.experiencekc.com/barbeque.html

Memphis Barbecue History
http://www.southernfoodways.com/oral_history/tnbbq/M00_index.shtml