Merrill Moore, former anchorman at WCYB TV, attempted for years to learn the truth about a purported military plane crash in East Tennessee during World War II. 

Eugene “Jeep” Jones, former chief engineer at WETB Radio and a friend of Moore, recalled hearing about a P-51 Mustang going down on Coffee Ridge in Unicoi County. The newsman’s first big break occurred in 1987 while working on a television story regarding the apple orchards on Coffee Ridge.

Merrill remarked, “The ridge was the location of many orchards in the early part of the 20thcentury, but over the years, hard times and high costs had forced most growers out of business. The theme of the story I was working on centered on the fact that only seven orchards remained. Brothers Harley and Merley Willis owned one of the few remaining ones. During the interview, I mentioned about the tale of the downed plane. Merley said, ‘You see that tree up there on the hill and that sunken area next to it? Well, that’s where the plane hit.’”

The two young boys were sitting on their front porch one afternoon during a severe rainstorm and heard what they believed to be a truck out of control. Suddenly, an airplane descended through the fog, crashed and exploded within 200 feet of their house, sending a ball of flames across the field and setting their barn on fire. As the boys ran to put out the blaze, they unexpectedly spotted the slightly injured pilot, a Lt. McKinsey, floating earthward in a parachute.

A thorough investigation by Army personnel ensued over the next three days. The aircraft was determined to be P-39 Bell Airacobra plane. Additional facts about the event occurred in August 2002 while Merrill was working at the Appalachian Fair. Ms. Helen Edwards, who grew up in Coffee Ridge, recognized the popular TV newscaster and began talking with him.

Merrill questioned her knowledge of the crash: “She said her mother kept a journal on everything that happened and felt she surely would have written something about it. She promised to go home and try to find it.”

True to her word, the lady returned to the fair a couple of days later and handed Merrill a piece of paper. She had located the journal containing this handwritten entry: “An airplane crashed in Jasper Willis’ field on June 17, 1943. It was a P-39 pursuit plane with a pilot. He bailed out in his parachute. As he left the plane, he hit his arm and broke it twice. He was taken to the hospital in Johnson City, Tennessee. Horace Higgins took him to Erwin, and an ambulance took him to Johnson City. The pilot had started from Charlotte, NC, headed for Knoxville, Tennessee. The plane had four machine guns and one cannon. The plane was blown up and the propeller and cannon were driven seven to nine feet into the ground.

“Government officials arrived on June 18 to guard it until the truck and wrecker came from Charlotte. On June 20th, they picked up what they wanted to get and pulled the propeller and cannon out with a winch. The first plane to crash on Coffee Ridge Creek, 14 miles south of Erwin. Written June 20th, 1943.”

Mystery solved. 

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Today’s modern I-26 highway between Johnson City and Asheville is a far cry from the narrow winding old highway 19/23 of yesteryear.

John Hughes, a retired Johnson City bus and truck driver drove a Queen City Trailways bus across this treacherous mountainous terrain daily between 1946 and 1948: “I began my route in Bristol each morning around 8:00, traveling through Bluff City, Dead Man Curve, Bullet Hollow, Elizabethton, Johnson City, Unicoi, Erwin, Ernestville (traveling across a single lane bridge), Flag Pond and Mars Hill (stopping for a 15-minute break), before arriving in Asheville some five hours later. My pay was a little over $73 a week for a six-day work week. No one every tipped me; that just wasn’t done then. I wore an impressive looking dark beige gabardine uniform with maroon stripes, tie with pin and a cap with a bill.”

John said that it was commonplace for people to get motion sickness during the long curvy jaunt: Initially, I had to detour up a gravel road to Spivey Mountain and back across Tilson Mountain. Meeting another vehicle on this narrow road meant stopping to allow one to squeeze past the other. Passengers wanting to depart the bus signaled me by pulling a buzzer cord located along each side. My job responsibilities included carrying a rate book, figuring people’s fares, cutting tickets, taking money and dispensing change. Best I remember, it cost about $1.75 to ride from Johnson City to Asheville.” 

John chuckled when he recalled stopping near Flag Pond to pick up a young boy and girl sitting on the side of the road. The youngsters, dressed in Easter outfits and carrying a basket, handed him a dollar and asked him to take them down the road to Aunt Louise’s house for an Easter egg hunt. 

Hughes said that he failed to return home only once in his three years of service: “The bus got through ice and snow pretty well because it was heavy and the engine was in the rear. There was a small hand ax mounted next to me on the side of the bus for the purpose of beating out windows and freeing passengers should the bus turn over on the door side.”

John stated that his vehicle occasionally became so full of passengers that the company had to run a second bus, a Fitzjohn, following behind as a double: In the early days if the bus had a flat tire or developed engine trouble, I had to flag down someone on the road and ask them if they would locate a phone and call the company to request a service crew. After dropping off my passengers at Asheville’s large busy terminal, I had about four hours of unpaid time before starting my return route. Trailways rented rooms for us at the nearby Earle Hotel. I left Asheville shortly after 5:00 and got back to Bristol usually around 10:20, making for a long day.”

In September 1984, John retired and was recognized for working 54 years without having a single accident. Asked how he accomplished this amazing feat, the seasoned driver answered without hesitation: “The good Lord above looking down on me and the drivers down here dodging me. The Lord had it all planned that way.” 

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Five rustlers rode into downtown Johnson City on a late 1959 afternoon, firing their weapons carelessly into the air. The rein of terror ended abruptly when the alert local “sheriff” apprehended the gang, averting a potential tragic incident.

This event was not as ominous as it appeared. The bandits were not on horseback or in a car; they were traveling by “shank’s mare” (on foot). The guns they were toting contained water, not bullets. In reality, it was a harmless prank that went awry. The five outlaws were sophomores at Science Hill High School.

I must confess that I was one of those desperados; I will not disclose the identity of the others so as to protect their “innocence.” School dismissed at 3:15 each afternoon, the same time our bus left the city depot, making it impossible for us to get to the Boone Street bus stop on time. With idle time on our hands, we sought ways to entertain ourselves before catching the 4:15 bus.  Sometimes we snacked at one of the local downtown cafes or bowled at the Johnson City Bowling Alley on Spring Street.

On this memorable afternoon, we stopped at Kress's and purchased water guns, mine being a bright yellow one. After filling our pistols at their water fountain, we exited the store onto Main Street. Our escapade began as harmless fun; we starting spraying each other with water. Our walking soon escalated into running, as we dodged each other’s water barrage.

We began bumping into and wetting a few locals who happened to get in our way. We were having a refreshingly good time. As we rounded Fountain Square toward the depot, we ran smack dab into Rodney Rowlett, a city police officer, who was on patrol. Officer Rowlett sat us down on the curb in front of the bus depot and confiscated our weapons. He told us to bring our parents with us to police headquarters on King Street if we wanted them back.

The sheriff then advised us to start behaving as adults, cautioning us that any future occurrences would have dire consequences. We humbly apologized to him for our actions and abruptly boarded our bus for home, vowing to one another not to tell our parents about the sordid incident. The Johnson City Press-Chronicle carried the occurrence the next day as a front-page news story, praising the heroic efforts of “Sheriff” Rodney Rowlett.

Let me turn the clock ahead thirty-two years to April 1991, while I was working for Tennessee Eastman Company. The company newspaper printed a story about a security guard, Rodney Rowlett, pursuing some intruders inside the plant fence. I couldn’t believe my eyes; could this possibly be our Sheriff Rowlett?”

When I contacted him, he laughingly acknowledged that he was indeed the infamous sheriff, remembering the episode because of the humorous newspaper clipping. After I inquired about my water gun, he purchased and mailed me a new yellow one. I still have our letters of correspondence. I planned to bring my new water pistol to his retirement party in 1993, but that never occurred. Sadly, the good-natured “sheriff” passed away in May 2003.

    

Rodney’s yellow gun is now a cherished reminder of yesteryear when five mischievous high school students “terrorized” downtown Johnson City.

  

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The Windsor Hotel still shines in the memories of many area folks. A 1909 advertisement spoke of the former establishment as the “handsomest furnished hotel between Richmond and Chattanooga.”

A 1913 photo engraved envelope reads, “Hotel Windsor, Up-To-Date Modern, Centrally Located, Harry L. Langel, Proprietor.” A billboard painted on an old barn in the 1920s proudly proclaimed, “Windsor Hotel, Streamline Suites, $1.15 – $2.25 per night, R.A. Preas, Manager.”

The three-story brick Windsor Hotel was all this and much more, catering to passengers traveling on one of three railroads lines operating in the city. The large 11,961 square foot edifice stood along the railroad tracks on Fountain Square opposite the future city bus station on the east and the Piedmont Hotel to the north. A city trolley whisked briskly by the enterprise several times daily, providing convenient transportation for guests.

In 1906, J.A. Dennis owned land along the railroad tracks just south of Main Street. He sold it to H.W. Pardue who built a hotel on it in 1909, bearing his name. The Pardue name was spelled out on the brick along the top north and east sides and remained there even up to the day it was demolished.

Dr. James Preas, a local physician, eventually acquired the facility and changed its designation to Hotel Windsor, eventually leasing it to a Mr. W.W. Westmoreland. The business in time became known as the Windsor Hotel. The popular hostelry became a favorite spot for traveling business personnel, special events, honeymooners, political and social conventions and other gatherings.

The Windsor had 50 rooms, 14-inch thick walls and was the only inn in town with an elevator. The internal (non-face) bricks were fabricated in a shop on Water Street. Standard items in each room included steam heat, hot and cold water, private baths and telephones. Amazingly, the original patterned ceramic tile lobby floor served patrons throughout its 62-year existence. The foyer once even sported a small zoo.

The decorative ballroom and dining room on the second floor became the hub of activities. The newly formed Rotary Club used the facility in 1915 with local furniture dealer, Bert Pouder, serving as its first president. Three years later, the Kiwanis Club came into existence with insurance and real estate businessman, Joe Summers, as its leader. Notables who stayed there included William Jennings Bryan, three time presidential candidate and secretary of state in President Woodrow Wilson’s cabinet.

Those were the days of two-way traffic on Main Street. Anyone traveling west would notice the Windsor sign immediately after they passed the old post office (now WJHL building). The unique thing about it was how each letter in the hotel name was lighted one after the other: W – WI – WIN – WIND – WINDS – WINDSO – WINDSOR. After the word was fully lit, all seven lights went off, flashed back on, went off again and then repeated the sequence in like manner. A large white sign with black letters sat on the roof of the hotel facing east until the 1950s.

In the years before its demise, the Windsor offered patrons low budget accommodations. Sadly, the old hotel was razed in the summer of 1971 along with the Arlington Hotel, Fountain Square Hotel and several adjoining structures as part of the city’s urban renewal efforts. 

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In a previous column, I described Spurgeon’s Island near Gray, TN as having been a popular “lovers’ lane” of yesteryear. Kathy Reed sent me a September 25, 1936 Johnson City Beacon newspaper clipping bearing the title, “Gray Station Folk Hearing Again of Miracle of 1901.” 

The account referenced a yellowed-with-age June 13, 1901 Johnson City Staff newspaper article, saved by Mrs. George Bowser, concerning a May 21 destructive flood around Spurgeon’s Island. On that momentous day, nine people were on the island, including Professor T.C. Garst, who was setting his fishing lines just below the confluence of the Watauga and Holston Rivers.

Those present noticed that the waters of the Holston River were rising quickly but saw little cause for alarm. However, the gravity of the situation soon became apparent when the men became fully encircled on the 25-acre island. One individual, Clinton Woods, had his boat with him. He hastily put his group – Charles Martin, David Denney, Abraham Hale and Alex Berry – into his craft and slowly and treacherously steered it to the mainland.

The four remaining individuals – Garst; Robert Berry and his ten-year-old son, Fuller; and William Hale – made camp, built a fire, ate supper and anxiously waited for the floodwaters to recede. By nightfall, the rising river forced the fishermen to relocate their campsite to higher ground. Before long, they were forced to take sanctuary in nearby trees; the nightmare was about to begin.

The Beacon vividly described the enormity and horror of their precarious tree clinging experience: “The waters continued to rise higher and higher, forcing them to drop into the flood and swim for other trees, which they heard and saw dimly as the raging howling flood swept most of the trees up by the roots and carried them away. They heard the horses neigh – then drift away to their death in the swirling stream. The hack, tied first to a tree, was also washed away. There were deafening crashes; trees sped by; debris, driftwood, logs, even houses, came down with the flood, and crashed against the cliffs opposite them. It was toward morning when a jamb of logs and drift above them broke. It was wedged across the river. With a thundering blast, it broke, but providence intervened, and sent it to the right and left, barely missing the tree where the four men clung.”

Twelve more hours transpired before the river began to recede. A woman standing in the doorway of her mud-splattered home suddenly spotted the exhausted sportsmen. Soon, a crowd of spectators and rescue personnel arrived on the scene; the weary quartet was quickly transported to their homes.

The newspaper continued: “Professor Garst devoutly considers their rescue a miracle. He refers to the prayers they sent up from their perilous perch during the moments when it seemed all was lost. The old legend is still there. There are some other trees growing there, some few that were left from the torrents of that night, in whose branches someway, something – undoubtedly a Divine Providence – found safety through that night of terror – and live to tell the tale.” 

Thanks to Kathy Reed, a miracle that occurred over a century ago at remote Spurgeon’s Island can now be retold to a new generation of area history lovers.  

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A post-WWI song of 1919 contains these old-fashioned courting lyrics: “Lovers’ lane is crowded again; Under ev'ry tree, loving pairs you see; Most ev'ry night lovers come there to woo; The boys teach the girlies how to parlez-vous.”

Melba Jones asked me to do a column about Spurgeon’s Island, a once popular 25-acre “lovers’ lane” hideout that was situated along the Holston River just below the present location of Boone Dam. Mrs. Jones has haunting memories of this idyllic piece of land when it was a popular attraction to the nearby youthful populace.

What made the island so attractive to the younger crowd was that it was situated in “no man’s land.” The area was located in Sullivan County, but there was no direct access to it from that county, requiring deputies to first cross into Washington County. The latter’s patrol force had no jurisdiction over the locale; thus, the region was essentially unsupervised.

Clint Isenberg offered some comments about the island: “Coming from Johnson City on old Kingsport Highway 36, you turned right onto Spurgeon’s Island Road just before you got to the Airport Road (Highway 75). The location of it was about a mile and a quarter down this road. You crossed over Cedar Creek on your way. Water from the upper point of Holston River flowed to the lower part, forming an island or sleuth. The island got its name from a Spurgeon family that once owned the property; a Gray family later acquired it. I remember people taking watermelons there for an outing. We put out trout lines and caught fish. The lower point was an ideal spot for swimming.”

Clint remembers one humorous incident. A boy decked in a suit and wearing a straw hat was showing off in front of a multitude of spectators by swinging on a grapevine over the river. The lad abruptly lost his grip and fell into the river. He quickly swam ashore while his hat floated down the river, all to the amusement of the crowd.

Dot Haugh and her sister, Jean Moore, expressed their fondness for the trendy area. Mrs. Haugh commented: “We would go there on Sunday afternoons for a picnic. Several of us packed a lunch of hot dogs or other food, spread a blanket on the ground and ate dinner there. It was such an enjoyable place. The island was a fun place to go with friends of your own age. I remember that there was a lot of courting going on most of the time. People went there so often that they began to become acquainted with one another.”

TVA had an option on the land, which was eventually exercised in about 1948 to build Boone Dam just above the island. A wastewater treatment facility is now  located where the popular recreational area once stood.

More words from the 1919 song: “Their hugs and their kisses thrill all the misses; As they never did before; Since the doughboys all came back from the trenches; There is not one bit of room on the benches.”

In another column, I will revisit Spurgeon’s Island and relate the “Miracle of 1901,” a highly publicized and long remembered dramatic flood and rescue operation that occurred there in May of that year.  

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The dense and overgrown lot at the northeast corner of Johnson Avenue and Knob Creek Road once contained one of the best blackberry patches in the vicinity.

The area was also my summer lair where I could vanish into a momentary world of peace and quiet. In 1956, much to my chagrin, this field became the residence of the George McCroskey family. George soon opened a new fast-food restaurant with the curious name of Biff- (acronym for “Best in Fast Food”) Burger at 1000 W. Market Street, about one block west of the old Pepsi Cola Plant.

The food chain originated in Florida in the mid-1950s, eventually providing investors with a prefabricated “Port-A-Unit” structure that contained the necessary apparatus needed to operate the new-fangled business. The restaurant later had a distinctive “W” shaped roofline containing a series of red, blue and yellow elongated diamonds along the middle front.

As I recall, there were no inside dining facilities or drive-thru provisions at the Johnson City business. The food chain was in close proximity to our house, allowing me to quickly pedal my bicycle there to purchase carryout food from their diminutive menu that included … Broiled Burgers 19¢, Cheese Burgers 24¢, Golden French Fries 14¢, Chicken ‘n Box $1.00, Shrimp and French Fries $1.00 and Thick Milk Shakes 19¢.

I generally ordered a burger, fries and a drink, occasionally plunking down an extra nickel to embellish my meat patty with a slice of American cheese. After munching down my very first Biff-Burger, I became captivated by the distinctive taste. What made these unique tasting burgers so delectable?

The enterprise utilized a “Roto-Broiler,” a small patented dual rack metal rotisserie. Its immediate success was rooted in a two-step process for cooking its signature product. The top rack, containing infrared heat coils above and below it, allowed about three or four 100% ground beef patties to cook evenly on both sides as it slowly rotated clockwise from left to right through the unit. Hot juices from the meat dripped onto the open-faced sesame seed buns on the rotating rack below, capturing the full taste of the burgers.

After a few minutes, the meat and buns concurrently exited the right side of the rotisserie, fully cooked and ready for a refreshing dip in the hot tomato sauce containing 27 secret spices. The product was then placed onto a hot bun, after which the order was fully assembled and dispensed to the impatient hungry customer. 

The operation appeared anything but high tech, but it worked to sheer perfection.The restaurant’s intent was to be more functional than aesthetic, focusing on what people wanted – reasonably priced tasty food. Patrons could observe the entire operation as their order slowly traversed the broiler. Watching the burger cook and being assembled was almost as enjoyable as consuming the broiled treat.

By the early 1960s, the Biff-Burger sizzle began to fizzle; most restaurants were sold to another fast-food franchise, Burger King. The sole survivor is a Greensboro, NC restaurant bearing the slightly altered name, Beef Burger.

The little flavorful saucy sesame bun burger might have rotated into that big rotisserie in the sky, but it is forever embedded in the taste bud memories of many area residents.  

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I received numerous responses from my Eddie Cowell article a few weeks ago. A few folks shared their memories of the once popular funnyman.

Don Sluder said he could write about the jovial jester for weeks, calling him the best radioman to ever hit the air in this part of the country: “We always started our mornings at home by listening to Eddie on WJHL; he was always entertaining. I remember his daily march around the breakfast table (similar to network radio’s Don McNeal’s “The Breakfast Club”). You could picture in your mind thousands of people pushing back their chairs and keeping time to the music.”

Merrill Moore said the clever jokester used this as a diversion tactic, allowing him to take a brief yet much needed break: “Eddie liked to alter record titles. One example was ‘To Each His Own,’ introducing it as the long-underwear song, “To Itch His Own.”

Don further recalled that one of Eddie's most requested records was a 1942 Spike Jones ditty: “Horsey, Keep Your Tail Up – Keep the Sun Out of My Eyes.” “Another reason for listening each morning (during icy weather) was to find out if area schools would be closed. There were times when, just for fun, Eddie would announce that they were closed when they really were not.”

Don further related that he later pursued a radio career and became a staff member for WCYB Radio in Bristol: “Was I ever surprised when I learned that Eddie Cowell was another staff announcer. At last, I had the privilege to get to know my radio hero. One thing he brought with him to Bristol was his famous fanfare recording that he would play before a big announcement. “Eddie had taken an old 78-rpm sound effects’ record that contained a normal short fanfare with trumpets. He recorded it over and over on an audiotape, making it last as long as he wanted.

“Many will remember his invitation to watch from the street as he told about sitting on the window ledge of the Reynolds Arcade Building where our sixth floor studios were located to eat lunch or stop at the bridge in Bluff City for a swim on the way to work.” 

Johnny Humphreys made a deposit from his memory bank: “I fondly recall him; all our family looked forward to his program in the early mornings. I can remember his machine gun sound effects. He would often have to (supposedly) use his gun on the large rats in the studio before he could begin his program. “My older brother Fred took me downtown one day, and I was fortunate to be interviewed (on the “Man on the Street” program) in front of the Majestic Theater. I was awarded a coupon for a free loaf of that wonderful smelling Honey Krust Bread.”

Phil White offered his memory of the famed airman: “I will always remember him carrying on a conversation over the air with a “cow” (a Cowell conversing with a cow). He would tip over a small round cardboard box to get a “moo” sound from it.”

The imaginative Eddie Cowell saga seems to be endless. If you have additional memories of this long-remembered radio humorist, please share them. 

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Readers of the August 17, 1929 Johnson City Chronicle would find few clues to the enormous financial havoc about to wreck the country in just over two months – the stock market crash.

This five-day “Newspaper of Character” sold for three cents with an annual carrier subscription rate of $7.00. The city’s population was about 36,000. The front page contained national and international headlines with not a single local news item, those being relegated to other sections of the paper. One large section, “Weekly Farm Number,” showed the importance of farming in 1929 with these two strong messages: “Don’t Raise Products You Can’t Sell” and “Give the Land a Chance to Work For You – Rotate Crops.”

An article, “Fire Alarm Caused By Flying Sparks,” told of a fire at the American Cigar Box Company, located on Cherry Street adjacent to the railroad tracks. My grandfather, Earl B. Cox, worked there about this time. The Austin Springs social calendar listed people going on vacation, individuals receiving friends in their homes and folks “motoring” to nearby cities.

One article described the destruction of a local 75-gallon moonshine still on Chimney Top Mountain, impounded from someone locally referred to as “King of the Moonshiners.” The fall fashion report called for “a revival of the curved feminine figure with a slender waistline, fullness at and below the hip lines and long and voluminous skirts.”

The sports page displayed the names of baseball legends, Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig, under the heading, “Yanks Trounce Tigers for 12 to 2 Triumph.”Of local interest, the Troupers from Johnson City’s Soldiers Home and the Mountaineers from Bristol were scheduled to play baseball the next day at home.

Two local bus schedules were displayed. The ET&WC Motor Transportation Company conducted trips to Asheville, Cranberry, Elizabethton, Bristol, and Erwin. Conspicuously absent was Kingsport. The Seals Coach Line advertised excursions between Johnson City and Appalachia, with stops in between.

Surprisingly, only two comic strips were featured: “Bringing Up Father” (with my favorites, Jiggs and Maggie) and “Polly and Her Friends.” There were ads for three downtown movie theatres: the Criterion, the Majestic and the Liberty. The Deluxe Theatre (later renamed the Tennessee) showed no listing.

Kodak’s Hawkeye Camera sold for 98¢; the size of the developed black and white prints was a mere 2¼ by 3¼. A two-quart hot water bottle was also priced at 98¢. Many of us can recall filling those wonderful bags with water so hot we would nearly burn ourselves until they had lost sufficient heat to become quite comfortable in bed. One interesting classified ad read: “For Rent – Garage space for one automobile at 615 East Watauga Avenue, $5.00 per month.”

The financial page offered one revealing clue to the impending stock market crash in an article that read, “Bulls Advance Many Issues To Record Levels.” People were in a buying frenzy driving up stock prices to record highs and paying for them on margin. The crisis came to a climax when masses of people began selling their overpriced stocks, driving prices down and leaving investors with little money to pay their debts. 

The relaxed reading of this August 15 newspaper would quickly be transformed into one of despair within just a few weeks. The country’s financial recovery would be painfully slow.  

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I have fond memories of taking Sunday afternoon drives with my family in our old 1950 solid black Ford coupe. As we “motored” through the upper East Tennessee, Western North Carolina and Southwest Virginia regions, we often encountered a series of small advertising signs along the roads.

“We're Widely Read – And Often Quoted – But It's – Shaves – Not Signs – For Which We're Noted – Burma-Shave.”

In 1927, the Burma-Shave Company launched one of the most unique and memorable advertising campaigns in history, enduring until 1963. The commercialization of the automobile allowed people to explore America’s cities and countryside, making highways fertile ground for advertisers. For 36 years, these modest signs were posted along roadways, becoming an icon of American life.

“On Curves Ahead – Remember, Sonny – That Rabbit's Foot – Didn't Save – The Bunny – Burma-Shave.”

Six (sometimes five) wooden boards with white lettering on red background were spaced about 100 feet apart along heavier traveled roads. Eventually, there were 7000 sets of signs, spreading into every state except those with terrain concerns – Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada and Massachusetts.

“Past – Schoolhouses – Take It Slow – Let The Little – Shavers Grow – Burma-Shave.”

Initially, these slogans were total sales pitches, but they soon became a source of entertainment with catchy rhymes, witty safety reminders and time-honored wisdom.

These non-offensive and cheerful adages brought the country through the depression and World War II, when people needed something to make them smile.

“To Steal – A Kiss – He Had The Knack – But Lacked The Cheek – To Get One Back – Burma-Shave.”

Clinton Odell, of Minneapolis, Minnesota, concocted Burma Shave, a brushless shaving cream, but the public did not readily accept it. The owner’s son, Alan, suggested a series of small roadside ads along major highways. The rest is advertising history.

 “Although Insured – Remember, Kiddo – They Don't Pay You – They Pay – Your Widow – Burma-Shave.”

The spacing between signs required people to wait a few seconds before being able to read the next word or phrase, the final one being the name of the product. The company, needing a continuous source of slogans, conducted an annual contest that paid $100 for each verse used. They received over 50,000 entries from would be poets. The little signs were not without their problems. Some were stolen or vandalized; hunters used them as target practice; small animals would chew on them; and horses found them ideal for back scratching.

“Train Approaching – Whistle Squealing – Pause! – Avoid That – Rundown Feeling! – Burma-Shave.”

The Burma Shave phenomenon came to a screeching halt in 1963, caused by escalating costs, declining sales and faster cars traveling on new superhighways. The little colorful signs had simply run out of gas. Most ads were gone by 1966; a few lingered until they were felled by the elements. The Smithsonian Institution wisely salvaged a set to preserve this unique piece of Americana.

Let me conclude by offering my own fabricated tribute to Burma Shave: “Little Road Signs – Long Passed By – You Were As American – As Mom’s – Apple Pie – Burma-Shave.”

Compose your own Burma Shave limerick and send it to me. 

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