I woke mid day, groggy and thinking of Boo. I dove into different VW books and went online searching for information that matched his condition. I found little to nothing, so I decided to perform a major tune-up in hopes of solving Boo’s problem.

It wasn’t but two days after we returned home that the VW mechanic from Grants Pass called to make sure I made it home. I told him we did and that I was getting ready to change the oil and adjust the valves. Hearing this he sent me a diagram that explained how to crank the flywheel in order to adjust the valves properly.

After changing the oil and adjusting the valves, starting points and idle, I replaced the oil in the oil filter, fuel lines and coil.

I started the engine and it sounded great idling, but would shake violently when I’d put it in gear and try to move. With all of the changes and checks that failed to deliver I went with my gut. I was itching to take off the fuel pump. It was just a hunch, but I believed this was where the fuel was being restricted.

I took the fuel pump off and found the problem staring me in the face; the fuel rod was bent and the plastic housing that holds the rod inline was cracked and chipped.

I took the bent and broken parts to a place that is fading in digital America, a specialty store for air-cooled Volkswagens where questions, concerns and the purchasing of parts are handled in person. I walked up to the counter holding the parts with clenched fists then laid the bent fuel rod, fuel pump and plastic sheath on the counter palms down.

The store clerk picked up the fuel rod, squinted, cocked his head and said,

“That’s to long.” He then turned around and walked to a shelf picked up a part and walked back to the counter and handed me a rod.

“This is what you need.”

“Can you tell if the fuel pump is damaged?” I asked.

He picked up the fuel pump walked outside, put it up to his ear and turned it over three or four times.

“Yeah, it’s still good, I can hear suction in there.”

I bought a fuel rod, plastic sleeve and gasket along with light bulbs and sockets for the dials and a rubber chrome window blade for the left window.

After installing the new sleeve and fuel rod Boo started up and drove as if he had just rolled off a factory assembly line. We drove up hills, on highways, and through the city. To ensure he continued to drive well I replaced the gear oil, breaks, packed and replaced the front bearings, then finished it all up with a wash and a wax.

There is something about driving Boo that helps me to relax. For me, driving an obsolete car in a tech obsessed society is a strange escape from the modern world.

He’s not the type of car you can just jump into and take off. It takes a bit of time to warm him up. His small engine keeps me from speeding and weaving in and out of traffic and has made me more conscious of the thing that people don’t have enough of; time.

When it’s hot outside I roll the window down or open a little glass triangle that swings horizontal in front of the standard window. When it’s cold out I pull a lever arm next to the emergency break that lets hot air in the cab from the heater box. Put it all together and you have functional simplicity at it’s best.

One day I was driving down the highway and a rock shot up from underneath a truck and hit my front windshield creating a crack in the shape of a small webbed circle.

A cracked windshield means little to most men, but to me it was a tale connected to bottles. It’s said a drunk Frenchman dropped a flask of whisky wrapped in cellophane. Upon impact the cellophane safely contained the sharp shards of glass. The epiphany turned into what today is known as safety glass, which was first developed by bottle baron Libbey and Owens.

Owens understood the importance of flat glass and its need due to the popularization and affordability of the automobile. Understanding the demand he perfected a machine that made more than flat glass for houses, but automotive safety glass for Ford’s Model A, making the company LOF (Libbey Owens Ford).

I was driving Boo back from Seattle on Interstate 5 when I felt his peddle flutter and a strong smell of gasoline. I looked out the rearview mirror and saw giant yellow and orange flames coming out of Boo’s engine. I took my foot off the gas peddle, coasted into the shoulder, lifted the emergency break, grabbed the fire extinguisher, ran around back and popped the hood to putout the fire.

A man pulled over and stopped in front of Boo. He got out of his truck and walked towards me while talking on his phone. I walked toward him as he yelled over the cars whizzing by,

“I GOT THE FIRE DEPARTMENT ON THE LINE.”

“OH, THANK YOU.” I replied, “BUT THEY DON’T NEED TO COME, I PUT OUT THE FIRE.”

“WHAT?” exclaimed the man.

“I PUT OUT THE FIRE.”

“HE SAYS THAT THE FIRE IS OUT…OKAY. SHE WANTS TO TALK WITH YOU,” then handed me the phone.

“HELLO?”

“Yes, a man called in about a car on fire,” said the dispatcher.

“YES, THAT WAS MY CAR.”

“Is it still on fire?”

“NO, I PUT IT OUT WITH A FIRE EXTINGUISHER.”

“So your car is not on fire anymore?”

“CORRECT, MY CAR IS NOT ON FIRE.” I then hung-up and handed the man his phone.

We walked to the back of Boo where the engine sat smoldering with the hood up.

“MAN, I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU PUT THAT OUT. I SAW THAT FLAME SHOOT OUT AT LEAST 30 FEET. I THOUGHT FOR SURE YOUR CAR WAS A GONNER.”

“30 FEET!” I replied.

“HELL, IT DOESN’T LOOK AS BAD AS I THOUGHT IT WOULD,” said the man.

“YEAH, I SMELLED FUEL THEN SAW THE FLAME OUT OF MY REARVIEW MIRROR. I TURNED THE IGNITION OFF AND COASTED OFF THE HIGHWAY, GRABBED MY FIRE EXTINGUISHER AND PUT IT OUT.

We exchanged a few more words before saying our goodbyes.

About 30 minutes later a fire truck pulled up and I explained to the Chief that I told the dispatcher I had put it out.

“YEAH,” he yelled, “WE DECIDED TO COME OUT AND MAKE SURE BECAUSE CAR FIRES ARE RARELY PUT OUT AND BY THE TIME WE GET ON SCENE THEY ARE NOTHING BUT A HOT PILE OF METAL.”

The firemen all got out and walked around Boo, then got back in their large red fire truck and drove away. As the tow truck driver was loading Boo the sun was setting in the west and when we reached my house to unload Boo a happy moon was rising over the hill in the east.

The next couple months were a tedious bore. In short, my insurance company paid for the damages to Boo, with exception to the carburetor because it was what caused the fire. Though Boo is now fixed he is the type of car that will never be without problems or care. He has taught me a lot, not only about cars but people. I still see cars as machines that are supposed to work for humans, but like many things that surround us, we internalize them turning something like an automobile into much more than a machine, but a complex extension of our self.

Just last week my wife and I drove Boo into the city and parked in a garage. When we returned I found that Boo’s battery was dead due to a slow electrical drain. As I pushed Boo towards a downward slope to jump-start the engine an older man seeing me enthusiastically asked if he could help. I accepted and as we pushed Boo I jumped in while rolling down the decline and away from the elderly man who I saw grinning ear to ear in my rearview mirror. I put Boo in gear, popped the clutch, turned the key and just like that…we were gone.

The post A Bug Named Boo (Part 4) appeared first on Modern Fossils.

By: Holland McGraw

As the sun was setting Boo’s pedal was fluttering. He would grow weak and just before puttering out regain strength and continue to roll down the highway. It was on the outskirts of Portland I stopped at an auto parts store and purchased a fire extinguisher. I wanted to ensure we did not meet the same fate as the man Texan and his red bug.

I had been anticipating Portland’s numerous narrow bridges and highway over passes that leapfrog over rivers and other bridges with little room for vehicles in distress. The first overpass I had to overcome reaches up into the sky as if it’s the beginning of a rollercoaster. I charged pressing the peddle to the floor in an effort to gain speed and momentum. At 60miles per hour Boo began to shake. At 70 he was shaking, rattling and making a sound WOOB…WOOOB…WOOOB…WOOOOB…

As Boo climbed the overpass he began to struggle and his engine skipped like a prop airplane in distress…Brrrrp….Brrrrrp….Brrrrrrp. With modern cars passing by at high rates of speed I felt like a jockey ridding a mule in the Kentucky Derby.

Reaching the crest of the overpass Boo floated over its rounded top as if we were silently gliding over the city of Portland with its glowing lights that reflected from the rivers below. The victory was short lived as we headed down Boo stalled. In angst I turned the key and pumped the gas and got Boo to turnover. To no avail I soon found myself on the narrow shoulder of an over pass.

Boo barely fit between the white line and concrete wall that keeps cars and things from falling below. The constant wind from automobiles and commercial trucks caused Boo to waver like a blade of prairie grass in the afternoon breeze.

I got out, went around back and lifted the hood. Again, the clear fuel filter had little fuel in it. There is something causing fuel restriction I thought. I sat on the curb and waited. I then got the starter fluid from the passenger seat, took the oil filter off and sprayed the fluid into the carburetor. I then ran to the front and turned the ignition….VRRROOOMMM said Boo shaking and rattling. I put the oil filter back on, let Boo idle a bit, waited for an opening as cars whizzed by and when I saw space…we were gone.

Down the overpass, over the bridges and across the Washington State line a feeling of tranquility set over me as I hugged the slow lane. It was just before the town of Castle Rock that Boo died. The gas gage dial was in the red marked with an R for reserve. It made me wonder if Boo was suffering from his recurring condition, or if the gas dial was inaccurate. I called roadside assistance and after a bit a tow truck arrived.

He was a young heavyset rosy-cheeked guy. A country kid with dark features, cowboy boots and dressed in overalls. I told the driver, “My bug more than likely just needs gas. I just bought it and I’m not sure how accurate the gauge is.”

He loaded Boo and drove me a few miles down the road to a gas station. I told him he should wait to see if I could get him started before leaving.

I filled up and turned the key. Boo came to life and the tow driver raised his hand to say goodbye. I didn’t get more than a mile down the road when Boo died. With every unanswered turn of the key my vision of driving Boo home and into my driveway began to fade. Again I called roadside assistants who told me that this would be my last service call. I assured them it was the only one I would need, as they would have to tow me home, a distance that was just under my 200-mile limit.

An hour later the same young man who towed me to the gas station was now towing me home. We got to talking and he told me he went to school and was certified as a diesel mechanic, but was unable to find work. He now filled his days and nights as a salaried tow truck driver for a wage that I cannot remember, but seemed criminal after hearing the number of hours he had to work. He drove both day and night at the ring of his phone and slept in shifts except for his two days off where he slept most of the 48 hours.

He explained the differences of a diesel engine compared to a gasoline engine.

“A diesel engine gets better mileage, requires less maintenance and lasts longer than a car that uses regular gasoline.”

“What’s the down side?” I asked.

“Well, the parts for a diesel engine can be twice as much compared to a petrol engine. Consumer vehicles, well heck a lot of people getting a new car every couple years, so diesel engine wouldn’t do’em any good.”

With all of the buzz in the media about a need for Americans to go to trade schools so they can become mechanics or nurses among other professions that are deemed useful in today’s economy, there I sat next to a certified diesel mechanic who made a living as a tow truck driver.

“Funny, I got my Masters in Library Science because of all the jobs that were said to be in that field. When I graduated the only job I found was as a transcriptionist. I worked next to a guy who was a registered nurse that couldn’t find a job in the field. When he did find a job as a nurse, he had to re-enlist in the Navy to get it.”

“Man oh man,” he said. “You always hear those nursing commercials, man oh man. Don’t stop talking to me, it keeps me awake.” So I told him some of the greatest stories that have never been told.

“Did you know that the modern bottle and light bulb are related?“

“No I didn’t, how’s that?”

“In the later part of the 19^th Century Thomas Edison had a contract with Corning Glass to make light bulbs. Well the workers at Corning went on strike and Libbey Glass House was hired to make the light bulbs. Libbey, the owner of Libbey Glass put a man named, Michael Owens, in charge of production. Well, Owens, seeing the light bulb making process had an idea, he created a small machine to simplify the work and speedup the process. He named the machine, “The Dummy.”

“Why did they name it, “The Dummy?” asked the driver.

“Because, “The Dummy” took the skill out of making the light bulb and enabled Libbey to hire les-skilled labor at a lower wage while at the same time increasing the production of light bulbs.”

“Dang, less for more, that’s profit right there,” said the driver.

“You’re right,” I replied. “Have you ever seen a cartoon where a character gets an idea and a light bulb goes off above its head?” I asked.

“Sure, I love Looney Tunes.”

“Well, “The Dummy,” gave Libbey an idea. It showed him that by implementing new technology to replace workers and increasing production, he could make more than profit…he could monopolize an industry.

With, “The Dummy” in mind, Libby created a separate business Toledo Glass Works for one reason: to make machines for the exploitation of glass. It was there that Michael Owens created the automatic bottle machine that enabled Libby to monopolize the glass industry.”

“How did they monopolize it?”

“Well, the automatic bottle machine was the key. After creating the automatic bottle machine, Libbey created another business, Owens Bottle Company, which had the ability to create and sell bottles at a price lower than their competitors. They then leased the automatic bottle machines out to different bottle companies only to later purchase the majority or controlling stock in those same companies.”

“So they were able to do all that with a bottle machine…huh?” Said the driver.

“Did you know that our war with Japan in WWII could be explained with a bottle?”

“No,” said the driver.

“Well, it can. In Japan they used a bottle that is referred to as a Ramune bottle; but the true name of the Ramune bottle is a Codd Bottle. It is named after the inventor, Hiram Codd, who is English; but I believe the bottle best represents the country Japan.”

“Why would an English bottle represent Japan?”

“Well, you see, the Codd Bottle is different than any other bottle you’ve ever seen. It’s designed around a marble, which is used as a seal that can be broken and resealed over and over…sigh…and over again. The United States stopped using the Codd Bottle in the 1930’s.”

The driver asked, “Well, why did they stop using it?”

“There were a couple reasons. The first reason is it was difficult to sterilize. The second reason is kids were breaking the bottles to get the marble out instead of redeeming them. So, little by little beverage companies replaced their Codd Bottles with bottles that use bottle caps.

Interesting thing about Japan is they didn’t have the luxury to solely use the crown cork cap and toss bottle cap because steel is expensive and Japan is a small island with few natural resources. They needed something that could be reused over and over again.

So, the use of the Codd Bottle in Japan helps us to understand their expansion in the 30’s into other countries for natural resources, which turned into what we know today as World War II.

But you know what the really interesting thing about World War II was?

“Well all of the battles and stuff?” exclaimed the driver.

“Yeah, well there is that, but another interesting fact about World War II is it is where the United States first began using disposable bottles, which was the beginning of disposable packaging in the US. With the defeat of Japan the Codd Bottle not only remained in Japan, it evolved.”

“What do you mean by it evolving?”

“It changed from a glass top that was difficult to sterilize to a plastic top where the top could be taken off the bottle, the bottle cleaned and replaced.

But do you want to know what is even more amazing than that?”

“Sure, What.”

“Well, remember how I told you kids in the US would break Codd Bottles to play with the marbles?”

“Yeah, I remember that.”

“Well, the playing of marbles in Japan started at the same time as the use of the Codd bottle in Japan. Kids in Japan were breaking bottles to play with the marbles just like the kids in the US. So, in the end, regardless of how different we look we’re all the same. The Codd Bottle taught us that.”

Talk and tales of bottles, bottle caps and other things considered trivial, simple, nothingness went on until about 4:00AM. The driver let out a yawn as we rolled up to my house. As he unloaded Boo in the driveway, I told him he could use the bathroom and sleep on my sofa if he needed to take a powernap.

“Thanks,” he replied, “but I need to head back. I enjoyed the bottle talk.”

As he pulled out of the driveway a hot sun was rising over a hill in the East. Boo sat in the driveway as I walked in the house and crawled in bed with my wife and dogs where I fell into a deep sleep.

To be continued.

The post A Bug Named Boo (Part 3) appeared first on Modern Fossils.

By: Holland McGraw

The road reached on and Boo was breathing in the cool night air of California’s central valley. The instrument panel light for the speedometer and fuel indicator did not work, so I had to use a flashlight to check my gauges. With that said I couldn’t complain. Boo was driving without problems, which made me think it was the hot air passing through his air-cooled engine or fuel restriction when going up an incline that was causing him to die.

I pulled into a gas station on the desolate stretch of highway and filled up. When I went inside to get a drink the young attendant complimented Boo.

“That’s a clean bug.”

“Thank you,” I replied.

“What year is it?”

“A ’72.”

The VW Beetle is a car that I have thought little of over the years, but it has slowly grown on me. When I was young and in high school, VW beetles were not all that uncommon. It wasn’t until recently that I began to appreciate their aesthetic appearance. The most interesting thing about this is that the car itself did not change, but everything around it has, making it look more attractive to me.

I drove through the night and stopped in the town of Corning, California at 3:00AM and rented a hotel room. In the lobby the weatherman was on. He was standing in front of a giant screen telling a story about the coming record-breaking heat wave with exaggerated arm movements. As I watched the chief meteorologist make pooling and sweeping motions with his hands and arms like a sorcerer casting spells, I came to the realization that I was in the middle of the perfect storm; an air-cooled VW beetle driving over the Siskiyou Mountains in 100 plus degree weather.

I only slept for two hours and woke around 5:00 to get an early start while it was cool out. I told Alisha to sleep in and assured her she would catch-up to me later in the day.

Walking out to Boo the sky was brilliant colors just prior to the sun making its appearance in the east. The air was a type of dry warm that hinted at the coming heat of the day.

I started Boo up and drove north. Driving through Redding, California, home of, Merle Haggard, a connection that is over a thousand miles apart and linked with a song and a thread.

The song, “Okie from Muskogee,” a city in Oklahoma where I washed dishes and cooked among other things in my late teens and early twenties. The thread, a “Sick’ em” t-shirt I sold to Merle’s bus driver at a venue he was playing.

Out of Redding and over the bridges of Lake Shasta was hair-raising as there wasn’t a shoulder to turn onto in the event of an emergency. As I ascended and descend through the mountain pass of the California, Oregon border Boo’s pedal began to give way. As he limped up the mountains with a speed that dwindled to 15 miles per hour just making the peak, only to stall on the descent from exhaustion.

Coasting down the mountain slope I would revive Boo with the twist of a key and pump of the pedal, just in time to tackle the next incline with all of the momentum and horsepower that he could muster.

We tangoed with the mountains for over an hour going back and forth, but finally, on a steep descent with access to a rest area, Boo died and could not be revived. We coasted into the rest area that lay at the bottom of a ravine. I called Alisha and gave her my location.

The early morning heat was upon us. When Alisha pulled up we decided to wait at the park. I was unsure as to the cause of Boo’s mechanical problems, but confident he would start again after a rest.

We laid out a blanket under a shade tree that was three feet from Boo’s stall. As we lay in the grass a man pulled in with his family to picnic. He walked up and told me a story in a calm, monotone voice.

“Wow…I used to have a bug just like that, but it was red. I was living in Texas and one day I was driving around…and it caught on fire. I didn’t have a fire extinguisher, but this guy in a truck pulled over and got an extinguisher from the back of his truck. He put the fire out and told me I had to buy him a new extinguisher, but I didn’t have any money. I was a broke teenager. Boy, that guy was angry.”

“Is it common for VW beetles to catch on fire?” I asked.

“Well, it does happen, I don’t know how often, but it does happen.”

I was debating as to whether or not I should have Boo picked up and towed to a garage or if I should keep playing the game of chance. While resting in the grass I’d occasionally walk over to Boo and see if I could get his engine to turnover. With every failed attempt at starting I began to lose hope, but just when I thought all was lost…he started with the turn of a key rattling and shaking.

We took off struggling over the steep mountain pass and Boo died as we entered the Rogue Valley. We coasted onto an off ramp and pulled over on the outskirts of Ashland, Oregon. Trees surrounded me, yet the heat of the sun broke through frying everything that was not shaded by the trees.

I opened my phone to call Alisha, but I didn’t have a signal. I walked around off the road and into ankle deep foliage until I stood at the edge of a cliff and got a signal.

“Hey, where are you guys?”

“We’re in line at an espresso stand getting something cold to drink.”

Alisha went on to explain that the cars AC was nullified by the heat of the day and the dogs were panting and in danger of overheating, all the while I was melting on the side of the road.

I gave her my location and asked her to find a local mechanic because my signal was either weak or nonexistent.

Alisha found a shop located at the far North end of town in an old gas station that was frozen in time. They sold gas but also fixed cars in a building that had 1960’s accents. Arriving with the tow truck I was informed by a heavy set man in a sweat soaked transparent t-shirt over the buzzing of a steel fan and whizzing from an impact wrench that it would be at least an hour wait time.

Tow trucks were bringing cars in one after another like medics carrying soldiers in from the battlefield. Mechanics stained in oil and drenched from the heat popped hoods, adjusted hoses, topped off radiators, gauged tires and diagnosed problems. Hours after I had arrived a mechanic called my name and brought me to the side of the shop under a makeshift shelter. He popped Boo’s hood and had me turn the ignition while he gave him a squirt of carb cleaner. With one simple turn of the key Boo came to life.

I jumped out and ran around to the engine,

“Could you tell what was wrong?”

“No, everything seems to be working fine,” he replied.

“It seems I have the most trouble when I’m driving up hills. I think it has something to do with the fuel being restricted.”

“Well, the hoses look fine. Sometimes the fuel hoses swell over the years, but yours look good and there is fuel in the filter.”

He continued to poke around and said, “The trouble is it’s hard to diagnose a mechanical problem when the car is running.” He looked at me and said, “We’re going to have to keep it over night to see what’s wrong.”

The thought of staying overnight and possibly longer was soul crushing, I had this strong internal urge to push forward and get home, like a settler from the past traveling on the Oregon Trail. I thanked him, but replied,

“I need to go.”

He refused to charge me because he wasn’t able to pinpoint and fix the problem, but I insisted he take $20.00 for his time and effort. With the shake of a hand and push of the pedal we were gone.

Cutting through the Rogue Valley the sun was setting. As we began to climb Boo stalled. I coasted into Grants Pass feeling defeated; life changes aren’t always a smooth or simple transition. Alisha and I got a motel room and found a local mechanic who would look at Boo the next day.

That night I walked to a gas station from my hotel room and bought two beers, a Miller High Life and a Sierra Nevada. I believe that contrast makes life worth living. How can you appreciate the good things in life when you’ve never had anything bad? Parched from the heat of the day the High Life was fulfilling. My body reacted to it like a dry sponge to water and though it is not good beer, for me it evokes feelings of nostalgia. To understand this read my blog, High Life. The Sierra Nevada, now drinking that was a thing of beauty, like an amazing sunset or fireworks on the Forth of July.

The next morning I contacted my auto service and they sent a tow truck out to pick up Boo. The driver was a heavyset man in his 50’s or 60’s. When loading Boo he had to open the driver side door to steer him onto the back of the truck.

Driving through Grants Pass I complimented the town on its beauty. We took a left turn and Boo’s door swung open. The driver quickly jumped out at the red light and secured the door.

“Gees, I sure am sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry, it’s fine.” I replied.

“This really is a beautiful town, have you always lived here?”

“For the last 20 years.” He replied.

“Has there been much change in the town since the recession?”

He went into a rant, “The problem isn’t the recession, the problem is people don’t want to start at the bottom and work their way up. Everybody thinks they deserve what people like me have got. Do you know what my first wage was?”

“No.”

“TWO DOLLARS AND TEN CENTS!”

Proving a point with a wage earned decades prior told me little about ones willingness to work or their hardships due to the wage. So I asked a question that would put his wage into context.

“How much did a Coke cost back then?”

His eyes widened and he straightened his back. I could see his brain reaching franticly for an imaginary number.

“Seventy Five Cents,” he replied in a smug tone as if it was a fact.

I smiled.

“You know, I’ve got this thing for bottles and history. I like to research the different beverage companies and collect artifacts from there past. I don’t get paid to do it; it’s just a strange hobby of mine. I recently learned that the standard price of a Coke was .05 cents for 70 years. They say that the last Coke that sold for a nickel was in 1959. It’s hard for me to believe that Coca Cola would go from charging a competitive price for 70 years to charging .75 cents when your two dollar and10-cent hourly wage was at least the minimum.”

“Well, you know I’ve always liked Pepsi, so I may have confused Coke with Pepsi.”

“Really, .75 cents for a Pepsi. Then a Coke would have probably been more than .75 cents because Pepsi has a history of being less expensive than Coke. Pepsi is one of the first companies to market a product to lower income Americans. They advertised Pepsi as the Big Nickel telling how they would get twice as much for a nickel compared to other beverages.”

We didn’t talk the rest of the trip. When we arrived at the mechanic’s house the driver joyfully jumped out of the rig and enthusiastically unloaded Boo.

The garage door was open and the owner walked out to greet me. I explained the problems I had been having. He sat down in the driver seat, turned the key and Boo came to life shaking and rattling.

I threw up my arms in defeat and said, “I don’t know what to say,”

“I’m going to take it for a ride,” said the mechanic.

Fifteen minutes later he was back and said, “It drove great, I’ll bring it inside the garage and check a few things.” He had two guys working in his home garage that he’d turned into a shop.

“So you’re up from California, huh. I used to live down there, had a large shop in Bakersfield.”

He pointed to some articles that had been taped to the wall. They were written about him for various VW and hotrod magazines in the ’80’s and ’90’s.

“I drove up here to visit some relatives in a baja bug and broke down twice. The first time I needed an alternator and the second time it was my carburetor. Once I saw this place, I knew it’s where I wanted to be. I went back, sold my shop, packed my tools and started one in town.

The recession took my shop, so I moved it into my garage and now we’re working out of it.”

I replied, “My wife and I run our photography business out of our house. The overhead of commercial property seems impossible.”

“Yeah, lately we’ve been building engines for customers and shipping them to Australia and other states in the U.S.”

“So, what are you doing up here?” he asked.

“I picked this bug up in San Diego while I was working and am driving back to Seattle.”

“Why didn’t you just rent a truck and tow it back?”

“Geese, where’s your sense of adventure. Not to mention I’d miss out meeting fine folks like you.”

He and one of his young mechanics started laughing. The young mechanic told me,

“I’ll be up in Seattle next summer. I’m in a band and we have a gig up there. We might need pictures, do you have a card so I can get a hold of you?”

“Sure.”

I reached down in the passenger seat and picked up a business card that was lying on top of my book, “Modern Fossils.”

“What’s that?” asked the assistant.

“It’s a book I wrote that explains changes in our society through glass bottles and conceptual art, you want it?”

“Sure,” he exclaimed.”

I handed him the book and he quickly flipped through the pages, “Of course the pictures are good?”

“Of course,” I replied.

“The owner of the shop pushed himself out from under Boo slapped his hands together to knock the dust and dirt off and gave me the total.”

I shook hands, said thank you, and gave him an extra 20.00 dollars. “This is for you guys to get a beer together after work.”

They were all jazzed about the prospects of beer after work, in the assistant’s words, ”20.00 dollars, that’s good beer!”

“Yes, that is good beer,” I replied. I pulled out of the driveway and cut through the mountain pass. After about two hours of driving Boo’s pedal began to flutter. We headed off the main highway and onto a side road heading north.

To my amazement the road ended at a river and we had to take a ferry to cross. A service that seemed both primitive and surreal with steel cable that acted as a guide from bank to bank. It had to be one of the last of its kind in the U.S. Crossing the river made feel as if I were a modern day Huck Finn on an unplanned and strange adventure with his wife and dogs.

Off the raft and driving North Boo died on the outskirts of a small college town just south of Portland. We coasted into a neighborhood and stopped along a curb and under the shade of a tree. I popped the hood and the engine looked as it always had.

Across the street a man walked out of his house looked at me, cocked his head and walked back inside the house. Boo and I were in an old 1950’s track development one house after the other, but unlike California’s post war homes these had a yard with trees, green foliage and that North West charm. In the front yard was a 1970’s VW camper bus that sat underneath the shade of a tree.

The man walked out of his house again and stopped where the grass meet the curb.

“Hey, how’s it going,” he yelled from across the street. He was a heavyset man and stood about 6’ 1”.

“Been better,” I replied.

“I’m having trouble with my bug.”

“Oh, well my buddy Psycho, he lives in that bus under the tree there, he’ll probably take a look at it. He can fix anything.”

“That sounds great,” I said.

About five minutes later a guy who stood about 5’ 8” with short spiked black hair came out in the front yard with a plate of food and sat next to the bus in a lawn chair and started eating.

Alisha pulled up next to me and I told her about the prospects of having someone look at Boo, but felt confident he would start up again either way.

The man eating his food stood up and walked to where the grass meet the curb and said, “I’ll have a look at your bug as soon as I’m finished eating.”

Ten minutes later, Psycho had his hands in Boo’s engine telling me to turn it over; all the while his buddy who owned the house periodically came out to talk with us. It became apparent that Psycho’s friend was intoxicated as his words; behavior and body language became increasingly distorted with every visit from the house.

“Oh…puppies! I love doggies,” he exclaimed.

He went over to Alisha’s car and began petting Dottie, Coco and Rocket through the window.

“Hey if you guys can’t get it started you can bunk at my place…hahaha.”

“Oh no, we wouldn’t want to impose on you. If Boo doesn’t start we’ll get a hotel room for the night,” I assured him.

His odd behavior created an uncomfortable tension and his friends name, “Psycho,” made everything all the more strange in the 1950’s picture perfect neighborhood that now had a Steven King like twist.

I looked down at Psycho shaking his head. He pulled out a plastic flask filled with a liquid of some sort and took a swig. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt and believe he was drinking an herbal tea of some sort, but people don’t swig tea.

“He gets like that and I can’t control him.” Said Psycho.

“I’ve tried everything, I’ve even videotaped him so he can see how he acts, but nothing works.”

We were about an hour south of Portland, making us four hours from home. I told Alisha that she should go home and I’d call her when I was on the road, there was no need for her to stay any longer.

She agreed and left for home. When I returned to Boo, Psycho told me to turn the key and step on the gas. Boo came to life.

Psycho walked over to the window.

“We can’t work on your car here, my friends a mess and he’s just going to get worse. My mom’s house is just up the road. I have some tools up there where I can check your car out.”

We drove about four blocks and parked outside an older white house that was built some time in the 1920’s or 30’s. As he began taking apart Boo’s carburetor he told me his story. He joined the Army and was stationed in the Midwest where he married and had children. After the Army he worked as a VW mechanic and eventually bought his own shop.

“Yeah, I got into Volkswagens because I believe in them. These cars can run forever if they’re treated rite and cared for. A lot of times mechanical problems can be fixed without buying a new part, they’re made to run.”

“In the end it was this church, we went to this church,” He started shaking his head. “They started telling us how to live…this and that; it all just fell apart, now I’m back where I started, home.”

“I got to ask, how did you get the name, Psycho?”

“Psycho, it’s my stage name.” He’d been working as a TV show extra during the day and moonlighting as an exotic dancer at night.

I looked down and Psycho had disassembled my carburetor and laid it out on a rag.

“See that, that’s enough to give you problems,” He found some carbon in one of the steal fittings, cleaned it out and slapped it back together. I thanked him and reached for my wallet pulling out $40.00. Psycho shook his head and said, “I’m good, you don’t need to pay, hell, I don’t know that I even fixed anything.”

“Well, you may not have fixed it, but you’ve spent over two hours working on my car, I really appreciate it.”

Then Psycho said something I will never forget.

“People should help each other.”

“I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” I said.

“I’m not a rich man, I don’t have a lot of money, but you’re living in your friends front yard and I think this money could help you out. It’s not like I’m giving you a gift because you just spent more than two hours trying to help a total stranger with engine trouble.”

With the exchange of money sealed with a handshake I headed North in the setting sun with visions of a happy homecoming to my wife, dogs and a moon that greets me as it rises over a hill in the East.

To be continued….

The post A Bug Named Boo (Part 2) appeared first on Modern Fossils.

By: Holland McGraw

Americans are mad about automobiles. Many believe the car they drive is a reflection of them selves, others see it as a means of transportation. One day, I was watching cars from the inside of a bus and noticed jacked up Monster Trucks made to explore desolate places and sports cars designed to travel at high speeds, stuck in traffic. Automakers have fooled people into working for machines through illusions of grandeur and success when all the while it is the machine that is supposed to work for people.

Henry Ford is known as the man who popularized the automobile by making it affordable for the common man to purchase. He added neither frills nor illusions of individuality with the Model T stating, “Any customer can have a car painted any color that he wants so long as it is black.” It was the Dodge brothers who made the American car a status symbol. They built cars that were souped-up and slick, with a little of this and a little of that, at twice the cost of Ford’s Model T.

Fast forward more than a hundred years and you get a modern car that practically drives itself with radio’s, TV’s, computers and maintenance costs that will keep you working the rest of your days.

Refusing to modernize I traveled back in time and purchased a 1972 VW Beetle while in California on a 2014 photo tour with my wife Alisha and three dogs. An automobile built to be affordable, yet simple enough for the driver to be the mechanic. This was the beginning of my transformation to both driver and mechanic. As a measure of good luck I named my bug Boo; a nickname I used to call my Boxer who recently passed.

As I began my drive back to Seattle I immediately realized the complexities of driving an older vehicle on a modern road. It’s not that the roads are any different, if anything they have gotten better. The problem is that the superior performance of modern vehicles give drivers the ability to accelerate, stop, and maneuver while talking on the phone, drinking a coffee in one hand and steering with the other; all at a speed of 80 miles per hour.

Boo the Beetle tends to shake and rattle as if he is about to get a treat when the speedometer hits 65. I came to the realization that the Volkswagen beetle is a car that takes two hands two feet and all of your senses to drive amongst the swarms of shiny plastic cars that franticly swerve, stop and accelerate on a dime.

Driving back to Seattle, Washington from San Diego I stopped to say goodby to my sister and her family in Orange County. After a short visit they followed me out. As I started up Boo, he quickly puttered out not once, but four times. I looked up over the steering wheel at my sister holding the hands of her two children; she raised her eyebrows and flashed worried crooked smile. On the 5the turn Boo came to life rattling and shaking.

“It was just a little flooded?”

I yelled out the window…

and just like that we were gone.

Driving North through LA on the ever changing 405 freeway I couldn’t help but think about the construction workers who have spent a lifetime working on a highway that never seems to be finished. My father first drove I-405 in 1963 when it was a brand-new and simple 4 lane highway. Today the Los Angeles I 405 expands and contracts between 4 and 6 lanes, but I have no doubt that this concrete monster will continue to grow well into the future.

The 405 turned into the I-5 and it was around the second Los Angeles aqueduct, where a large pipe runs down the side of a mountain that I felt Boo begin to falter under the gas peddle. Fearing the inevitable I steered Boo out of traffic and onto the side of the road where he died.

Looking up at the aqueduct I couldn’t help but think of the stories, scandals and wealth that revolved around the water that rushes down from the Owens Valley Reservoir to feed the ever-growing city of Los Angeles. The movie China Town staring Jack Nicholson is a great movie about water and the history of Los Angeles.

I called Alisha who was just ahead of me and let her know where I was; I could only hear every third word she said over the LA traffic.

“HELLO…HELLO…BOO BROKE DOWN.”

“WHAT?”

“BOO BROKE DOWN.”

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU, WHERE ARE YOU?”

“CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?”

“WHAT?”

“I’M ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD ACROSS FROM THE LA AQUEDUCT.”

“WHERE?”

“NEXT TO THE GIANT MOUNTAIN WHERE THE BIG PIPE COMES DOWN.”

OKAY.

“I’LL CALL YOU WHEN I GET OFF THE HIGHWAY.”

“WHAT?”

I opened Boo’s hood and nosied around in the engine compartment like a detective searching for a clue, but didn’t see any clear signs of a problem. I did notice the fuel filter didn’t have any fuel in it…hmm maybe the engine was being starved of fuel. But what did I know and to make things worse Volkswagen Beetles don’t come with heat gauges, so there is no definite way to tell if Boo is stalling because it’s over heating.

Not long after I coasted off the highway a designated city tow truck tasked with the job of towing cars off the highway in order to keep the traffic moving stopped and asked me what the problem was.

“WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOUR CAR?”

“I DON’T KNOW, I WAS DRIVING ALONG AND IT JUST STALLED ON ME?”

“WHAT?”

“IT WONT START?”

“OKAY, I’LL TOW YOU TO THE NEAREST SERVICE STATION.”

“OKAY.”

After hooking Boo up the driver jumped inside the cab.

“Nice bug, what year is it?”

“Thanks, it’s a 72.”

“I used to have one like that when I lived in Mexico.”

“Was it made in Mexico?”

“I can’t remember, but it looked just like that.”

The driver unloaded Boo and I at the nearest gas station. About 5 minutes after I had been dropped off, Boo miraculously came back to life at the turn of a key. I called Alisha to let her know that everything was working fine, then hopped back on the highway and headed north on the I-5 where I began my ascent into the Tehachapi Mountains. As Boo climbed, his peddle began to falter. I nursed him along as we went forward and fell back between the cars and commercial trucks. My anxiety soared as I steered the wheel, worked the pedals, shifted gears and jockeyed signals in an ever delicate manner to ensure we didn’t come to a stop.

After climbing the mountains steep slope Boo once again died at the top of California’s notorious grapevine. I called Alisha who had been driving ahead and told her where I was. It was really beautiful at the top, I couldn’t think of a nicer place to break down.

The highway was in a ravine between these two large golden hills that were dotted with green arid shrubs and trees. Having crossed an invisible line that is considered the start of Northern California I was now in what I have always seen as Steinbeck country. I can’t help but visualize the characters from his books walking over the golden hills that sparkle in the warm sunlight, or resting in the shade of an elm tree.

I called road service and they sent a tow truck to pick me up. I also found a mechanics shop in Bakersfield over the phone who was hesitant to look at Boo due to the technology differences between a 72 Beetle and a modern car.

“Hello, I have a ’72 beetle that has broken down and I need you to take a look at it.”

The mechanic replied, “Gees, we normally don’t work on those.”

“Really, well, can you recommend a place in town?”

“No, unfortunately I don’t know of any.”

Feeling trapped I asked, “Well can’t you at least take a look at it, I mean you guys are highly recommended on the AAA website.”

“Well, I guess we can check it out,” said the mechanic, “but we’ll be closed by the time you get down here. Just park it outside our fence and I’ll look at it in the morning.“

The tow truck driver was a nice young man. Prior to driving a tow truck he was a photographer for a studio at the mall in Bakersfield.

“You’re a photographer,” I exclaimed. “My wife and I are photographers, we’re just heading home from our West Coast Tour. “

“Yeah, I used to photograph kids and families. Our packages were ridiculous. I was working on commission and the way our packages were setup, it was difficult for me to make a living. When the recession hit the studio went under and now I’m doing this.”

I could here in his voice that he was frustrated about how things had turned out. He’d given his all to something that hadn’t given back.

“Sorry to hear that. Photography is a tough business. My wife and I work constantly just to make ends meet. It’s frustrating; most people don’t see the costs and time involved. But you know if you really like photography you could still do it. You could start a small business on the side and do a few photo shoots here and there…or just photograph for yourself. You drive around to different places all day, put your camera in your cab. I bet you could capture some really cool stuff on the road.“

“Yeah, my girlfriend and I have been talking about doing something like that. We live just up that road on the other side of the hill.” He stretched out his arm and pointed with his index finger to an area that was visually stunning. Covered with long golden wheat like grass on top of round hills that were dotted with trees and shrubs.

We continued talking on the descent into Bakersfield as the sun began to set. The mechanics shop was located in an area that I’d describe as sketchy, but figured I’d ask the tow truck drivers opinion since I wasn’t from the area.

“So what kind of an neighborhood is this?”

“Mmmm…not a good one,” he replied.

The auto repair shop gate was locked, so Boo was unloaded to the adjacent parking lot of a stab and grab type market. Opening the cab door of the truck was like opening an oven door. I jumped out into the heat and looked around. The driver lowered Boo and drove away. There was an uncomfortable feeling as people pulled into the parking lot and stared at Boo and I. I walked over to Alisha’s car and told her,

“You guys can get a hotel room tonight, I’m going to sleep in the car. I don’t think Boo will be here in the morning if we leave him.”

Alisha had a worried look on her face. “Well, wait a second,” I told her, “let me see if I can get him to start.”

I turned the key and got nothing. I cranked it again and again and again and again…then like magic…Boo turned over. I looked at Alisha with a huge grin as he shaked and rattled.

“Lets get back on the road, I’ll follow you,” I yelled.

Within minutes we were back on the road driving north. As the golden sun was falling below the earth we cut through California’s central valley that is surrounded by giant brown hills that look like baked loaves of bread and a billion stars that speckle the night sky.

To be continued…

The post A Bug Named Boo (Part 1) appeared first on Modern Fossils.

By: Holland McGraw

Art deco is defined by its design style, but I believe it to be a celebration of the human spirit expressed in a decorative format. Human ingenuity inspired the Art Deco movement. Man’s ability to fly and create buildings that reach into the sky, the ability to turn on a radio and have instant sound waves break the silence and entertain a quiet room from miles away; all of this combined with the discovery of an ancient untouched Pharaoh’s tomb created a new and surreal world. People celebrated their new and exciting experiences in a decorative format that still captures our imagination today, that’s Art Deco.

Art Deco was first showcased in France in 1925 at the art exposition at Le Musee Des Arts Decoratifs. That being said I don’t believe that styles and trends start or stop with one idea, person or exposition, but are born out of a cumulous push by people and events over a span of time that predates and surpasses designated time frames.

Why the rant about Art Deco you ask? Early American soda bottles have been coined Deco Bottles. They celebrate the human spirit in the Deco style, but when taking a closer look at these ornate bottle beauties from the past, they not only represent Art Deco but an earlier design, Art Nouveau.

Many of the early American soda bottles that fall under the label of Art Deco are really Art Nouveau bottles. Art Nouveau predates Art Deco and was inspired by nature and expressed with curved lines; where as Art Deco was inspired by straight lines, symmetry and technology.

The most famous bottle the world has ever known. A bottle that can be identified by different people, who speak different languages and live in different places around the world is the one and only, Coca-Cola bottle. The Coca-Cola bottle is a great example of Art Nouveau.

The design of the Coca-Cola bottle started with a desire and a question. The Coca-Cola company wanted a bottle that was unique and unmistakable for their product. “What is Coca-Cola made out of?” That question along with confusion between Cocoa and Coca led the designers to create a bottle designed after the Cocoa pod. This makes the Coca-Cola bottle the most famous mistake in the world, a beautiful mistake.

As natural themes vanished and man made technology became more prevalent in the 1920’s everything from buildings, house hold appliances to soda bottles were fashioned in the Deco style. Art Deco soda bottles encompass all of these traits while encouraging the consuming public to dream a little.

Bottles with Indian heads, labeled with words like Big Nickel and textured cubist accents were immortalized and embossed in glass.

I once heard someone say that man is no longer evolving physically, but mentally through the creation of machines that manipulate the environment we live in. This means that Art Deco celebrates the evolution of man.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Art_Deco

http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/36505/Art-Deco

http://www.artcyclopedia.com/history/art-deco.html

https://prezi.com/kgpwyqzoqvpy/the-egyptian-revival-its-effect-on-the-fashion-and-architecture-of-the-1920s/

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Time is a problem that humans have failed to solve, but mended like duct tape on a busted water hose. Adapting new technologies to overcome the hurdles of time has built empires and destroyed civilizations. The introduction of horses in North America by the Spanish shortened the time taken to travel long distances, enabling some Indian tribes to expand their territory while conquering others. Trains crossed North America like an iron horse filled with settlers ending the reign of the North American Indians. In a need for speed people replaced their horses with automobiles that harness the power of 8000 horses, while screaming on top of concrete highways from point A to point B in a fraction of the time. If you save time to do this you’re buying time to do that.
It’s as if time is an extension of our mortality and by saving time we are saving ourselves through cursed technologies that are bogged down with lame animals, traffic jams, broken circuits and blown radiators that consume our lives and result in wasted time. In all the madness of modern technology it was the replacing of the French press that brought me to the realization of time. I watched a steel machine use a piston to reject spent coffee grounds through a cylinder in the center of its shiny box like body. Watching the mechanical French press at work brought about visions of Jack Kerouac’s, Dean Mariorty, peering through snow goggles with his head wrapped in a scarf sticking out a car window while driving through a blizzard in the American night. Underneath the polished chrome and between the soldered connectors of high tech gadgetry is an unlearned lesson of time.

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I have seen them, but never realized their significance until hundreds were dumped in front of me as if I were playing a game of pickup stix.  They’re so simple yet thought provoking, connecting us to a time when men and women dressed in their best to fly on a plane, eat dinner, or lose it all in a Vegas casino. 

The origin of the swizzle stick is as cloudy and colorful as the coral and pastel colored plastics used to create the twirling sticks. Some credit Cartier with the swizzle stick to rid champagne of bubbles; others say it was an engineer’s fix to get an olive out of his martini.  Regardless of the swizzle sticks origin it has evolved from glass rods in the 20’s and 30’s to long legged wooden pinups in the war rationing 40’s and finally colorful caricatured plastics in the 50’s, 60’s and 70’s.

Swizzle sticks were a functional form of advertising and placed in drinks by bars, clubs and restaurants, then saved by customers as memories on a stick.  As years have passed swizzle sticks have turned into relics on a stick from another time.

A red stick swizzled by Jack Kerouac at Birdland as Thelonious Monk turns behind a piano. The rise of Miami’s postwar vacation hotspots with, Jackie Gleason, at the Boom Boom Room.  A stick turned by Joe Lewis at Americas first integrated hotel and casino, the Moulin Rouge while Lewis Armstrong sings, “Heebie Jeebies.” See the forming of the Rat Pack at the Sands or have an obsessive-compulsive drink at the Landmark, owned by a long nailed, Howard Hughes before having a twisted psychedelic nightcap at the Mint with, Hunter S. Thompson.

As people pass and establishments are replaced, the swizzle sticks intertwined with stories are the only thing that remains of a time gone by.  Swizzle sticks today are different, they are simple and utilitarian.  They function as drink stoppers, coffee stirrers and are proposed to be hi tech date rape drug detectors. It appears that with the rise of hi tech efficiency we have lost our creativity.

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The swap meet is a place where some products are reborn and others go to die.

As a kid I ran wild at the swap meet in search of knock off GI Joe’s, Transformers and survival knives that looked liked Rambo’s with a large blade, compass, fishing line and waterproof matches that fit snug inside the tube like handle.  I was too young to buy a knife, but the more free spirited vendors let me wave it around a bit.  All the while pitchmen demonstrated their amazing vegetable slicers and dicers, miracle stain treatment solutions and simple yet affective body toning equipment where a person can squeeze, pull and sweat themselves thin.

As an adult I forgot about the swap meet and my childhood adventures, but began revisiting them while searching for old bottles to write about then place inside my conceptual art in a way that adds new meaning to the world.

There were two swap meets that I used to hit up.  A swap meet North of the city of San Diego and a swap meet South of the city.  In the North I found different bottles here and there; I never found any bottles at the Southern swap meet, I found something else.  I found that the consumers and vendors were different.

The products sold at the two swap meets are a reflection of the seller and consumer.  In the North you’re more likely to find vintage goods bought or traded from one place and brought to the swap meet by a regular vendor, where there is a market for nonfunctioning collectibles.

10 miles South things change, Spanish becomes the dominant language and there is an old Quonset hut at the entrance filled with different food vendors.  I always hit up the area where they sell fruit sliced with salt, lime and chili powder.  Young women smile behind the counter while preparing Mexican flavored fruit as old men enthusiastically explain why their fruit is the best inside the Quonset hut.  Items for sale at the Southern swap meet are more sporadic.  Venders sell used tools, clothes and whatever else was lying around that might bring in an extra dollar or two.

With all of their differences both swap meets revolve around a common principle, competitive capitalism.  Capitalism like all things has evolved, from competitive capitalism, to monopoly capitalism, to global capitalism, one system out muscling the next. (Ross & Trachte, 1990, p. 11)  Competitive capitalism is the earliest form of capitalism. It’s based on the principle that businesses thrive or die based on a demand for their products.

At the swap meet you can see the wheels of this early system turn and interact with it through bartering with vendors until a price is agreed upon.  The art of bartering is a funny little dance, it goes back and forth and at times has a pause, pleading and a move called, “The walk away,” before a price can be agreed upon.

Out of all the ways to make a dollar, to earn it through competitive capitalism has to be the hardest.  There is no stability, benefits or guarantees.  With all the hardships of making money with this system, there is always the availability of work for all who desire it; the swap meet does not discriminate against age, color or creed. Many of the vendors share a likeness to their products, stained with the patina of time and use.  They drive their products to market, setup, sell, pack up and drive away.

The swap meet is a place where some products are reborn and others go to die.

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This conceptual art piece was inspired by my uncle, Doc, who unknowingly taught me the difference between a modern consumer and consumer from the past, but that story is for another time and can be found in my book, “Modern Fossils.”

This story focuses on, Ginger ale.  Some say it’s an Irish drink, others say it’s English.  Regardless of its origin they made a lot of it in Ireland and the British scattered these Irish ginger ale bottles around the world.  Ginger ale was packaged and sold in elongated bottles with round bottoms, to insure they were stored and shipped lying down.

I’ve heard different speculations as to the reason for the round-bottom bottles, the best being, “They were made during the Civil War and insured they didn’t tip-over and break due to cannon fire.” I know, that story sounds really great, but the truth is the design of the round bottom bottle is a reflection of the enclosure system and the need for the cork to stay wet, so that the enclosure will stay secure.

It’s said that bottles like my round bottom, “Belfast,” bottle were used for more than ginger ale, they were used as ballast.  During the British Empire, empty British ships sailing from British ports put weight in the hull of their ships for stability and then dumped it at foreign ports prior to loading their cargo.  Years of dumping and loading has resulted in Irish round bottom ginger ale bottles being found in different countries around the world.

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Glass beach is exactly as it sounds, a beach filled with glass.  It’s located in Fort Bragg, a small town in Northern California where they threw their trash into the ocean one day and watched it roll upon the beach the next.

Packaging was a bit different back in the sea dump days at Fort Bragg.  Garbage was mainly comprised of glass and tin.  Some of the larger steel car parts and springs lay scattered upon the beach while others have found their way into rock

formations and will one day become, “Modern Fossils.” The tin has since dissolved and the glass has not.  The glass is so thick you can dig-a-dig…dig and see nothing but green, red, blue, yellow and clear glass that has been frosted and smoothed through years of friction from changing tides.

Some of the glass pieces have been deemed valuable based on the color and shape.  Perceived value is a funny thing, it encourages some people to take interest in something that they once believed worthless. People comb the beach like gold prospectors from California’s past looking for glass that they’ve been told is valuable.

Glass from the beach has found its way into different pockets over the years a piece at a time and the local government now fears that the glass will one day be gone ending one of the towns tourist attractions, broken glass from the trash.

The Fort Bragg sea dumps ended in 1967 and we have since fallen into a plastic age where cars, radios, tv’s, chairs, tables, toys, tools, utensils, glasses and bottles are primarily made of plastic.  Today, when a plastic bottle enters the ocean like the glass bottles of the past, they no longer breakup and roll onto the beach, but flake off and release toxic chemicals that harm sea life and is later consumed by us, humans. (Barry, 2009)

It seems that in our attempt to progress, we have digressed and I believe it is time to look to the past and use a packaging material that is primarily made of sand…glass.

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These bottles are from the past, but if you understand their significance they tell a story that takes place in the future.  I recently started digging in an old Seattle dump with a friend, Niel.  The dump is from the 30’s and gives insight to our past.  We tend to find more whisky bottles than anything.  Most of the whisky bottles are embossed with the words, “FEDERAL LAW FORBIDS SALE OR RE-USE OF THIS BOTTLE.”  Bottles marked with these words are referred to as prohibition bottles.  The reference to the whisky bottles as Prohibition bottles sends a persons imagination soaring with images of speak easys, fedora hooded gangsters and flappers, but the truth of the matter is these bottles were made for use from 1932-1964, just one year before prohibition was repealed.  The embossing wasn’t mandatory under federal law until January 1, 1935.  So, the image of the fedora-hooded gangster could really be a Beatles crazed lady screaming for John and Paul. With that in mind, most of the bottles we’ve recovered are primarily from the 1940’s with the exceptions of a few holdover whisky and beer bottles from the 1920’s, which brings up a question you might be asking yourself, why are there whiskey bottles being made and distributed in the U.S. throughout prohibition?  A quick answer, the Volstead Act. There were three provisions that allowed for the consumption of alcohol under the Volstead Act:

1. Sacramental purposes.
2. If you lived on a farm you could make Hard Cider or home made wine.
3. Medicinal Alcohol that could be obtained with a prescription from a doctor.

Provision number 3 in the Volstead Act brings us to a popular movie that just came out, “The Great Gatsby,” which was written by F. Scott Fitzgerald’s.  The Great Gatsby made his fortune in Drug Stores that fulfilled Dr. prescribed alcohol to patients.  It was prohibition and alcohol of the past that built the Drug Stores of today. Prohibition was the foundation on which the Walgreens Drug store was built.  Some people might try to persuade you that it was Walgreen’s invention of the milkshake that made them a success, but I believe Mr. Gatsby would tell you otherwise. After the repeal of prohibition, whisky bottles were sold in large supersized bottles to quench the thirst of the masses.  Shortly after prohibition was repealed Washington State created the Washington State Liquor Control Board that monitored the distribution of alcohol tallying a profit of eight million six hundred thousand dollars…this is 1936 dollars we’re talking about. Some of the bottles we’ve dug have both the “FEDERAL LAW FORBIDS SALE OR RE-USE OF THIS BOTTLE,” and Washington State Liquor Control Board embossed on the bottles.  The justification for the Washington State Control Board was that, with the repeal of prohibition, the public was out of control.  The state government emphasized that alcohol needs to be regulated in order to protect children and citizens in the community. I found this information interesting because alcohol both during and post prohibition has taken the same road into the public as marijuana is taking today. Among the whiskey bottles, we’ve found glass prescription bottles, cosmetic jars, coffee Jars, cottage cheese jars, ketchup bottles, milk bottles, beer bottles, cocktail mixers, local soda bottles, spoons made in Nevada, saucer made in West Virginia, tea cup made in Japan,  a steel cup made in Sweden, medical instruments, children’s toys, pieces of jadeite kitchenware, rubber sols and much more. While digging in the old Seattle dump I found that bottles and Items from the past act as different windows to view the past present and future…DIG IT!

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