It seemed as though the entire world was at war. The Americans were fighting alongside the Allies in a face-off with the Germans. The Nazis fought to control Europe. Japan was secretly planning its attack on Peal Harbor, and the Enola Gay was just one of a fleet of B-29 bombers; unaware that it would be delegated to carry a bomb with the destructive power of twenty thousand tons of TNT. That was yet to come.
It was the early 1940s when the twins, Bob and Ab, turned seventeen. Girls and cars filled their minds; war was a demon far, far away - unless one counted the war of the sexes. That war was even fought on foreign soil – Houtzdale. What do you suppose those Polish mountain girls had over Tyrone’s valley girls? Evidently, the Tyrone girls had wised up to the twins, so Houtzdale, Ramey, Moran, and Viola was their new stomping grounds … at least until the mountain boys chased them back home.
Youth was a very short phase back in those days. By the time they turned seventeen they had already been employed at Juniata Packing for four years and smoking for nearly six. They bought themselves a real gem of a car: a 1936 Chevy. Of course, the tires were bald, it was a bear to get started, and it labored in second gear as it hauled them and their buddies up the Janesville Pike. But it was theirs, free and clear.
They got wind of a dance at the VFW, the perfect place to fish in the chick pool. The boys were handsome, strapping, mirror images of each other, and they attracted a lot of attention. The girls flirted and their mountain boyfriends stewed. Somewhere between the Polka and the kielbasa, flirting turned to fighting. Being better lovers than fighters, those valley boys went running with their tails between their legs.
As they sped down the Pike, an orange and white striped sawhorse suddenly appeared like a deer in the headlights. Too late, they plowed it over and dropped into a foot deep, ten-foot-long gouge in the highway where repair work was being done. Bob floored the gas and the Chevy leaped out of the hole, landing hard and blowing one bald tire. Do you think they had a spare? Of course … but it was flat, too. They limped all the way to Tyrone on a now worthless rim.
They made it to Park Avenue, when the car chugged to a stop. The fuel pump died, and they were almost home. Their buddy, Chalmer, found a full can of gas in the trunk. Getting home shouldn’t be a problem now. They had a plan. All they needed was to keep the gas pouring steadily into the carburetor, and the car would chug its way home. That was Ab’s job. Chalmer walked along side to guide, Bob, the driver, who was blinded by the open hood. Ab sat on the fender with the gas can, his feet propped on the motor.
As Ab dribbled the gas in, the car slowly limped quietly along. It worked! Until the engine backfired … Ab lit up like a marshmallow held too close to a campfire. Evidently, he hadn’t stayed in school long enough to learn about stop, drop, and roll, because he shot off running like a flaming arrow. Woosh! The flames blazed, and Ab screamed. Chalmer and Bob finally caught and tackled him, rolling him onto the grass, snuffing the flames. Ab’s flailing arms and legs singed one perfect burned snow-angel shape into a green Park Avenue lawn. Luckily he wasn’t burned too badly; his mom greased him down with lard and he healed fine.
And so after all that excitement, they decided that it might be safer to join the service. Yes, Bob joined the Army, and Ab went to the Navy. The sailor ended up working in a PX in New Jersey. The only time he saw water was when he took a bath. The soldier went aboard a ship destined for the Philippines and eventually Japan.
At this time, the bomb christened “Little Boy” was being loaded into the Enola Gay. Hiroshima, Japan and our soldier boy would never be the same.
It was the early 1940s when the twins, Bob and Ab, turned seventeen. Girls and cars filled their minds; war was a demon far, far away - unless one counted the war of the sexes. That war was even fought on foreign soil – Houtzdale. What do you suppose those Polish mountain girls had over Tyrone’s valley girls? Evidently, the Tyrone girls had wised up to the twins, so Houtzdale, Ramey, Moran, and Viola was their new stomping grounds … at least until the mountain boys chased them back home.
Youth was a very short phase back in those days. By the time they turned seventeen they had already been employed at Juniata Packing for four years and smoking for nearly six. They bought themselves a real gem of a car: a 1936 Chevy. Of course, the tires were bald, it was a bear to get started, and it labored in second gear as it hauled them and their buddies up the Janesville Pike. But it was theirs, free and clear.
They got wind of a dance at the VFW, the perfect place to fish in the chick pool. The boys were handsome, strapping, mirror images of each other, and they attracted a lot of attention. The girls flirted and their mountain boyfriends stewed. Somewhere between the Polka and the kielbasa, flirting turned to fighting. Being better lovers than fighters, those valley boys went running with their tails between their legs.
As they sped down the Pike, an orange and white striped sawhorse suddenly appeared like a deer in the headlights. Too late, they plowed it over and dropped into a foot deep, ten-foot-long gouge in the highway where repair work was being done. Bob floored the gas and the Chevy leaped out of the hole, landing hard and blowing one bald tire. Do you think they had a spare? Of course … but it was flat, too. They limped all the way to Tyrone on a now worthless rim.
They made it to Park Avenue, when the car chugged to a stop. The fuel pump died, and they were almost home. Their buddy, Chalmer, found a full can of gas in the trunk. Getting home shouldn’t be a problem now. They had a plan. All they needed was to keep the gas pouring steadily into the carburetor, and the car would chug its way home. That was Ab’s job. Chalmer walked along side to guide, Bob, the driver, who was blinded by the open hood. Ab sat on the fender with the gas can, his feet propped on the motor.
As Ab dribbled the gas in, the car slowly limped quietly along. It worked! Until the engine backfired … Ab lit up like a marshmallow held too close to a campfire. Evidently, he hadn’t stayed in school long enough to learn about stop, drop, and roll, because he shot off running like a flaming arrow. Woosh! The flames blazed, and Ab screamed. Chalmer and Bob finally caught and tackled him, rolling him onto the grass, snuffing the flames. Ab’s flailing arms and legs singed one perfect burned snow-angel shape into a green Park Avenue lawn. Luckily he wasn’t burned too badly; his mom greased him down with lard and he healed fine.
And so after all that excitement, they decided that it might be safer to join the service. Yes, Bob joined the Army, and Ab went to the Navy. The sailor ended up working in a PX in New Jersey. The only time he saw water was when he took a bath. The soldier went aboard a ship destined for the Philippines and eventually Japan.
At this time, the bomb christened “Little Boy” was being loaded into the Enola Gay. Hiroshima, Japan and our soldier boy would never be the same.
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