Day 30 -- Westerville to Mogadore, Ohio -- 126 Miles

Blog entries suspended while we visit with relatives in Ohio.

Day 29 -- New Perris to Westerville, Ohio --142 Miles

There's a rather sad fact that Concetta and I have found to be true as we visit scores of camps throughout the United States. Many, and often MOST of the camp spaces are spoken for long before we ever roll through the front gate. These spaces are not spoken for by folks on the road like us. No, the spaces have been placed in perpetual reserved status by the camp owners to accommodate weekend camping warriors who drive out from the city to spend a few hours in their rig that never moves, then return home to do the nine to five once more. The rigs never move and are always available to their owners. The checks come in to the camp owners. And everyone is happy.

Naturally, these aren't the only folks who end up reserving a camp spot for an entire year. In some camps folks down on their luck, who have been forced to live in their RV for economic reasons, can be found in many of the camps. You can tell these camps right away, as they often allow their permanent residents to have all kinds of flotsam and jetsam to be piled around the tenant's rigs. So these campsites will have multiple cars, a group of old propane cylinders, a motorcycle or two, ladders, sheds, container gardens and, well, you name it.

The camps that cater to working class, homeless folks, are not bad if they manage to reserve a few sites for travelers, but sometimes those sites are really in the minority. We were in one camp in Washington state that had only two sites in the whole camp for over-nighters. Normally everyone is very cordial, and we've never had any problems staying in them. We are certainly sympathetic with the homeless, and realize that they have to live somewhere.

No, our major source of irritation are the camps that cater to the folks who simply don't want to be bothered with the uncertainty of driving out to the country to find a camp, doing all the setup when they find one, and then repacking everything when they want to come home two days later. Those folks pay a yearly fee, reserve the nicest spots on the grounds -- usually those with trees -- and don't actually inhabit the RV for more than two dozen nights a year. Good business for the camp owner, but not so nice for those of us on the road who need campsites.

Such a camp provided our accommodations last night. It was quite a big deal for us to find this particular camp, way out as it was amidst the corn fields and soy bean acres. But when we finally found it down a series of tiny farm roads and country lanes northwest of Dayton, Ohio, it turned out to be well worth the trouble. The camp was absolutely immaculate. In fact, it actually looked more like a prototype mock-up of a camp than a real camp; like we had entered the Twilight Zone and had stumbled onto someone's architectural drafting board.

The roads and RV spots were all graveled perfectly, and all campsites camp with a concrete patio. Each camp was separated by well-tended grass, most had steel barbecue rings, small trees, and picnic tables. Each camp space came with not one, not two, but three sewer connections along with the usual water and electric. This would allow one to effortlessly hook up the sewer line wherever it was located on the RV, back, front, or middle.

When we explored the laundry room, it was clean, air conditioned, and the machines didn't need much cleaning themselves. We made full use of these during much of our stay.

The manager was completely accommodating. He helped us get settled, gave us advice on where exactly to park the rig, and even provided two rolls of quarters for our laundry needs.

It was only after we'd been in camp for a few hours that I began to notice something was wrong. There were almost no other campers present. I did see perhaps two people by evening-time. And I saw a couple more this morning. But there was NO hustle. There was NO bustle. There were no sounds of folks having alcohol-induced fun, no one building campfires with noxious smoke to come in our windows, and no boisterous children riding to and fro on their bikes and shouting at each other.

Don't get me wrong, we didn't actually miss most of the aforementioned things. But when they're totally absent it's eerie in the extreme. So I went and asked the manager what percentage of his campsites were occupied by absentee campers. More than ninety-eight percent, he said. That's where the money is. Most people are gone now, he went on, because their kids are back in school. They only come up on the odd weekend and holiday. So that's why we didn't have to fight anyone for the two washing machines. There was just no one else who had desires on them.

So this morning I wandered around with the camera taking photos of the lifeless camp. No noises came from any of the RVs I passed. No one was down at the picnic shelter. No one could be seen sitting on their patio drinking their morning coffee. No one out pumping their black and gray tanks. No one shaking out a rug or two. Just me, my camera, and a whole lot of scenery.

But there is a positive note to this story. They do reserve something like eleven spots for overnight guests. So don't be put off by my description of the place. Just look at the photos and realize that this camp was perhaps in the top five of beautiful camps we've ever seen.

We stayed in camp this morning in a futile attempt to wash a bathroom rug and a bunch of towels that just never dried. Finally, about 11:30 a.m. we gave up and left, with all the offending towels and rug laid out around the coach on whatever flat surfaces we could find. Our hope for the day was to travel east, but not on Interstate 70 which would have been easiest, but on Route 40, better known as the National Road.

From the web I learned that: "the National Road (also known as the Cumberland Road) was the first major improved highway in the United States built by the federal government. Established between 1811 and 1837, the 620-mile road connected the Potomac and Ohio Rivers and was a main transport path to the West for thousands of settlers. When rebuilt in the 1830s, it became the second U.S. road surfaced with the macadam process pioneered by Scotsman John Loudon McAdam."

"Construction began heading west in 1811 at Cumberland, Maryland, on the Potomac River. After the Financial Panic of 1837 and the resulting economic depression, congressional funding ran dry and construction was stopped at Vandalia, Illinois, the then capital of the Illinois, 63 miles northeast of St. Louis across the Mississippi River."

"The road has also been referred to as the Cumberland Turnpike, the Cumberland–Brownsville Turnpike (or Road or Pike), the Cumberland Pike, the National Pike, and the National Turnpike."

"Today, much of the alignment is followed by U.S. Route 40, with various portions bearing the Alternate U.S. Route 40 designation, or various state-road numbers (such as Maryland Route 144 for several sections between Baltimore and Cumberland)."

"In 2002, the full road, including extensions east to Baltimore and west to St. Louis, was designated the Historic National Road, an All-American Road."

I don't think we've ever been on the National Road before and it sure sounded like a wonderful thing to do. It was also easy to find since it parallels Interstate 70 for many miles. In fact, at times you can look over and see the traffic-choked Interstate just a mile north of our travel route. We really enjoyed seeing all the tiny towns and verdant fields that hugged the old road. It was obvious that being bypassed by the Interstate had been a blow to the villages through which we passed, but I'm sure there were some positive effects as well. Economically it was a disaster. But the quality of life must have improved measurably with the lack noisy traffic day and night.

Though I neglected to take a photo of the place, we passed a junk shop in one of the tiny towns on the National Road that appeared to be just what I needed in my quest for the missing part to my blacksmith vise. I pulled in at a church just a few doors past the junk shop, then walked back to find my quarry. There I met ol' Bill Reece, a gentleman perhaps in his early to mid eighties, who obviously loved junk just as much as I do. He had boxes and drawers and shelf units and bins and trays full of tools and hardware. And there was worlds of tools and hardware just lying around loose. I thought for sure that Bill would have my part.

But the more I looked the more I realized that I would have to spend a full day with Bill, maybe even several days to look through all his treasures. To make matters worse, Bill told me that he really didn't know what part I was describing and might never have seen one. So, after twenty minutes of looking, I selected a very nice ball-peen hammer that was so tight and lovingly maintained, I just couldn't leave it there. Bill tried to talk me into buying a larger one that he thought was a better buy, but I insisted on the small one. The one I chose was at least seventy years old, perhaps older, and had never been abused in any way. It just cried out to be added to my collection.

In the end I left my card with Bill since he said he had customers who were blacksmiths, and I hope he contacts me some day. He probably won't. He has no email address on his card, which means he's not computer literate. It was a nice try, but I suspect I'll have to keep looking.

The early part of the day was progressing so pleasantly, that it came as a real shock when we determined that there were no camps in front of us, and the only good camp was one we passed in Springfield, Ohio, about twenty miles behind us. This bit of bad luck resulted in our being immersed into rush hour traffic in Columbus, Ohio. But we had to get to the far northeast side of town to the only camp we could find on our GPS. To make matters worse, the GPS ordered us to leave Interstate 70 and go north on Route 270 at exit number 93B. As we neared exit 93, I could see that exit 93 promised to take us to Route 270. But it wasn't 93B, just 93. So we stupidly sailed right on by Exit 93, which immediately plunged us into the center of Columbus and a true traffic nightmare. We had gone from the most idyllic road conditions imaginable on the National Road, to the worst of the worst conditions in the center of a busy city at 4:00 p.m.

But after doing our penance in bumper-to-bumper traffic for a good hour, we finally emerged from the nightmare and got off the offensive Interstates and onto some beautiful rural roads. We always feel more at home there, and we soon followed our GPS directions right to a very pretty little camp called "Tree Haven." Tree Haven probably has just as many reserved sites as last night's camp, but our next door neighbors are in residence, the manager was a delightful lady, the price was really low, and we have a magnificent view of the surrounding farm fields any time we want it. I enjoyed my cocktail out on the lanai with some cheese an crackers, and not a single mosquito landed on me, though Concetta said she saw one.

Tomorrow we're headed to Akron, Ohio, and what promises to be our camp for the next 10 days or so. We have a class reunion to attend at one end of our stay, and a wedding to attend at the other. Aside from that, I'm not at all sure what we'll be doing to amuse ourselves. Interstate 71 goes practically right to Akron's front door, but we won't be traveling on that one. There is a tiny road called Route 3 that I have my eye one. Hopefully we will be able to meander up that tiny rural avenue, enjoying the surrounding countryside, and won't have a bit of high blood pressure when we arrive tomorrow afternoon.

And when you venture out on the two-lanes, we hope you avoid the Interstates, take advantage of the beautiful rural roads in this country, and savor every meandering mile of your trip. While you're out there, the Happy Wanderers wish you happy travels and exciting destinations.

Day 28 -- Big Sandy to New Perris, Ohio -- 187 Miles

You're probably wondering why we go to some of these places like Big Sandy or New Perris, Ohio. "Never heard of those places," you say. The truth would be somewhere between, "we just wanted to explore that particular road and we happened to stumble over a camp there," and "that was the first camp displayed by the GPS." But whatever the reason we stop and camp anywhere has a lot to do with the things we like to see, which is anything historic." If there's a historic site nearby like a Fort, or an archaeological site, or perhaps even just a statue of someone like General Custer, we'll be more likely to choose it as our nightly campsite.

Take last night for instance. Concetta and I were headed south into Ohio from the southern Michigan border when we read that our intended route would take us near the Fallen Timbers battlefield site of 1794. Since we didn't know anything about that particular battle, we decided to take a look. Then, after touring the battlefield, we just looked for the campground nearest our location. The fact that the battlefield site was out in the middle of nowhere didn't enter into the equation.

Too bad we didn't find a better camp to spend our money. Though the rent was fairly cheap, and the park owners wonderfully accommodating, their camp was a tad on the rundown side. The first thing we learned was that there were no full hookups available for single-night patrons. Okay, we said, since it was getting pretty late in the afternoon by then, we'll take it. I checked the showers out and they looked pretty good, so we didn't think we'd be inconvenienced by no sewer connection.

I set up the rig pretty quickly, since the ground was mostly level and no drive-up blocks were needed. I connected the water and the electrical cord and then went off to take my shower. But just after I returned to the rig, another RV showed up and backed in behind us. When they plugged their rig into the same electrical tree as we were using, the circuit went into overload and knocked us off. The readout said, "Missing Ground." Not wanting to make a big deal out of the problem, but not wanting to ruin our electrical system, I just broke out my extra-long electrical extension cable, and we were able to plug into the empty camp next door. Why the newcomers didn't plug in there in the first place we'll never know.

As it was getting dark, I began to worry about our cord stretched forty feet away into the next camp. What if someone shows up late and pulls in there and runs over our cord. So, I went out in the dark and disconnected the cord, packed it all away, and for the rest of the night we had no shore power. I didn't think we'd have any additional problems, but then as I was going to sleep, I realized that without power there would be no coffee for breakfast in the morning. Fortunately, I realized that all I had to do was hook up the 110 volt power in the morning and we'd have coffee without plugging in the 30-amp cable.

Our main reason for heading into southwest Ohio, before doubling back to Akron for the class reunion and wedding we planned to attend, was more Model A Ford parts. Some time ago I had ordered a couple of replacement parts for some severely rusted out parts on the 1929 sedan I'm building. But when the parts arrived, I realized that they weren't correct for my car. When I called the vendor he told me that I should send them back, and he'd send new ones. But when I learned that he was in southwestern Ohio, I hatched a scheme to return the parts in person and pick up the new ones. That way there would be no postage due.

And that's what we did today. First we contacted the seller of the part and he told us he couldn't possibly have the replacement parts until two days hence because he still had to pick up the parts at the manufacturer about twenty miles away. I'm sure my eyes got much wider at that point. But thinking fast I told the seller that I'd be happy to pick up the part at the manufacturer, and then come to his location and make the swap. Fortunately, he agreed to allow me to make the pickup. He agreed to call the manufacturer and ask them to get the parts ready for pickup. This is where the story gets interesting.

After I had hung up with the seller, I began to question in my own mind just why he decided to trust me to pick up a part for which I hadn't paid, and then bring it to his location to give him my incorrect part plus the difference in cash. He'd never met me, but had only corresponded with me by email and phone. Oh, well, wondering if he would soon be on the phone to alter the deal, we set off for our destination, the famous sheetmetal manufacturer of vintage automobile replacement parts, Brookfield.

Once Concetta and the GPS had navigated us to the manufacturer's location, I went inside to find that the seller's contact there, Pete, had not gotten the parts ready for pickup. But no matter, I had a good time looking around the showroom while he disappeared for a moment before returning with the two cowl panel sides that I needed. It was in the process of getting these parts and talking about my project with Pete, that he revealed that he had some leftover parts to a 1929 Model A tudor sedan that he once owned. Among other things, he had the rear seats!

I got really excited as I already had purchased the front seats, and we had picked them up a couple of weeks ago in Minneapolis. Now I was being offered the rear seats for the same model car! "Would you ship them?" I asked Pete, and he said sure. So we struck a deal for a hundred dollars for the two seats and I gave him fifty for shipping with a promise of more money for shipping if it required more.

After we left Brookfield, we scurried right over to the vendor's address and returned the incorrect parts, paid the balance on the new parts that I retrieved at Brookfield, and the two of us parted as friends. The bottom line is this. If I hadn't made a mistake all those months ago and ordered the wrong parts, I wouldn't have been in Brookfield today, and wouldn't have been offered two more parts I need for the restoration of my Model A. Fate sure moves in mysterious ways.

Anyway, once we had the metal parts safely stowed away, we had to find a camp nearby and that's why we're here in Perris, Ohio this evening. Thankfully, this time, the camp is light years ahead of Big Sandy in quality. We have a concrete patio, a gravel pad that's already level, and we have all the utilities right alongside with no substandard hookups to deal with.

In addition, we have no neighbors to compete with us for the two washers and four dryers as there are only three tenants in the whole park at the moment. The manager said that the park is over 98% long-term residents who only come up for holidays and weekends, especially after the kids go back to school.

The only bad part about today was having to travel on Interstate 75 for much of the day. Let me tell you, judging by the hundreds of 18-wheelers that swarmed on all sides of us throughout the day, commerce in this country is going full tilt. Concetta and I agreed that we don't believe we've ever seen more tractor-trailer rigs than we saw in one four-hour period today on Interstate 75.

But tomorrow we'll be headed in an easterly direction, right through Columbus, Ohio and out the other side, and we're going to stick to the two-lane roads whenever and wherever possible. Tomorrow night I expect we'll be about a hundred miles from here and perhaps just south of our ultimate destination, Akron, Ohio. We're hoping that along the way we'll stumble over other interesting and educational things in this great state of Ohio.

And when you head out on the two-lanes to make your travel dreams come true, the Happy Wanderers wish you happy travels and exciting destinations.

Day 27 -- Yipsilani, Michigan to Swanton, Ohio -- 76 Miles

This past weekend, having been a real energy-drainer, we took our time this morning having breakfast, packing up, and getting on the road. Normally we try to get rolling by 9:00 a.m., but today it was every bit of 10:30 before we cranked up the V-10 and eased out of camp.

Our plans contained nothing special. We knew I wanted to head toward Detroit from our camp in Yipsilanti using Interstate 94. Along the way we knew we'd encounter Route 275 south toward Toledo, Ohio. And we knew we wanted to break away from Route 275 (which becomes Interstate 75) and head west to Monroe, Michigan, so we could photograph a larger-than-life statue of George Armstrong Custer, who called Monroe home. We also knew we wanted to continue south and west from Monroe on Route 24 so that we could stop, perhaps for lunch, at the post Revolution "Fallen Timbers" battlefield site in Ohio.

Turned out that our somewhat brief time on the Interstate went as smooth as pie. A lot of 18-wheelers as usual, but no real problems. The GPS got us a little off track as we left Interstate 75 and headed west on Michigan Route 50. As reached the outskirts of Monroe, the GPS suddenly decided we should veer to the north and bypass the town. At that point we turned off the silly computer, and I took over and headed back to the town's main street.

Concetta soon found the address of a church which is across the street from the statue, and before we knew it, we had found a large parking lot next to the Raisin River and parked. Then it was a simple matter to walk a hundred yards and start snapping our photos. Only problem we encountered was that the sun kept going behind clouds, which made it extremely difficult to get a decent shot of the very dark statue.

This is what wikipedia has to say about the statue: "the George Armstrong Custer Equestrian Monument, also known as Sighting the Enemy, is an equestrian statue of General George Armstrong Custer by Edward Clark Potter, located in Monroe, Michigan. The statue was designated as a Michigan Historic Site on June 15, 1992, and was listed on the National Register of Historic Places on December 9, 1994."

"While Custer was not born in Monroe, he lived much of his early childhood there with relatives and attended the schools in Monroe. During his youth, he met his future wife Elizabeth Bacon, whom he returned to marry in 1864. Custer left Monroe to attend the United States Military Academy and fight in the Civil War."

"Because of his hard work and success during the war, as well as the Union's need for officers, he was promoted to the rank of Major General and became a very well-known military figure. After the Civil War, he fought in the Indian Wars in the West. His previous accomplishments in the Civil War, however, were overshadowed by his catastrophic defeat and death at the Battle of the Little Big Horn on June 25, 1876."

"To honor him, a $24,000, 14-foot bronze equestrian statue, sculpted by Edward Clark Potter, was unveiled in Monroe in June 1910 by President William Howard Taft and the widowed Elizabeth Bacon Custer. The statue commemorates his successful actions during the Civil War and not his more well-known defeat in 1876."

Once we had satisfied our need to pay our respects to General Custer, we jumpted back on Ohio Route 24 and let the not-always-trustworthy GPS take us to our next destination, that of the Fallen Timbers battlefield site. I know I must have encountered the subject of Fallen Timbers sometime in my studies of the Old Northwest in the 19th Century, but I don't nearly enough to relate it to you.

The National Park Service website has this to say about Fallen Timbers: "On August 20, 1794, Maj. Gen. Anthony Wayne led troops of the Legion of the United States from their fort at Roche de Bout. The left wing and flanking militia from Kentucky crossed level but poorly-drained land containing dense forest and underbrush. After a 5-mile march, the mounted volunteers came upon a line of 1,100 Indian warriors from a confederation of Ohio and Great Lakes Indian tribes."

"The militia volunteers retreated around the legion's front guard. The front guard returned fire while retreating but eventually fled. The warriors closely pursued the soldiers of the front guard until a light infantry skirmish line forced the Indians to seek shelter amid timbers that had been felled a few years before by a tornado."

"The legion's right wing was under heavy fire from the concealed warriors, who broke down an effort to flank them from the river. The left flank of soldiers charged, inflicting heavy casualties on the Indians and driving them from the field. Wayne's scouts tracked the Indians to the mouth of Swan Creek, but they were not engaged. After regrouping his troops, Wayne held his position into the afternoon. With no Indian counter-attack, Wayne set up camp on high ground overlooking the foot of the rapids, within sight of Fort Miamis."

"In the following days Wayne's men returned to the battlefield to collect the wounded and equipment. Two officers and 15 to 17 soldiers were buried, but hard-soil conditions deterred soldiers from burying more men. The entire legion marched back through the battlefield on August 23 as they returned to Roche de Bout."

"The Battle of Fallen Timbers, August 20, 1794, has been called the “last battle of the American Revolution” and one of the three most important battles in the development of our nation. The decisive victory by the Legion of the United States over a confederacy of Indian tribes opened the Northwest Territory, a five-state region unceeded by the native inhabitants, for westward expansion and led to Ohio’s statehood in 1803."

Of course there is nothing to see at Fallen Timbers today. However, the Park Service has done an excellent job of laying out a circular trail system encompassing the park that is complete with informational signs every hundred feet or so. These signs are very, very informative detailing every aspect of the battle. In addition, the very forest in which you're walking is hushed with just a bit of filtered light coming through the trees making it easy to visualize the opposing forces firing on each other in the gloom.

In a moment of exuberance, Concetta and I decided to walk the entire trail that probably is between 1.5 and 2 miles long. Much is in the cool of the forest, but a significant portion is out in the hot sunshine. So if you go, be prepared with a hat and a bottle of water.

One of the great things about today's hike was the variety of the local flora, which included quite a variety of trees and bushy undergrowth when we were in the forest, and a huge variety of weeds and wildflowers when we emerged into the sunlight. Many of the weeds were extraordinarily colorful and interesting. I tried to take photos of everything, but naturally there is only so much room to show you here.

When we had made it back to the rig from our hike, we set off in search of a local campsite. There didn't seem to be too many, especially ones with full hookups. When we arrived at the closest camp, a shady spot in the world called Big Sandy, we discovered that they, too, lacked full hookups. But we went ahead and paid our fee, selected a site, and settled in for the night. Unfortunately, the electrics here at Big Sandy are marginal at best.

Ours seemed to work fine until another camper came in and hooked up to the same electric tree that we were using. Once he ran the cable to his rig and powered up, our electric quit working and I had to get out my extension cable and run our cable to a post forty feet away before we had power. I'm not going to leave ours there as someone might come in tonight and need it. So now we're on battery power and contemplating going to bed so we can get up early and hit the road.

And when you set out on the two-lanes to pursue your dream vacation, the Happy Wanderers wish you happy travels and exciting destinations AND an abundance of electric power.

Day 26 -- All Day in the Henry Ford Museum -- 46 Miles to and from camp

I was halfway to the museum entrance with Concetta Sunday morning, when I realized I'd left the camera photo chip in the laptop. I had to walk back to retrieve it. On my way back, this guy happened to stop near me, so I asked him if I could ride in his Essex to the front door. His name was Scott, and he graciously said, "Sure!" Great guy and a wonderful car. He told me it had 65 horsepower, which is 15 more than our Model A Ford. I think he said the car was a 1924 and was produced by the Hudson Motorcar Company.

When Concetta and I were nearing the end of our day at the Henry Ford Museum, I told her I wanted to go to the Diner that we had passed a couple of times that day and have some ice cream and coffee. Concetta didn't really want any, but said, "Let's do it, we're on vacation." The idea turned out to be a winner, as the ice cream from the Guernsey Farms Dairy of Northville, Michigan, produces some of the finest ice cream we've ever had. We sat there in the Diner's outdoor patio and rested after nearly five hours of walking. Reflecting back, it had been a wonderfully thrilling and eventful weekend.

This is Henry Ford's original "Quadricycle," one of America's first cars. Here's what Wikipedia says about Henry's car: "The Ford Quadricycle was the first vehicle developed by Henry Ford. Ford's first car was a simple frame with a gas-powered engine and four bicycle wheels mounted on it. On June 4, 1896, in a tiny workshop behind his home on 58 Bagley Avenue, Detroit, where the Michigan Building now stands, Ford put the finishing touches on his pure ethanol-powered motor. After more than two years of experimentation, Ford, at the age of 32, had completed his first experimental automobile. He dubbed his creation the "Quadricycle," because it ran on four bicycle tires, and because of the means through which the engine drove the back wheels. The success of the little vehicle led to the founding of the Henry Ford Company and then later the Ford Motor Company in 1903."

One interesting fact that I remember reading about in my one of my books on Ford was that Henry was doing his assembly of the car in a brick shed behind his home. When it came to time move the car outside, it wouldn't fit through the only door. Henry had to enlarge the door opening to be able to get his invention outside so he could drive it.

This was one of my favorite exhibits in the whole museum. Here you see two young women assembling a Model T Ford from the ground up. At this point in the build, one woman is under the car with a slender steel rod, inserting it through a hole in the frame so she could line up the mounting holes for the frame and body. Evidently once the car is assembled, they then disassemble the car in the same order in which they assembled it. I asked them what the record was for assembling the T, and they said they thought that one of the other teams had done it in 26 minutes. I was impressed with this display, not just because someone had suggested it as a great addition to the museum, but because they had women as well as men involved. In our society, a reverence for mechanical ability has been largely forgotten. Here at the Henry Ford Museum, that ability sat in the front row. Kudos to everyone involved!

Everyone probably recognizes the Wright Flyer. This plane is not the original as the original went to England, and later came back to the Smithsonian as an incomplete plane. Nevertheless, the flyer is such an astounding piece of work that even a replica is humbling to view and think about. The Wright Flyer was the first successful heavier-than-air powered aircraft. Designed and built by the Wright brothers, it flew four times on December 17, 1903, near Kill Devil Hills, about four miles south of Kitty Hawk, North Carolina.

From the web I learned that: "The Flyer I had a wooden frame in which the straight parts were spruce and the curved parts ash. The frame was covered with a finely-woven cotton cloth and was sealed with "canvas paint" similar to what sailors in Kitty Hawk used on their sails, probably paraffin dissolved in kerosene. The metal fittings were made from mild steel and the aircraft was rigged with15-gauge bicycle spoke wire. The engine block was cast from a hard aluminum alloy, 92% aluminum and 8% copper. The other parts of the engine were made from steel or cast iron, with the exception of the spark points which contained tiny bits of platinum."

"This was the only aircraft the Wrights tried to preserve. Damaged by wind after 4th flight, they returned it to Dayton; Orville restored it in 1916 and sent it to the Kensington Science Museum in London, England in 1928. It was returned to the United States in 1948 and since 1949 the Smithsonian has displayed it as the world's first piloted powered airplane."

You can't help but put yourself in the place of Wilbur or Orville, prone on that wing, knowing full well that actually getting the plane airborne could ultimately result in one of their deaths that day. The brothers were two of the emerging mechanical geniuses of their day, and it certainly humbles me to think about how far we've come since that miraculous day in 1903 when the two brothers proved once and for all that man would fly. Thrilling!

This airplane hanging the ceiling in the Henry Ford Museum is a DC3. Here's Wikipedia's blurb on DC3's history: "the Douglas DC-3 is a fixed-wing propeller-driven airliner that revolutionized air transport in the 1930s and 1940s. Its lasting effect on the airline industry and World War II makes it one of the most significant transport aircraft ever produced.

It has a cruise speed of 207 mph; capacity of 21 to 32 passengers or 6,000 lbs (2,700 kg) of cargo; and a range of 1,500 mi. The DC-3 is a twin-engine metal monoplane with a tailwheel-type landing gear and was developed as a larger, improved 14-bed sleeper version of the Douglas DC-2. It had many exceptional qualities compared to previous aircraft. It was fast, had good range, and could operate from short runways. It was reliable and easy to maintain and carried passengers in greater comfort. Before the war it pioneered many air travel routes. It could cross the continental United States and made worldwide flights possible. It is considered the first airliner that could profitably carry just passengers.

Civil DC-3 production ended in 1942 at 607 aircraft. Military versions, including the C-47 Skytrain (designated the Dakota in British Royal Air Force (RAF) service), and Russian- and Japanese-built versions, brought total production to over 16,000. Following the war, the airliner market was flooded with surplus C-47s and other ex-military transport aircraft, and Douglas' attempts to produce an upgraded DC-3 failed due to cost.

Post-war, the DC-3 was made obsolete on main routes by more advanced types such as the Douglas DC-6 and Lockheed Constellation, but the design proved exceptionally adaptable and useful. Large numbers continue to see service in a wide variety of niche roles well into the 21st century. In 2013 it was estimated that approximately 2,000 DC-3s and military derivatives were still flying, a testament to the durability of the design

During my three years in the Naval Air Corp I only flew on the military equivalent of the DC3. It was during my enlistment period that Native Americans began "occupying" closed military bases. They had taken over Alcatraz Island in San Francisco Bay at one point, and the Navy was afraid that they would try to occupy the closed Naval Air Station in Minneapolis/Saint Paul in Minnesota. I was based in Chicago, Illinois, and the Navy decided that sailors from our base would be flown to the NAS Twin Cities to guard against any such takeover. That's when I got to ride on one of these twin-engine, cargo carrying, planes.

If I remember correctly, the Navy was in such a sweat to get us up there that they loaded us into the plane at night and flew us out. There were no seats in the plane, so we got to sit on paratrooper benches on either side of the fuselage. Thinking back, I remember that plane ride as the most bumping bit of air travel I'd ever experienced. It was as if we were rolling to Twin Cities on square tires. I not sure if it was air turbulence or rough engines or what, but we were all extremely glad to touch down and get off that plane.

That was true until we learned that we would be standing guard around the perimeter of the base while a cold, incessant northern rain fell upon us. I don't remember how many days and nights we stayed, I don't think it was very long, but I sure remember that plane ride to this day.

I posted this photo because it hearkens back to my childhood. As you can see, pictured is the very first of Bob's restaurants that eventually blossomed into a restaurant empire known as the "Bob's Big Boy." When the Davis family went out for a burger in the 1950s, Bob's is traditionally where we went.

So when I became a teenager and wanted to take the '57 Chevy out with the guys and have a burger, Bob's was where I went. My opinion was then, and I suspect it still holds true, the Bob's three-bun, two pattie work of art was the greatest. Combine it with their outstanding fries, and you have a kid's dream come true. But wait, there's more. The final item I needed in order to make my meal complete was Bob's silver-goblet, triple-think shake with a dollop whipped cream and a juicy cherry on top. Back then, I'm sure that I was firmly convinced that God himself could not have come up with a more enticing thing to do with ice cream. I always, ALWAYS ordered the strawberry, and if I remember correctly brother Cliff always had the chocolate. Who knows what our parents had as I was lost in paradise from the moment I entered the restaurant.