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WW2 Homemade Racer

Being a young boy growing up during WW2 found yourself without lots on your wish list. A cart, sled, pedal car, or anything made of steel was impossible to have unless it was a hand-me-down. The best place to find a treasure was the dump, the “weekend store,” usually with a  broken or missing a part.

Being a country boy with a clever father, many finds could be repaired. Cast away baby carriages would supply the wheels and axles for a wagon or push car racer. The hardware to hold a cart project together — nails, screws — all had to be on hand. Nothing came from the hardware store or the lumber yard. All was found, and at no cost.

My first wartime toy was a race car that mostly got pushed up and down Station Street. The wheels came from a cast-off wagon. The front wheels were on a pivot for steering. A rope tied to each side of the axle: a pull on the left rope turned you left, and so on. The rear wheels had rub sticks for braking. If you were lucky they slowed the racer slightly. The hood was from a steel barrel. One would sit straight-legged into the barrel, and lean against a back support.

That’s me, 10 years old in my racer.

On occasion we would haul it to Seager’s Hill. Steering was a feat and stopping was impossible.
Crashing was inevitable! Most of the crashes were rolling on its side. No helmet, no safety belt, no elbow pads. I hauled my racer home numerous times with bent wheels! I have no idea why none of us got hurt coasting that hill!

by Ray Freden  Seaview/Marshfield, 70 years

“There are memories that time does not erase.” – Cassandra Clare

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Special Times and Foods

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Both my Mom and Dad’s parents were Swedish immigrants. Dad had told me that the Swedish language was not allowed around the children. However his parents would use Swedish in their evening conversations. Only a few words and phrases could Dad remember. He referred to himself as a “Svenska Pojke,” (Swedish Boy) and Mom as a “Svenska Flicka.” He would use “Tack Sa Myket” (thank you very much) often. There were a few more phrases that have slipped away from me.
At Thanksgiving and Christmas time, both parents had favorite Swedish foods. A braided Swedish coffee bread was always on the table at breakfast, sometimes in the shape of a wreath.

 

                        Kanebulla, (cinnamon buns) were also a breakfast treat. 
Spritz cookies were a favorite of mine at Christmas time, and still are.
Swedish Limpa bread (Wort Loaf) would also be made by Mom.
Swedish meatballs with gravy, served over mashed potatoes, was always welcome.
 
A note here: never, never would I let the peas touch the mashed potatoes. Nothing could touch anything! Boy how things have changed. Oh how I remember picking the onions out of spaghetti sauce — no onions for me.
I wrote about Knackebrod, crisp bread, published 2/21/11.
 
It was seldom that this crisp bread wasn’t in the cupboard for a snack with cream cheese or blue cheese as a spread. It was my job to mash the wedge of blue cheese with milk to make it spreadable. To this day, it’s still my job to mash the  blue cheese wedge, and my job to consume the whole damn thing!
At New Years Eve bedtime, my Mom would leave a bowl of porridge for the” Tomte” or “Nisse.” This little creature lived in the cellar and looked over us during night time. I never saw him, nor was I afraid of him. I always wondered where he ate the rest of the year.
Thanks to the “Nisse” our holidays during the Great Depression and WW2, were happy ones.

 

“Nothing is really lost to us as long as we remember it.” – L. M. Montgomery. The Story Girl.
by Ray Freden, Seaview/ Marshfield, 70 years.
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The Longest Winter Coast

In the winter, sled coasting seemed as important as bike riding in the summer.

My sledding story of 1/20/13, “The Winter Days of Sledding,” brought me back to the most memorable coasting I ever had. At age 10 or so, I knew the Flexible Flyer sled was the best of the bestest! I remember outgrowing it and asking Santa for a new bigger Flexible Flyer sled.

 

A Christmas or two came and went, although there were gifts, there was no Flexible Flyer! Yes, there were wet eyes. My Dad explained it was war time and certain things were not available. Oh well, I’ll have to make do with I have.
On a Christmas school vacation week, sledding was most every day. Yes, some kids had new sleds. The New Year’s weekend was coming up, and the coasting was great. On New Year’s morning, as Dad was cooking breakfast, he looked at me and asked, “Why didn’t you put your sled away last night?”
I was puzzled. I responded, “I did.”
“No you didn’t,” Dad said. “Go look.”

As I neared the back door, I could see something sticking up in the snow – it kinda looked like my sled. But then, WOW! I saw a big, shiny sled! 

I ran out of the porch, no jacket or boots, grabbed the sled out of the snow bank, and dragged it into the porch!
It wasn’t a Flexible Flyer, but a big, long, sleek, brand new Champion sled! Oh, I could hardly wait to get to the hill to show off my Champion.
“But wait,” Dad said, “It’s not broken in!” 
“Huh?” I said. “Whata-I-hafta-do, Dad?”

He showed me how to polish the runners and wax them. I rubbed and rubbed them with a broken piece of sharpening stone, and waxed them with paraffin wax.

Oh boy, it sure ran fast on my little back yard hill! Now, off to the big hill on Summer Street.

Skippy and the Champion waiting to go sledding.’

 Yes, it was fast! And it was faster than any sled on the hill that day!

A winter or so later, we had a very snowy winter. A foot or more snow crusted over, so it could be walked on without breaking through. Word got out that Doroni’s hill on Pleasant Street was great sledding, and it sure was.

One weekend, the area kids gathered to race down that tomato field on top of a frozen crust. Franky C. had a long rope attached to his tractor and would pull us back up after a run. Not only did we have a sled tow, but on break, we could run across the street for an ice cream at the Peacock Tearoom. (See my blog of 4/21/08.)

 Late on Sunday afternoon, I prepared for my last run. I waxed the runners, ran, and flopped on my Champion. I sped down that hill, a right turn onto Pleasant Street, down Pleasant Street, a sharp corner to the left and a long straight run to Summer Street.

 

And a long straight run to Summer Street

 Back then, the roads were not sanded. It seemed I’d never stop coasting! When I approached Summer Street, I slid to a stop into Gino Rugani’s parking lot. I sat up, looking back at the hill in disbelief. It seemed like I just coasted a mile! That never happened again in my days of coasting.

by Ray Freden

 

Seaview, Marshfield 70 years

“Write what should not be forgotten.” – Isabel Allende.