40StudeDude
10-08-2004, 08:35 PM
BURMA SHAVE
Ballser rolled into town one weekend...following the moving van...didn’t see it but sure couldn’t miss his car...couldn’t help it. Never saw a blacker or smoother sled in my young life...it was obvious that car wasn’t built or painted by a 17 year old...it rumbled past me as I stood on the corner, watched those Fiesta spinners glint in the sunlight.
Met him the following week, during school registration...as he was falling out of that extremely low ’49 Olds fastback..the interior was white rolls and pleats with blue piping...and trash all over the floor...looked like he’d lived in it. I never could understand how could anyone treat a gorgeous car that way. I’d find out later that he was a klutz...a full-on klutz...no matter what he did it would all go to hell if he had anything to do with it, including that Olds his Dad had bought for his 16th birthday.
“Drinking Drivers, Nothing Worse. He put the quart before the Hearse.” Burma Shave
Remember those signs? Maybe not…they were posted on farm properties throughout the Midwest...usually four or five small signs, about two foot by four foot, and spaced apart, so they could be read thru the bugs on the windshield of a car going about 60 miles per hour on a two-lane and, of course, the obligatory “sponsor” of those signs was always posted at the end...the Burma Shave Company...a business out of Illinois.
“It’s Best For One, Who Hits The Bottle, To Let Another, Use The Throttle.” Burma Shave
Most of the signs were red with white letters...the ones I remember were. As history now shows us, they started springing up in the late twenties as an advertising ploy and lasted until sometime in 1963. Ultimately, there were about 7000 different verses posted in forty of the United States...most in the Midwest...the later signs always carried some kind of moral to the message. I don’t remember ever running a two-lane in Iowa in the 60’s that didn’t have any of the signs, attached atop fence posts, alongside the highways...always caught my eye, whether I was driving or riding.
“Statistics Prove, Near & Far, That Folks Who, Drive Like Crazy — ARE!” Burma Shave
“I hate them things,” Balls said...his nickname...females called him Kelly, his given name. With an unusual name, and a bitchin’ car, Kelly’s handsome face and deep voice could charm most of them right out of their…uhm, well, you get the idea. But that wasn’t important to him, he always had girls in his car...always had one or two hanging on him...he wasn’t like most of us that had to work at even getting a female to talk to us.
“Those verses are sooooo stupid, who writes them?” he asked me one Saturday afternoon while we were out killing time, screwing around...nothing to do. The signs appeared one by one as we topped the hill and started down. He’d just finished off his third beer, saw the signs and slowed the Olds. “I’ve got to fix those.”
He pulled the car off to the side of the road, kicked it into neutral and got out. “What’re ya doing?” I asked, not really sure becuz I hadn’t been running around with him that long.
“Hang on a minnit,” he said.
OK, guess I will. I got out, slipped down into the ditch...too many beers already...I had my back to the car, doing my thing, when the blast went off, scared me good...got my denims wet. I heard cussing. “What the hell?” I shouted, zipping up and turning to see him bring up a double-barreled shotgun, leveling it across the hood of the Olds...aiming at the fence posts.
“Damn-near got the front tire...keep forgetting this thing’s got a hair trigger,” he said, taking aim at one red & white sign. “And I ain’t got a spare tire.”
Shocked? Sure...he didn’t strike me as someone that would destroy property…just goes to show you can’t figure everyone out. To my surprise, I found out he figured it was his duty to rid the highways and fields of those Burma Shave signs and always carried that double-barreled shotgun in the trunk of his Olds. Most of the signs were out away from a farmer’s homestead...so when he stopped alongside the road, the shotgun blast, most times, couldn’t be heard...or if it was, the hills, curves, cornfields and woods would muffle the sound and it would echo thru the hills, no one would know which direction it came from. Most times he’d blow away only two of the signs...he didn’t want to take a chance on standing there reloading, putting six shells in the chambers...“Way too much noise,” he told me, bending to pick up his spent shells. “Hey, just got an idea: Dad’s got another double-barreled, you can stand alongside me and we can get four signs before we need to move on. You game?”
Uhmmm, no. I’d already seen enuff...don’t think I want any part of this...with two shotguns, four 16 gauge shells and one of us a genuine klutz, I figured someone was going to get blasted...didn’t want it to be me. “Naw, never fired a double-barreled (which was a small white lie)...ain’t gonna start now.” I got back in the car and closed the door….figured that was the safest place...he really loved that car.
Every time the signs were replaced, Balls would make it a point to “remove” them...one more time...always had that shotgun in the trunk. I knew he was gonna get caught, sooner or later...with my luck, I’d get a ticket for being an accessory...
We got way too close early one evening...I’m standing on the passenger’s side, door open when both shotgun blasts go off, not that far from my ears. Damn, that’s loud! Two signs in the middle of five disappear. Balls kicked the empties from the breech, picked them up and slipped the shotgun behind the spare tire. I notice this fairly new Buick coming over the top of the hill behind us. “Hurry up, Balls, we got company.” The Buick’s horn starts honking like crazy and headlights flashing...I’m thinkin’ it may be one of the county’s volunteer firemen in a hurry to a fire somewhere...that is, until he dropped off the edge of the highway, slowed a bit and stuck his head out the window yelling: “Hey, don’t you move that car!”
Uh-oh, busted! Never saw a klutz move so fast -- whump: trunk‘s closed. Click/clump: door opens/closes. Whing/varrroom: engine starts. tink/tink/shatink/shhhhh/waaaa-aaaaaah, gravel kicks against the inner fenders and the car accelerates in a cloud of dust...the Old’s acceleration was awesome, threw me back in the seat and when the rear tires caught concrete the old bias ply whitewalls bawled in agony...once we were flying, I turned and looked out the rear window...the dust cloud thinned, the Buick was rolling but quite a ways behind us and we were gaining ground. It didn’t take long...for a true klutz, Balls sure could drive that fastback...I was impressed. Would the farmer turn us in?
Some weeks later, in school, I heard a bit of bad news: Balls had been shot while ‘hunting’...wasn’t really a shock to everyone around school, seeing how he was such a klutz, but you know how gossip is...no one really knew what happened, where he’d been shot or how serious it was. I’d quit running around with Balls after we’d nearly gotten caught so I wasn’t any more privy to what happened than anyone else...Friday evening, my usual curiosity got the best of me, I decided to go by his house.
His story went something like this: He’d been out cruising the two-lanes by himself when he noticed they’d repaired the signs he’d blasted while I was with him...he’d parked in the same spot and was preparing to ‘rid’ the countryside of two more “ugly” signs. Apparently he was so engrossed he didn’t hear the County Sheriff roll up behind him. The Sheriff blipped his siren just a Balls raised the gun over the hood...scared him good and its’ hair trigger fired, one side of the double-barreled cleaned off the gorgeous blak paint on the front fender...his right foot caught a good portion of the ricocheting pellets. As he fell, the shotgun banged on the hood and went off again – punched a neat hole in the top of the driver’s side windshield, went clear thru the white rolled and pleated headliner and punched a fist sized hole, outward, on driver’s side roof. The Sheriff had to call for an ambulance and a tow truk and Balls spent two days in the hospital.
He asked if I wanted to see the car...hobbled out to the garage, on crutches, and held the door...the Olds was definitely one hurtin’ unit...doubt he’d be driving it anytime soon...even if he could. I said goodbye, got in my ’57 and chuckled about the whole thing all the way home. Later that evening, at the A & W, my friend, Bob, asked me if I knew where the signs were Balls had taken out...seems someone had replaced them in the last few days...he and I drove out to see them. Along the two-lane, nailed atop fence-posts, someone had hastily painted four white & red signs:
"Sad to say, Balls had his day, nothing left to save, shot his foot destroying Burma Shave"
Balls and his family moved out of my home town after little less than a year...never saw him after that.
Ballser rolled into town one weekend...following the moving van...didn’t see it but sure couldn’t miss his car...couldn’t help it. Never saw a blacker or smoother sled in my young life...it was obvious that car wasn’t built or painted by a 17 year old...it rumbled past me as I stood on the corner, watched those Fiesta spinners glint in the sunlight.
Met him the following week, during school registration...as he was falling out of that extremely low ’49 Olds fastback..the interior was white rolls and pleats with blue piping...and trash all over the floor...looked like he’d lived in it. I never could understand how could anyone treat a gorgeous car that way. I’d find out later that he was a klutz...a full-on klutz...no matter what he did it would all go to hell if he had anything to do with it, including that Olds his Dad had bought for his 16th birthday.
“Drinking Drivers, Nothing Worse. He put the quart before the Hearse.” Burma Shave
Remember those signs? Maybe not…they were posted on farm properties throughout the Midwest...usually four or five small signs, about two foot by four foot, and spaced apart, so they could be read thru the bugs on the windshield of a car going about 60 miles per hour on a two-lane and, of course, the obligatory “sponsor” of those signs was always posted at the end...the Burma Shave Company...a business out of Illinois.
“It’s Best For One, Who Hits The Bottle, To Let Another, Use The Throttle.” Burma Shave
Most of the signs were red with white letters...the ones I remember were. As history now shows us, they started springing up in the late twenties as an advertising ploy and lasted until sometime in 1963. Ultimately, there were about 7000 different verses posted in forty of the United States...most in the Midwest...the later signs always carried some kind of moral to the message. I don’t remember ever running a two-lane in Iowa in the 60’s that didn’t have any of the signs, attached atop fence posts, alongside the highways...always caught my eye, whether I was driving or riding.
“Statistics Prove, Near & Far, That Folks Who, Drive Like Crazy — ARE!” Burma Shave
“I hate them things,” Balls said...his nickname...females called him Kelly, his given name. With an unusual name, and a bitchin’ car, Kelly’s handsome face and deep voice could charm most of them right out of their…uhm, well, you get the idea. But that wasn’t important to him, he always had girls in his car...always had one or two hanging on him...he wasn’t like most of us that had to work at even getting a female to talk to us.
“Those verses are sooooo stupid, who writes them?” he asked me one Saturday afternoon while we were out killing time, screwing around...nothing to do. The signs appeared one by one as we topped the hill and started down. He’d just finished off his third beer, saw the signs and slowed the Olds. “I’ve got to fix those.”
He pulled the car off to the side of the road, kicked it into neutral and got out. “What’re ya doing?” I asked, not really sure becuz I hadn’t been running around with him that long.
“Hang on a minnit,” he said.
OK, guess I will. I got out, slipped down into the ditch...too many beers already...I had my back to the car, doing my thing, when the blast went off, scared me good...got my denims wet. I heard cussing. “What the hell?” I shouted, zipping up and turning to see him bring up a double-barreled shotgun, leveling it across the hood of the Olds...aiming at the fence posts.
“Damn-near got the front tire...keep forgetting this thing’s got a hair trigger,” he said, taking aim at one red & white sign. “And I ain’t got a spare tire.”
Shocked? Sure...he didn’t strike me as someone that would destroy property…just goes to show you can’t figure everyone out. To my surprise, I found out he figured it was his duty to rid the highways and fields of those Burma Shave signs and always carried that double-barreled shotgun in the trunk of his Olds. Most of the signs were out away from a farmer’s homestead...so when he stopped alongside the road, the shotgun blast, most times, couldn’t be heard...or if it was, the hills, curves, cornfields and woods would muffle the sound and it would echo thru the hills, no one would know which direction it came from. Most times he’d blow away only two of the signs...he didn’t want to take a chance on standing there reloading, putting six shells in the chambers...“Way too much noise,” he told me, bending to pick up his spent shells. “Hey, just got an idea: Dad’s got another double-barreled, you can stand alongside me and we can get four signs before we need to move on. You game?”
Uhmmm, no. I’d already seen enuff...don’t think I want any part of this...with two shotguns, four 16 gauge shells and one of us a genuine klutz, I figured someone was going to get blasted...didn’t want it to be me. “Naw, never fired a double-barreled (which was a small white lie)...ain’t gonna start now.” I got back in the car and closed the door….figured that was the safest place...he really loved that car.
Every time the signs were replaced, Balls would make it a point to “remove” them...one more time...always had that shotgun in the trunk. I knew he was gonna get caught, sooner or later...with my luck, I’d get a ticket for being an accessory...
We got way too close early one evening...I’m standing on the passenger’s side, door open when both shotgun blasts go off, not that far from my ears. Damn, that’s loud! Two signs in the middle of five disappear. Balls kicked the empties from the breech, picked them up and slipped the shotgun behind the spare tire. I notice this fairly new Buick coming over the top of the hill behind us. “Hurry up, Balls, we got company.” The Buick’s horn starts honking like crazy and headlights flashing...I’m thinkin’ it may be one of the county’s volunteer firemen in a hurry to a fire somewhere...that is, until he dropped off the edge of the highway, slowed a bit and stuck his head out the window yelling: “Hey, don’t you move that car!”
Uh-oh, busted! Never saw a klutz move so fast -- whump: trunk‘s closed. Click/clump: door opens/closes. Whing/varrroom: engine starts. tink/tink/shatink/shhhhh/waaaa-aaaaaah, gravel kicks against the inner fenders and the car accelerates in a cloud of dust...the Old’s acceleration was awesome, threw me back in the seat and when the rear tires caught concrete the old bias ply whitewalls bawled in agony...once we were flying, I turned and looked out the rear window...the dust cloud thinned, the Buick was rolling but quite a ways behind us and we were gaining ground. It didn’t take long...for a true klutz, Balls sure could drive that fastback...I was impressed. Would the farmer turn us in?
Some weeks later, in school, I heard a bit of bad news: Balls had been shot while ‘hunting’...wasn’t really a shock to everyone around school, seeing how he was such a klutz, but you know how gossip is...no one really knew what happened, where he’d been shot or how serious it was. I’d quit running around with Balls after we’d nearly gotten caught so I wasn’t any more privy to what happened than anyone else...Friday evening, my usual curiosity got the best of me, I decided to go by his house.
His story went something like this: He’d been out cruising the two-lanes by himself when he noticed they’d repaired the signs he’d blasted while I was with him...he’d parked in the same spot and was preparing to ‘rid’ the countryside of two more “ugly” signs. Apparently he was so engrossed he didn’t hear the County Sheriff roll up behind him. The Sheriff blipped his siren just a Balls raised the gun over the hood...scared him good and its’ hair trigger fired, one side of the double-barreled cleaned off the gorgeous blak paint on the front fender...his right foot caught a good portion of the ricocheting pellets. As he fell, the shotgun banged on the hood and went off again – punched a neat hole in the top of the driver’s side windshield, went clear thru the white rolled and pleated headliner and punched a fist sized hole, outward, on driver’s side roof. The Sheriff had to call for an ambulance and a tow truk and Balls spent two days in the hospital.
He asked if I wanted to see the car...hobbled out to the garage, on crutches, and held the door...the Olds was definitely one hurtin’ unit...doubt he’d be driving it anytime soon...even if he could. I said goodbye, got in my ’57 and chuckled about the whole thing all the way home. Later that evening, at the A & W, my friend, Bob, asked me if I knew where the signs were Balls had taken out...seems someone had replaced them in the last few days...he and I drove out to see them. Along the two-lane, nailed atop fence-posts, someone had hastily painted four white & red signs:
"Sad to say, Balls had his day, nothing left to save, shot his foot destroying Burma Shave"
Balls and his family moved out of my home town after little less than a year...never saw him after that.