Locomotive to the Past by George Schultz (iphone ebook reader .TXT) 📕

The Motor City had always received the CBC games—from Maple Leaf Gardens, in Toronto! These contests were brilliantly described by Foster Hewitt—who was on his way to becoming the “Granddaddy of All Hockey Announcers”. The Maple Leafs and Canadiens played, at home, literally every Saturday. Hockey Night In Canada—broadcasting, from each of the cities—had been a “biggie”, for years! From the mid-thirties on!

Eric had mentioned that he “almost” knew more—about the Toronto roster,—than the Red Wings’ personnel. Because of all those great Hewitt, Saturday night broadcasts. He seldom missed one of the Leafs’ games, on radio.

What he didn’t mention was the fact that his lovely wife had always, in all probability, indulged his passion—rigorously. Mostly by attending 12 or 15 games a season—with him. Jason had the feeling that Susan was happy with Our Hero’s decision—to attend the game, with Eric. The pairing had, he thought, “spared” the woman. Relieved her—of another “dutiful” night out. Had gotten her—maybe—“off the hook”.

When Jason had phoned Valerie—on the three nights, following their “date” at the confectionary—he’d been somewhat surprised to find that they’d wound up, talking on the phone, for almost an hour. In each and every instance! He couldn’t have imagined, that he’d be able to converse with this wonderful young woman—or anyone else—for anywhere nearly as long, as he’d, so pleasantly, conversed with Valerie!

He’d also been surprised—to find the Atkinson’s phone number printed in the middle of their rotary dial phone. When did that stop? Probably, he thought, it happened when the exchanges—like the Atkninsons’ Vermont number—had vanished, from the picture.

Upon having come home—on that magical Sunday night—Our Boy had made a supreme effort to, “study” the radio shows, to which Susan and Eric were listening. In addition to Jack Benny and The Fitch Band Wagon and Edgar Bergen & Charley McCarthy and One Man’s Family, he gave his undivided attention to Manhattan Merry Go Round which came on, at nine o’clock. That seemed to please Susan.

The musical show featured Thomas L. Thomas—a tenor with whom Jason was totally unfamiliar. At nine-thirty, NBC had always broadcast The Bayer Album Of Familiar Music—which had starred Evelyn McGregor and Donald Dame. (Two more talented people—that he’d never heard of.)

At ten o’clock it was The Hour Of Charm—which starred Phil Spitalne and his “All-Girl Orchestra”. That had also been a bit of a surprise. The show featured “Evelyn And Her Magic Violin”—Spitalne’s wife. Each of these “schmaltzy” musical shows turned out to be most enjoyable.

Our Boy was well aware, of the fact that, his newest acquaintance had advised him—that she’d loved the many musical programs, featured so widely, on the “wireless”. She was especially fond of The Voice Of Firestone on Monday nights—and Bing Crosby’s Kraft Music Hall on Thursday. But, she’d also enjoyed Waltz Time, on Fridays, which starred Frank Munn—“The Tenor With A Tear In His Voice”—on Fridays, and The Pet Milk Hour on Saturday nights. (A bit of a conflict with Hockey Night In Canada—which, usually, was blaring from the Atkinson radio.)

Jason had remembered his grandfather mentioning Jessica Dragonette, and Hollis Shaw, from the latter show. Grandpa had said that he’d once actually met Gus Henshen, who, for years, had conducted the program’s orchestra. According to Grandpa, Mr. Henshen had gone on to become “a really big wheel”, with NBC.

The young man was certainly aware of the fact that Valerie was, what would be called—referred to, in his “home epoch”—as a “radio freak”. As stated, she’d seemed to—especially—like the musical shows. So, her new acquaintance did his best to remember who-sang-what, on the three Sunday night musical shows. The devoted “homework” would provide a lot of grist—for the, always-satisfying, conversational, mill—, while on the phone, with this special lady.

“I think that our little boy is growing up,” Susan had remarked—after Jason had hung up, after his latest “marathon”, on Wednesday night.

“I think our little boy… is in love,” augmented Eric—with the most “evil” laugh, their roomer had ever heard.

The comments had made Jason blush—brightly. He was glad that neither one, of this dear couple, had chosen to comment, on his embarrassed reaction. His grandfather had once informed him that, “I never blush… it’s too embarrassing.” On the other hand, from the nineties on—and probably well before that—the lad had noted, no one seemed to blush. Ever! A lost art?

Thursday night came! And Jason and Eric were headed down Grand River—in the latter’s neat Nash. Our Hero was to learn—that Eric never ate dinner, on these “hockey nights”. His wife’s cooking was such that one, without fail, needed an exceedingly long time—to devote, to purely enjoying the, always-splendid, repast! A good deal more—than would ever be allowed—when “puck droppage” would take place, at seven-thirty.

The two men had barely been afforded time enough to get home, change clothes, pile back into the nifty car—then, take off, for Olympia Stadium.

The Olympia!!! The hallowed, sanctified, Olympia! Grandpa Piepczyk had spoken—often (what else?)—about “The Big Red Barn”, at Grand River and McGraw. Sadly, It had been torn down, in 1986. The last season that the Red Wings had played there had been the 1978-79 campaign.

Jason thought that he’d had a few vague memories—of having actually seen (actually beheld) the wonderful arena. He was certain that his grandfather must have driven by it, with him—when he was small. But, he’d been only seven—when that almost-religious “shrine” had, “sorrowfully” (quoth Grandpa) bitten the dust.

The old man had taken him—probably, a dozen times—to the dazzling Joe Louis Arena, downtown, on the riverfront. But, the elderly one had always maintained—that the new place didn’t hold “all that much pizzazz”. (That word again.) This was his—oft-stated—opinion.

“It ain’t nothing . . . like the Olympia,” he’d always maintained. “Nothing like it!” It had always sounded more like a lament (or a growl)—than any kind of pronouncement.

“There was always the ghosts,” he’d never ceased to maintain. “Ghosts of Gordie Howe… and Ted Lindsay! They were always there! And Sid Abel and Terry Sawchuck… and, oh, Jack Stewart and Bill Quackenbush! They haunted