It Isn't a Bus: Pioneering Motorhomers Cross the Usa

It Isn’t A Bus

Pioneering Motorhomers Cross

the USA

Martha French Patterson

and

Sally Patterson Tubach

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

© 2006 Martha French Patterson and Sally Patterson Tubach. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 3/24/2006

Library of Congress Control Number: 2005908208

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

FOREWORD

CHAPTER ONE

LIFE BEFORE THE BUS

CHAPTER TWO

PAT BRINGS HOME A BOMBER

CHAPTER THREE

LIFE IN THE TOWN DUMP

CHAPTER FOUR

THE WRECKED BUS

CHAPTER FIVE

THE BIRTH OF OUR BOUSE

CHAPTER SIX

EASTWARD HO!

CHAPTER SEVEN

LAKE MEAD

CHAPTER EIGHT

I DRIVE; THE CLUTCH EXPLODES

CHAPTER NINE

STRANDED IN THE DESERT

CHAPTER TEN

LIFE AMONG THE HUALAPAIS

CHAPTER ELEVEN

OUR SECOND START

CHAPTER TWELVE

MISS WINROD, OUR HITCHHIKER

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

MISS WINROD DEPARTS IN A HEARSE

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

FIREFLIES, MOSQUITOS AND FRIENDS

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CATERPILLARS IN PEORIA AND BEAUTIFUL OHIO

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

PENNSYLVANIA TURNPIKE TERROR

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

OUR NATION’S CAPITAL

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

FERRIES TO MANHATTAN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

WE START BACK

CHAPTER TWENTY

WELCOME TO WASHBURN!

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

BOREDOM AND DANGERS

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

SURPRISES IN SOUTH DAKOTA

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

COLORADO HIGHS

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

WE MADE IT!

EPILOGUE

ADDENDUM

ELLA FRENCH’S DIARY OF HER FAMILY’S MOVE FROM ST. PARIS, OHIO TO VENICE, CALIFORNIA IN SEPTEMBER, 1921²⁶

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

NOTES

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

FOREWORD

It was the summer of 1951 and I was only five years old. Squirming with excitement, I sat next to my mother in the front row of seats. My two older brothers sat across the aisle behind our father. From the driver’s seat, he gave a blast of the air horn as we started out from southern California for the east coast in our big red and white bus that was equipped with beds, stove, refrigerator and black and yellow ruffled curtains. I thought this was perfectly normal. But soon I noticed that everyone stared and pointed at our vehicle and wondered what we were doing. This made me feel really proud. I didn’t realize it, but we were pioneers in motorhoming.

This was not the first challenging journey for my parents. My mother’s family had come west from Ohio in the summer of 1921. She was six years old when her family drove their Jeffrey Touring Car to Venice, California. Loaded down with belongings, five-gallon gasoline cans on the running boards, canvas bags of water hanging on the frame of their collapsible fabric roof, two spare tires, a tire pump and isinglass side curtains to snap on against the rain, the Jeffrey was hardly more than a covered wagon. But at least it had a motor. In the evenings they built campfires and cooked on a camp stove. My grandparents slept in a tent on the ground, and my mother and her younger brother slept in the Jeffrey. Whenever they could, her family traveled together with other migrating families for safety and to help each other ford streams and repair breakdowns. They tried to average 100 miles a day, mostly on two-lane dirt and gravel roads, and arrived in California after 26 days.¹

My father came west from Iowa on a motorcycle in 1934, during the Great Depression. At night he drained gas into his tank that remained in the hose loops on the old-fashioned gasoline pumps to gain extra mileage free of charge.

By 1951 my parents, Charles (Pat) and Martha Patterson, had been married for thirteen years and had three children. My mother wasn’t keen on traveling with children, but my Dad insisted that travel would be educational for us. This proved to be true. But he was also dying for the chance to indulge in his engineer’s passion for vehicles and to test his ingenuity.

My mother’s account of our family’s adventure has allowed me to see my five-year-old self, my older brothers and my engineer father through her eyes. Based on her journal of this trip and her letters home, her story conjures up an America that was more innocent and less regulated and in which husbands and wives rarely questioned their roles. People were not afraid to invite strangers into their private space, and no one thought twice about powering large vehicles with abundant fossil fuels—except for my Dad. He thought about the future and created a hybrid housecar that could run on both gasoline and butane gas, because the latter ran cleaner and cheaper in our bus’s powerful Buick engine.

Since 1951 much has changed, but many things have remained the same. The magnificent American landscape is still vast and varied. On warm summer evenings in the Midwest, kids still gather fireflies in jars to make lamps, and the country is still full of colorful characters and unconventional individualists. Long distance travel and wide-open spaces have been central to the American experience. On the road still has a powerful allure, and the spirit of our family’s long trip is something that my brothers and I have retained throughout our lives. Whatever this journey meant for us, it was my father’s uncommon vision that made it possible.

But now, jump on board, sit back and take a ride into the past with my mom and us on the bus that wasn’t a bus.

Sally Patterson Tubach, Orinda, 2006

CHAPTER ONE

LIFE BEFORE THE BUS

Martha, Martha, wake up!

My mother’s agitated voice broke into my pleasant dream. I sat up in bed. She thrust the front page of the Los Angeles Times at me.

Pat’s glider crashed yesterday.

I looked at the picture of Pat’s home-built glider. One wing tip almost touched the ground as if poised to cartwheel onto the weed-covered field.

Oh no, I thought, I can’t lose Pat. I was in love with him.

It was August of 1937. I was a twenty-two year old graduate of UCLA but with no job, and Charles Everett Patterson, whom everyone called Pat, was my boyfriend. A daredevil with a mischievous smile, he loved motorcycles, model A and T Fords, and gliders. He was handsome, taller than average, with dark hair and regular features, and he had already survived some hair-raising adventures by the time we met the year before, including two brushes with death. Small wonder I was impressed when he became interested in me, a conventional and inexperienced small-town girl.

Four years earlier in 1933 my father, Dr. Charles Smith French, had been killed in an automobile accident on Sunset Boulevard. It had been a terrible shock to my mother, my younger brother, Bud, and to me. My mother had lost her husband. Was I going to lose the man I wanted to marry?

Pat’s glider accident—from the Los Angeles Times

I snatched the paper from my mother and began to read the article. What a relief to learn that the pilot had escaped serious injury. The story told how Charles Patterson and some friends used a winch to tow the sailplane aloft at the Palos Verdes cliffs. Something went wrong during take-off and the plane was catapulted to the ground. Fortunately, the pilot had sustained only minor injuries, and the photo made it look more serious than it was.

The accident made Pat realize the hazards of the sport, so he wrote a will.

I willed my typewriter to you, he told me one night when we were parked in his Ford roadster at Will Rogers State Beach. It was early May of 1938, about nine months after his accident.

Thank you, but I hope you don’t die soon, I said.

I don’t expect to, but it never hurts to be prepared, he answered with typical rationality.

If you think you might be killed in an accident, would you please ask someone to let me know?

Apparently, this was the clue Pat needed. His blue eyes looked at me intently. Martha, if you are that concerned about me you must be pretty fond of me.

I’d be very upset if you were in another accident, especially a fatal one, my voice quavered.

Do you care enough about me, he asked cautiously, to spend the rest of our lives together?

I gasped. I had always feared that airplanes and gliders were his top priority. Now, it seemed, I had moved up from second to first place.

Yes, I do…if you feel the same about me.

I do, but I wasn’t sure how you felt until now.

I’ve loved you since three months after we met, I blurted out.

He put his arms around me. Then it looks as though we have a deal, he whispered in my ear.

I returned his embrace. It took you a long time to see the light.

When shall we get married? he asked.

Whenever you say. A vision leapt into my mind of Pat and me at the altar of the Pacific Palisades Methodist church, the seats filled with family and friends.

How about next weekend?

Next weekend? I gasped. That doesn’t give me much time to get ready.

What do you need to do? He gave me a quizzical look.

Send invitations, for one thing. I’d like to invite all my friends and relatives, I said dreamily, my head on Pat’s shoulder. How many guests will you want?

I don’t want any, he replied.

What? My head jerked upright.

I’d rather not have anyone but you and me.

But why? I’ve always thought a wedding was the time to invite all your friends.

I know. That’s what most people think, but I don’t agree. His tone was serious.

But why? I repeated, stunned.

I believe such a serious contract between two people should be a private affair. In our case, I think there are good reasons to avoid a large wedding.

What are they?

Our mothers.

I must have looked surprised.

Look, he explained, you know everyone in town. They would all expect to come to our wedding. That would be expensive. Since your mother’s a widow, it would be a financial burden on her. My mother is a manager. If she knew about it beforehand, she would rush out here from Iowa, plan everything and spoil the fun.

But what about my wedding dress?…and the flowers?…and the music?

I know, said Pat kindly, but I think it would be wiser to keep it small.

Darn! I thought. There goes my beautiful dream. I wanted to tell him about my fantasies of bridesmaids’ dresses, decorations, cake, friends and dancing, but I didn’t dare. He was eight years older than I was and so much more mature. He might think they were frivolous, or juvenile.

What kind of wedding do you have in mind? I asked slowly.

We could elope to Las Vegas. There’s no waiting period. We could get the license and be married on the same day.

I was shocked. What would people think?

It wouldn’t matter. No one would know until afterwards.

I wanted to marry Pat even more than I worried about what people thought. Anyway, why spend all that money on beautiful dresses and flowers and cake and pictures and music and friends and family? We decided to elope over the long Memorial Day weekend.

The third week in May we went to downtown Los Angeles to buy a couple of suitcases, my diamond engagement ring and the wedding ring. Through a cousin, Pat arranged to get a discount. Never, in the forty years I knew him, did Pat buy anything new if he could find something used that would do. If he was forced to buy something new, like my rings, he wanted a bargain. ² But I came without a discount. I was young, strong, healthy, fresh out of college, reasonably intelligent and un-used as a wife. In 1938 I was a slim, brown-eyed brunette, and, Pat claimed, beautiful.

He came for me Thursday evening of the Memorial Day weekend. We told my mother we were invited to Yosemite with Pat’s cousins, which was true. Instead, we headed east on Wilshire Boulevard to catch the eight o’clock train from Union Station that arrived in Las Vegas early the next morning. After the porter made up our berths, Pat took the upper and I the lower. He reached down and took my hand.

Good night, sweetheart, he murmured.

I lay on the narrow bunk and listened to the click of the train wheels on the rails. This was childhood’s end. All I knew of parents, home and family receded and took second place in my mind. This was my first big decision on my own. I felt both fear and exhilaration. But somewhere within me I knew that my destiny was with Pat.

The train arrived in Las Vegas at six o’clock Friday morning, May 28, 1938. We reserved a hotel room, left our luggage and found a café for breakfast.

I think we should find the Methodist minister for the ceremony, said Pat. My parents will feel better about our elopement if we’re married in the Methodist Church.

Even a Buddhist temple would have been all right with me. I only cared that the wedding take place as soon as possible. In 1938 nice girls did not go away un-chaperoned for a weekend with a young man. I trusted Pat implicitly, but I was still nervous, and I felt guilty about not inviting my family and friends to a church wedding.

Pat went to a telephone and returned with a grin on his face.

We have a date for our wedding at ten o’clock in the Methodist Church. The minister said that City Hall opens at eight. We’ll have plenty of time to get the license and find the church before ten.

We arrived at the license bureau in the City Hall at eight a.m. sharp to find a long line of people ahead of us. The line was so slow I thought we would miss our wedding appointment, and in fact, we barely made it to the church by ten a.m. Before we got off the train, I had put on my second best dress, thinking I would change into my best dress before the wedding. Now there was no time.

Pat and Martha wait for their wedding license, May 28, 1938

The minister lived next door to the church. When we arrived at his house, his wife informed us that he wasn’t quite finished with the 9:30 wedding. She told us to wait in their living room; then she disappeared.

Pat noticed the upright piano against a wall with a fringed shawl on top of it.

Why don’t you play some wedding music? he suggested.

I sat down on the revolving piano stool and played a nervous version of Debussy’s Claire de Lune.

Soon the phone rang and Mrs. Gibbons, the minister’s wife, told us, Reverend Gibbons is ready for you now. His secretary and I will act as your witnesses.

Pat thanked her, and we followed her into the church sanctuary next door. At last, I thought, I’m almost a married woman. I couldn’t wait any longer. We took our places, and the minister shook our hands.

Where is Miss Jones? he asked his wife. She promised to be here.

Just then a young man entered from a side door and announced, Miss Jones had to leave. Her dog was hit by a car.

Oh no! Another delay and I’ll have a nervous breakdown. I should have held out for a church wedding in Pacific Palisades.

Is there someone else who could act as a witness? asked Pat.

Mr. Gibbons looked at his wife. Corabelle, go and see if Mrs. Crabtree can help. He turned to Pat. This lady accommodates us on hasty weddings, but she expects an honorarium.

I don’t mind, said Pat.

Good. But it will take a few minutes. Mrs. Crabtree always insists on wearing a fancy dress. In the meantime I’ll be in my office. Why don’t the two of you sit in the pews while we wait? Let me know when she arrives.

I felt ready to explode. My wedding was so close, but still so far away. I turned to Pat in exasperation. This is an inefficient way to conduct a marriage business, I complained.

Don’t be annoyed. He put his arm around me. There’s no hurry. Remember, patience is a virtue.

That’s the trouble. I don’t feel virtuous. I’ll feel better when we’re legally married.

Pat laughed. Nothing can spoil it now.

You could be struck by lightning!

He laughed again. We were alone now in the sanctuary. Pat suggested that I play a few hymns on the piano, probably to stop my fidgeting. I leafed through a hymnal and played hymn after hymn, my fingers stumbling more and more the longer I played. Suddenly my sense of guilt about the elopement and my frustration at the delays got the better of me. I slammed the hymnal closed and launched into a pounding version of Alexander’s Ragtime Band. Pat looked startled. Reverend Gibbons opened the door of his office and peered out. Now the main door of the church opened, and I stopped playing. Our two witnesses walked up the aisle, both arrayed in dresses fancier than mine. Oh no! Why hadn’t I put on my best dress this morning? I wasn’t thinking straight. If I weren’t going to wear it on my wedding day, when would I?

It was too late for that. Reverend Gibbons began the ceremony. He read from the Methodist ritual, but I hardly heard what he said. It could have been Greek Orthodox or Hindu, but when he finished, I was a married woman.

After our wedding Pat and I returned to the hotel. It was a strange feeling for me—raised with strict moral values—to enter a hotel room with a man for the first time. I breathed a sigh of relief as Pat took me in his arms. It was legal.³

Charles E. (Pat) Patterson at Lake Mead on his wedding day

CHAPTER TWO

PAT BRINGS HOME A BOMBER

Our first child, Charles Ward Patterson, arrived six days after our first wedding anniversary, and Charles’s brother Dave was born in 1942. When Pat, who had developed a love for travel when he was single, suggested we try family travel in 1945, I couldn’t believe it. Two little boys cooped up in the backseat of a car was not my idea of fun. I preferred to wait until the children were grown and travel by ourselves. But father knew best in those days, so we took off for Arizona in our big black Buick sedan. After the first few hours of togetherness, problems arose—meals, bathrooms, and fights. Dave’s voracious appetite caused us to stop frequently for hamburgers, which was all he ever wanted to eat. Every bathroom emergency occurred when we were far away from facilities. Motel accommodations for four were expensive, as were meals in restaurants. This trip satisfied Pat’s urge for family travel for quite a while. But not long after Sally was born in 1946, Pat became restless again, and we decided to try a trailer trip to the High Sierra for a couple of weeks. We left baby Sally home with my mother, whom the kids called Gog’n.

I pleaded with Pat to rent a small travel trailer for the Sierra trip, but that was too conventional for him. He insisted on building one—out of the aluminum fuselage of a World War II AT-10 trainer airplane, minus wings and engine. From an airplane graveyard near the Ontario Airport east of Los Angeles, he towed it on its airplane wheels to our home on the western edge of the city of angels and went to work. He attached a trailer hitch to the front end and cut off the tail to create an opening large enough for us to crawl inside. He made a plywood cover for this entrance which doubled as a table for our gasoline stove, then announced that our new travel trailer was ready. We placed thin mattresses on the ribbed floor, loaded the trailer with containers of food and water, hitched it to the back of my Cadillac, and took off.

What a trip! We narrowly escaped a forest fire at Convict Lake, and then the axle of my Cadillac broke. I was sure that Pat’s trailer was to blame. We were towed to a campground near a small settlement called Tom’s Place. I noticed the looks of consternation from nearby campers when we moved in with our broken-down car and our strange aeronautical contraption. We had to walk almost a mile down a steep mountain road to get supplies, then back up with loaded arms. With no windows and no inside lights, Pat’s homemade trailer was so uncomfortable and crowded that none of us could sleep. Not only that, but crawling in and out we either bumped our heads, scratched ourselves on the metal or got splinters from the plywood door that doubled as our table. We ran out of band-aids trying to patch ourselves together. People looked at us aghast or with pity, thinking we had been attacked by a bobcat. To top it off, Dave came down with a high fever. We decided I should take the boys home by Greyhound and get Dave to the doctor. Pat stayed with the car and the monstrosity until he could get a new Cadillac axle sent from Los Angeles, three hundred miles away. After this abortive trip, I refused to go anywhere in the embarrassing trailer again. Pat claimed he wasn’t embarrassed, but he declared he would never pull another house-trailer. And he never did.

The doctor ordered a prolonged bed rest for Dave’s High Sierra fever, but it wasn’t easy for me to keep our impulsive second son quiet in bed. And I became so busy with the tasks of daily life that I hardly noticed or protested Pat’s acquisition of several more vehicles—an old black Duesenburg (reportedly owned by actress Marie Dressler of early day movie fame), an Auburn-Cord roadster, a 1914 Grant, and a 1914 Cadillac touring car plus an extra Duesenburg frame and spare parts which he and Iver, our Norwegian handyman, brought home on a boat from Catalina Island. Pat’s full time engineering job at North American, his duties as husband and father, his attention to his growing mechanical collection, and our membership in the Horseless Carriage Club of Los Angeles kept him happily busy for quite a while.

But one day he began to speculate out loud that if we had a motor vehicle large enough for the children to stand up and walk around in, and which could accommodate eating, sleeping and bathroom facilities, he didn’t see why we couldn’t try family travel again.

Where on earth would you find anything with all those features? I asked.

Pat thought about it. Sometime later he announced that he and Iver were going to pull the old Duesenburg frame over to the airplane graveyard again and use it as a trailer for something he intended to bring home.

"I am not going to ride in another airplane trailer!"

This will be different, said Pat. In the first place, it won’t be a trailer, because I’ll put an engine in it. In the second place, it will be large enough to be comfortable. We can have everything we need in it and enough room for the kids to move around.

I sat in stony silence. Then he explained to me how strong the structure would be and that operating it would be quite economical because of its light weight. Pat was persuasive. He made his idea sound logical. He smiled at me. Before I knew it, he had overcome my objections.

He and Iver left early one Saturday morning, stayed away all night, and on Sunday arrived home with the cockpit section of a World War II Martin B-26 Marauder bomber chained onto the Duesenburg frame trailer. They pulled it home with the