What's in a Photograph?

PHOTO:FCS

I'm guessing that this photograph of me was taken in 1958 shortly after I turned 11-years-old. That's between being a little guy and a teenager, when everything begins to change, preadolescence. The picture was taken in our driveway on Hennepin Street in Kellogg Park, a housing tract in west Pomona. Today this very spot is where LA County freeways, "10" and "57" intersect.

It was a fun time because my greatest worries were about things like, will I get a new bike for Christmas?

This green Schwinn Corvette three-speed with chrome fenders was that bike. I don't think I had ever seen a more beautiful sight than when I woke up that December morning and found this bicycle in my living room, gleaming like a star from heaven and ready to be ridden.

My parents had taken me to Coates Bicycle Shop in Pomona where we had checked out bicycles and I had fallen in love with this green one when I took it for a test ride. I wasn't sure if it would be my Christmas present.

"We'll see," said my mother, not making any promises.

"I don't know," added my father. "It's up to Santa Claus."

I wanted to believe in Santa Claus because I didn't want to let go of my childhood, but deep down I had serious doubts. The night before Christmas I snuck out to the garage to snoop around and see if there was a bike hidden among my father's tools and boxes. His car took up most of the space. It was a black and turquoise 1957 Studebaker Silver Hawk with that lingering new-car smell inside. Many new cars of the mid-Fifties were two-toned with art-deco colors.

In those days, middle-class families bought new cars every three or so years. It was an annual ritual to go downtown to see the new models when they came out, especially the Chevrolets, Fords and Chryslers, the "top three" manufacturers of automobiles.  My dad and I enjoyed viewing the latest designs with cool fins, chrome embellishments and V8 engines that rumbled with power. My father preferred Studebakers, mainly I think, because of his childhood association with Studebaker horse-drawn wagons while growing up on a farm in North Dakota. 

Frank Samson with his 1957 Silver Hawk. Mt. Baldy in the background, upper right. PHOTO:KCS

Thanks to famed industrial designer Raymond Loewy, Studebakers were unique in several ways, both in design and technology. Loewy's principle of cleanlining "reduced the look of a product to its essence." He also designed household appliances including refrigerators, part of the mid-century modern look. 

In the early Fifties, Loewy gave Studebakers a modern cleanlining style with a series of Starliner Coupes which included the Golden and Silver Hawks. They were later credited for influencing Chevrolet's Corvette and Ford's Thunderbird and Mustang. Most American cars of that era were large tank-like vehicles made of steel that handled the road like boats floating on water.

Although only a two-door couple, the Silver Hawk was our family car. And it was an eye-catcher. I remember friends clamoring to ride in it. My dad was not a flashy guy but his streamlined black and turquoise car belied his everyman mien. He purchased it at Fletcher Jones' Studebaker in Pomona.

My new Schwinn Corvette was every bit as cool as my dad's Silver Hawk. That Christmas morning, I jumped on it and rode around the block, feeling a sense of pride and independence. I had never owned anything so precious and useful. I was able to shift into three different speeds with the flick of a lever attached to my handle bar. I would have to get used to the hand brakes, front and back. I was only familiar with pedal coaster brakes.

It was easy. I quickly adapted.

Before long I was riding all over the place, to school, Little League, St Joseph's church and plunge. I lived on my bike. I rode it across town to see my friends from school, including Steve Koski and Mike Mullin, who lived in south Pomona.

To make my bike even cooler, I replaced the stock handle bars with "risers," the popular "in" look handlebars that resembled deer antlers. I also added a "goose neck" to raise the bars even higher. I put "mud flaps" on the fenders. Eventually, I began to put decals on the chrome fenders, like some people put decals on their car windows.

I wanted to be cool, and I felt that my bike represented my coolness. Many of the older teenagers I knew who owned cars customized their vehicles, giving them names painted on the doors and fenders, like "Little Darling" and "Rockin Robbin." They also added pinstriping, lowered and "raked" their cars, making the rear-end higher than the front. Cruising was big in my valley town. 

I made sure my bicycle wheel hubs and chain were well oiled while I continued to "customize" its style. My dad, who appreciated the "stock" design of appliances and vehicles never said anything to me about what I was doing to my bike. I can't believe that he found it appealing. I would learn to appreciate the  "mint" stock design of a car, or bike, the hard way.

One hot summer day, when I had nothing else to do but seek shade in the garage, I surveyed my bike whose once pristine chrome fenders were covered with tacky decals. I realized that I had spoiled its beauty. I attempted to remove the decals yet only made matters worse by scratching the chrome. So I decided to paint the fenders. At the hardware store I bought a can of gold spray paint.

Upon finishing my paint job, I stood back and made a quick appraisal of my labor. My beautiful green and chrome bicycle looked hideous with gold fenders. The gold was a flat color with no shine or sparkle. It was not at all cool. I felt sick whenever I allowed my eyes to focus on my bike. 

I turned 13 during this period. Other parts of my life were looking up, especially in track and field where I was excelling in running and jumping. My parents were wrapped up in the seriousness of my mother having been diagnosed with breast cancer, which they spared me and my sister, Mary, by not letting us know, which I later regretted.

My father traded in his sporty Silver Hawk for a family-friendly light blue Studebaker Lark station wagon.

They decided that we would leave Pomona and relocate near my mother's sister, my Aunt Cecelia, and her brother, Ronald, a Jesuit priest who was teaching at Gonzaga Prep in Spokane, Washington.

Before we left for Spokane, I rid myself of a green and gold bike. I painted my entire Schwinn black. It still performed well and I would soon be riding it on the streets of a new to me, yet old Pacific Northwestern railroad town, while making new friends.

The guys I met in Spokane were curious about someone from the Golden State. They checked my clothes and even my bike, looking for clues to the latest trends.

"Flat black," one remarked upon inspecting my bike and its unique color. "So that's what they're doing in California." 

I just nodded.

© Kevin Samson,  from Silence of the Oranges, a working title memoir.