March 2015 – Welcome to Joe Girard's page

Monthly Archives: March 2015

Curly

March 27, 2015 Joe

Memories, by Joe Girard: June 4, 1976

Besides being hairless, Curly’s head was big and round, just like the rest of him. Really big. Except for his ears and mandatory facial features, it looked rather like an oversized cue ball.

What the National Basketball Association lacks is March Madness. Contrast the anti-climactic NBA tournament with the National Collegiate Athletic Association (NCAA) tournament and it feels like a dud. The NCAA has a championship tournament that has tens of millions of people betting on filled-out brackets – with quintillions (ok, let’s say zillions) – of possible outcomes. And it’s over in a couple of exciting weeks. Most of them are pulling for at least one of small, even tiny, schools like Butler, Gonzaga, Villanova or Marquette.

No, instead the NBA’s championship tournament dawdles into June – trying to milk as much money as it can from TV and markets where teams have not been eliminated. Instead of March Madness they have June Jive. By then, the thrill is already gone for everyone but the die hard fans. It’s baseball season. It’s golf season. It’s camping and hiking and climbing and rafting and canoeing season. The kids are out of school. It’s travel season.

June, 1976. I had recently finished my sophomore year of college at Arkansas State University. My buddy Jim Price and I had already sworn off the NBA in general. However, we were fans of underdogs like the Phoenix Suns – who were an almost brand new franchise – that had made an unlikely and unexpected run to the NBA finals that year. We shared a dislike of perennial dominant teams – like the Boston Celtics, who were the Suns’ competition in the championship best of seven series. The Celtics had won the NBA championship something like twelve of the previous sixteen years. Oh, puke.

Now it’s the fifth game of the finals, and the under-powered Suns have somehow managed a 2-2 split. Jim and I are hoping they can make something happen in Boston – in “the G-ah-den” – in front of what seemed like a zillion crazy, frantic, yelling Celtic fans. We watched on TV at my family’s house.

It was a miserable first half for the Suns. I think they were down 20 points somewhere around halftime. Discouraged, Jim and I turned off the tube and headed out to get something to eat, then go down across the county line to get some beer. (Jonesboro, Arkansas, where we lived, was a “dry” county – Craighead county).

The closest liquor depot to us was in Truman, with several establishments just south of County Line Road. Probably an hour after we turned off the tube, we ambled into Curly’s, a simple, low-cost, Quonset hut looking sort of place.

As expected, there was big round Curly, behind the counter. Besides being hairless, Curly’s head was big and round, just like the rest of him. Really big. Except for his ears and mandatory facial features, it looked rather like an oversized cue ball.

Curly’s back was toward a small crowd of customers, maybe four or five. They are all watching the TV. Jim and I grabbed a case of cheap, cold beer and sidled up to the counter.

Curly still is turned away from the counter, and he’s still looking at the TV.

On the TV the Phoenix Suns and the Boston Celtic are playing basketball – on the G-ah-den’s distinctive parquet floor.

We elbowed in (since no one seems to be buying anything) and I said to Curly rather meekly (I’m only 19 … I’m not supposed to be in there): “Are they showing the game’s highlights? There couldn’t be many highlights. Phoenix got smoked.”

Curly turned slightly. The twist of his head and the tone of his voice implied anger and frustration: “Overtime. Double Overtime.”

Boston is clinging to a small lead with about one minute left in the second overtime.

Wow. Jim and I have missed a tremendous Phoenix comeback. Led by Paul Westphal, whom they had ironically acquired by trade from Boston in mid-season, they are still in the game, although trailing, 109-106.

But Boston cannot get it done. At every turn that goes for Phoenix and against Boston, big, round ol’ Curly either grunts, yells a profanity, or swings at the air. This is Curly’s joint, and the small crowd seems to be populated by Boston fans.

Clearly I am in the wrong place.

Somehow Phoenix manages two unlikely buckets, and, with about 5 seconds remaining, they take a one point lead. 110 to 109.

Curly is furious. Boston takes a time out. The “G-ah-den” crowd is quiet. Jim and I are smugly grinning away, wordlessly sighing our approval. Curly takes notice.

The crucial moments:

The Boston Celtic’s aging superstar, John Havlicek, now 36 years old, takes a pass and finds a seam to his left; he tries a leaning runner from the left side of the lane while awkwardly lunging off the wrong foot – and it goes in! The buzzer sounds and everyone except the Suns goes CRAZY in the G-ah-den. Boston wins, 111-110.

Except … something is wrong. The referees are getting all the fans off the floor to re-start the game. They’ve decided that there is one (that’s “1”) second left in the game, and Phoenix had called a time out. “Mr. Clueless” Brent Musberger is mystified (no surprise).

That’s when Curly said it. This is exactly what he said, in a smug, defiant, slow, jowly, Arkansas drawl: “Well, no matter what, I’d bet 100-to-1 that Boston wins this game.”

Hmmm. I thought. I shuffled a bit. Then I consciously poked Jim in the ribs with my right elbow while conspicuously pulling out my wallet and extracting a single George Washington adorned piece of cabbage. With Jim’s and the crowd’s attention on me, I slowly, yet flamboyantly, laid one dollar on the counter right next to Curly, with a loud “AHEM.”

Curly noticed almost immediately. He didn’t carry a wallet. He pulled out a huge neatly rolled-up wad of bills that he kept in the front pocket of his overalls. Then he slowly counted out five Andy Jacksons and laid them on top of my one-spot Washington.

$101 is on the counter for all to see.

At that point it’s announced that Phoenix called a Time Out; that’s how the clock stopped. But they had no Time Outs remaining. That’s a Technical Foul. The Celtics’ JoJo White sinks the free throw, and Boston is now ahead 112-110. If possible, Curly’s cueball face and demeanor look even more smug.

But Phoenix still has one second left.

_____________________

Near the “top of the key”, the Suns’ Garfield Heard caught the inbounds pass as he turned, and jumped, and tossed an unlikely high arcing shot toward the basket in one continuous motion. The ball kissed off the back of the rim and slithered through the net as the buzzer sounded.

Tied at 112!

This would be Triple Overtime. And through the rest of the game, at least five more minutes of overtime, there was a neat stack of cash on the counter as we all stood there at Curly’s Liquor Barn, eyes fixed on the little 12-inch black-and-white television.

Heard’s buzzer-beater shot has been called “the shot heard ‘round the world.” (“heard”, get it?). That’s saying too much and shows disrespect to the opening of the American Revolution at Concord’s Old North Bridge. However, it’s not exaggerating when that game is called “the greatest game ever played in NBA history.”

Even though two of Boston’s stars had already fouled out – Paul Silas and “cry-baby” Dave Cowens – Phoenix lacked the firepower to finish the upset. They made it close, but Boston won in Triple Overtime, 128-126.

We paid for the beer. It was good.

I lost one dollar, had a lot of fun, and will forever have a fun story to tell.

Notes:

[1] US Highway 63 between Jonesboro and Truman now by-passes the center of Truman. It looks like most of those little liquor establishments like “The Cotton Club” and Curly’s are out of business. Curly’s building still stands … abandoned. See photo below (courtesy of Google streetview).

Cur;ly’s, 2015. Thanks to Google StreetView

[2] In 1992-93 the Phoenix Suns had their best season ever, led by new coach Paul Westphal – his first season as a head coach. After an impressive 62-20 regular season record, they made it to the finals again, only to lose (4 games to 2), to the Michael Jordan-led Chicago Bulls (the Bulls’ first “Three-peat”). Since entering the league in 1968, the Suns have only made it to the NBA finals these two times, and have never won a championship.

[3] After writing the essay, I found this YouTube video of the last 19 seconds of the second overtime. My memory is pretty good, although I’d forgotten about a fan attacking head referee Richie Powers. I was also wrong about how the clock stopped; it stops when the ball goes through the hoop. The timeout (in exchange for a technical foul) was a clever tactic sometimes used to get the ball to mid-court for the in bounds pass.

Autobiographical, Guest Essay

Red Hot Chili Wrecker

March 24, 2015 Joe

Christmas Chili Cook Off, 1988

Tonya and I were first married. Our little house in Boulder had a small but efficient kitchen. I sometimes miss it because everything was practically in arm’s reach.

I’d never signed up to do the cook-off here at work. I guess because I was in my second year, and had absolutely no idea that annually the machinists, engineers, techs, and all of the other people who are smarter than me toss various ingredients into saucepans the evening before the event, simmer the crap out of them, and the following morning place them in crock pots throughout the manufacturing building.

They’re placed strategically, so there is absolutely no escaping the smell, no matter how pleasing or hideous it may be. But, when all of the smells were together in one area it was tough to tell the good from the bad. Thus I had no idea of the wretched culinary abortion that I took into my mouth, known as “pheasant chili.” I literally gagged. Politely of course, since I was in a social setting. That’s when I decided I could do better.

So, a year later, Chef Kenny is hard at work in the kitchen. Slicing onions to Steely Dan tunes, chopping tomatoes to the Doobie Brothers. Jalapenos were next, but I decided I needed a potty break.

I went in, did the ol’ #1, washed my hands, and came out to continue. Then it happened.

The flaming pain began slowly in my pants. “It” was beginning to smolder. The wonders of capsicum. You see, we’re all taught to wash after going, but never before.

“MOTHER OF GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE?!” was the first thought that came to mind. “MOTHER OF GOD WHAT DO I DO?” is what came next. Actually, the “mother” part of those phrases was correct, the other words aren’t accurate. I’m protecting you, dear reader, from my actual thoughts.

I shoved the cutting board aside, making dang sure that the knife was over arm’s-length away from me in case of seizure, which I felt was about to happen. All I could think of doing was putting out what seemed to be an inferno inside my BVDs.

Water. Water puts out fire, right?

So, I drop my pants, stand on my toes, grab the sprayer nozzle and begin to douse the invisible roaring flames, soaking down the counter, my remaining clothes and everything else around the area. This was sheer panic as it was getting worse, not better. I wanted to get in the sink but there’s no way I’d have fit.

That’s when Tonya put down her purse and keys on the table behind me.

I didn’t hear her come through the door because of the water. We’d been married for just over a year. She thought I was doing some weird, kinky water sport.

I told her what happened.

When she stopped laughing — and that took a while — she called “Ask a Nurse” and put it on speaker. I told the nurse that I’d burned my hands; Tonya’s laughing and yelling in the background that it wasn’t true, I’d burned something else.

I was told honey is the magic cure, but I’d probably want to wear gloves since it would stick to everything. Tonya’s laughing even harder at this point, tears streaming down her cheeks as I’m shoveling through the cabinets in search of the little bottle shaped like a bear that held the golden antidote.

All I can say is it worked fast. I ended up ditching the chili.

Jalapenos gave me PTSD: Profound Tortuous Self-immolation Directly on my manhood.

_________________________

Thanks Ken. I ever-so-gently edited this -JG

You can email Ken at ==> Email Ken H

Biographical, Edwardian/Pre-War, History

ORD

March 14, 2015 Joe

O’Hare Airport, the main airport for the city of Chicago, is once again the world’s busiest airport. Most people who have traveled through, to, or from O’Hare have noticed that airport code on their ticket or luggage tag: ORD. It is one of the very few airport codes in the world where the IATA Code (International Air Transport Association) has nothing to do with either the name of the city or the airport.

O’Hare: every gate…jammed

______________________________________

September, 1956

Chicago is the city where I was born. Sometimes, when I’m feeling ornery or when I feel like I have nothing to do with the human race, I’ll say I was “hatched” there, in America’s so-called “Second City.” But “hatch” is a great disservice to my mother, who labored tremendously that Sunday before Labor Day, in the maternity ward of the now defunct Saint Anne’s Hospital. So I’ve made a note to myself to use it less frequently.

______________________________________

March, 2015.

101 years ago, as the dusk fell on the Edwardian/Pre-war Era, on the 13th of March, Edward “Butch” was born in Saint Louis, Missouri to a mixed marriage. His mother was a German southsider. His father, also Edward (hence the nickname “Butch” for the lad) was an Irish northsider.

As a youth, Butch was raised mostly in the Soulard neighborhood, home to arguably America’s longest continually operated farmers’ market — since 1779. Decades before it was even part of the United States. It was also home to one of America’s largest breweries.

Butch’s father was an attorney who acquired the nickname “Fast Eddy.” Butch’s parents divorced in 1927 — perhaps the nickname Fast had something to do with it — and Fast Eddy moved to Chicago to go to work for Al Capone and his mafia gang. Fast Eddy helped run Capone’s racing operations. And, as a sharp attorney, he helped keep Capone, his cronies and thugs out of prison.

Meanwhile, Butch and the family moved farther south in town, to the Holly Hills neighborhood, near the west end of beautiful 180-acre Carondelet Park.

In those days, Capone ran Chicago. So Fast Eddy became rather wealthy, and he made it a point to share that wealth with his family back in Saint Louis. Their home even had an in-ground swimming pool. Butch became rather popular — with the pool and nearby park his home was quite the hang out place — and he grew lazy.

Legend has it that Butch’s dad, Fast Eddy, wanted to leave something more for his son than money. He wanted to leave him a good clean family name. And a chance to make a name on his own. And he didn’t want him to be lazy.

So, in 1932 Fast Eddy decided to turn himself in and turn state’s evidence against Capone; critical evidence that would ultimately help convict Capone. Eddy knew that he was risking his life in doing this, so, the stories go, he bartered something in return: an appointment for his son to a US Military Academy.

Fast Eddy had already helped straighten young Butch up by enrolling him at Western Military Academy, just up and across the river at Alton, Illinois. In 1933, Butch graduated from Western and received his father’s negotiated reward: an appointment to the US Naval Academy, from where he graduated in 1937.

Fast Eddy — Capone’s erstwhile attorney Edward O’Hare — was ultimately killed a few years later; shot and murdered in cold blood as he drove down a prominent Chicago street one night. Of course, the murder remains unsolved to this day.

His son, Edward “Butch” O’Hare ended up flying F-4 Wildcats off aircraft carriers.

The Grumman F4F-3 Wildcat

Just two and half months after The Day of Infamy at Pearl Harbor, on Feb 20, 1942, — with the United States and its Navy still reeling from the devastation of that horrible December Sunday morning — Butch and all of the F4’s on the USS Lexington took off on a sortie. Not long after assembling and moving out, it became evident that Butch’s F4 fuel tanks had not been properly filled. He had to turn back.

As he returned to the Lexington he spotted a squadron of nine Japanese bombers. They were heading toward the Lexington and its fleet. Butch was the only flyer who was in any position to intercept them.

With the F4’s four powerful .50-caibre Browning guns, Butch shot down five very surprised Japanese bombers before running out of ammo. (That version of the F4 only had 37-seconds of fire power.) With some fuel remaining, he tried to taunt and tip the remaining bombers with his wingtips. Evidently he damaged a sixth bomber before the remaining bombers called off the attack.

Film footage from his flight verified his account. With those five kills Butch O’Hare became the first Navy Ace of World War II. For his quick thinking, bravery and for saving the otherwise unguarded Lexington, O’Hare earned the Medal of Honor, America’s highest military honor.

A year and half later, on November 26, 1943, Butch O’Hare was operating in the first-ever night time attack from an aircraft carrier. He was shot down; his body was never recovered.

St. Louis offered to name a street, bridge, or municipal building in his honor, but Butch’s mother objected, insisting that all those who perished were heroes. And there, it seems, Saint Louis’ effort to honor its native son ended.

The C-54: over Chicago

In 1942, the US War Production Board bought 1,800 acres of undeveloped Cook County prairie near the farming community called Orchard Place, a few miles northwest of Chicago. This nearly 3-square mile tract of flat land became the site of a huge Douglas Aircraft Company manufacturing facility to build C-54 transports. Of course an airfield was required. It was called Orchard Depot. Some history refers to it as Orchard Place/Douglas.

The location was also the site of the US Army Air Force’s 803 Special Depot that stored rare and experimental planes, including captured enemy aircraft. These were all later transferred to the National Air Museum, and eventually formed the core of the original Smithsonian Air & Space Museum’s collection.

At the end of the war, the land was turned over to the city of Chicago, with plans for it to eventually become Chicago’s main airport — even though Chicago’s Midway was, at that time, still one of the world’s busiest airports.

In 1949, due largely to a campaign led by the Chicago Tribune — and perhaps to poke a teasing blow at Saint Louis — the City of Chicago changed the name of the still small Orchard Depot Airport to “O’Hare Field, Chicago International Airport.” Since the 1960s it has been at or near the list of world’s busiest airports.

So there you have it. The IATA code for Chicago’s O’Hare Airport that we see on our tickets and luggage tags is “ORD”, a carryover from its days as Orchard Depot Airport.

And O’Hare Airport — which has grown to over 7,000 acres — is named for a Medal of Honor recipient, a war hero, and son of a mafia criminal.

I hope you have a heroic year.

Autobiographical, Guest Essay

The Dog Catcher

March 13, 2015 Joe

Summertime, around 1997

I’ve stolen dogs. I’m not afraid to say it. Abused and/or neglected dogs that is. A Husky kept on a four foot chain in a dirt yard just disappeared. A little mixed breed in a dirt pen with two other big dogs that would turn on her when we’d walk by got a new home. But this one was a coordinated effort, and a complex one at that.

We didn’t know the dog’s name. The situation came to us by way of a co-worker. She’d see the dog chained 24/7. The family’s kids would play catch in front of it just to torture it, laughing at the poor thing as she’d try to participate and end up choking herself when the chain ran out as she ran for the ball. Retrieving was in her genetic pool, and she’d rather die than not try. The kids were Satan’s spawn. They didn’t realize that someone had noticed, and that their little pathetic shit-ass game was not going to happen anymore.

So, under the cover of darkness in the middle of the night the operation began. Our friend got the dogs attention with some lunch meat, got a leash on her, took a pair of bolt cutters, and severed her steel chain of torture from her body. The note reading, “Don’t get another one” was left to the tree under the chain.

By sunup she got the dog to us, where she was fed and watered. She ate so aggressively that we wondered how long it had been since she’d seen food. She was matted, filthy, and had her own waste woven into her own hair. Our dog Gracie engaged with her immediately, which wasn’t like her at all. She tried to encourage her to run around the yard, but all she could muster is a gimp, one of her legs seemingly injured. After a few minutes, we went up to the tub, bathing and cutting out what we couldn’t get clean.

That’s when we found it.

The clothes hanger.

Wrapped around her rear haunch. It had been there so long that it had rusted and slightly embedded itself into her skin. She growled and whimpered a bit while we took the wire cutters to it, showing the pain that it was causing.

Once we had it cut out we took her outside again. The girl went crazy, running all over the front yard with our little canine welcome wagon. She had a new lease on life.

After about an hour the woman from Springer Spaniel Rescue showed up. We handed her the hanger. She sighed and shook her head. Then she looked at the little girl below and said, “I’m gonna name you Freedom”.

I know she’s long gone by now, but I’ll never forget that spastic run around the yard.

It was a “Thank you”.

You’re welcome.

Thanks Ken. -JG

You can email Ken at ==> Email Ken H

Biographical, Edwardian/Pre-War, History

What the H?

March 4, 2015 Joe

“H” is for Highway. “H” is for “History”. And “H” is for … “Pittsburgh”?

I’ve never driven across Pennsylvania. If I ever get the chance, I’d allot ample time to depart the Pennsylvania Turnpike somewhere in the Appalachians. Then I’d pick up US Highway 30, head west toward Pittsburgh, and enjoy a slow unhurried drive.

I’d take in the scenery of the rolling valleys and ridges they call mountains. I’d take in the forests, the scattered small towns and the fertile farmland. And, of course, it would be a drive through history.

Along Highway US 30

Heading west on the Penn Turnpike, just after Fort Littleton — and after descending Sideling Hill Ridge — there’s a break in the next ridge. That’s Ray’s Hill Ridge. It’s there that the Turnpike (I-76) is joined by I-70. That’s your cue to exit. It’s a tricky double-looper getting onto US 30 near Breezewood – so follow the signs carefully.

Get on US 30 in time to see the Raystown Branch^[1] of the Juniata River. From here, this branch turns north to feed the Susquehanna, which empties into the Chesapeake. But we’re headed to Pittsburgh, where the mighty Ohio River is formed at the great river confluence. That’s a whole different watershed (Mississippi vs. Atlantic), so we’ve got more hills to climb. ^[7]

Safely off the interstates and turnpikes, we’re headed on the highway through history, and trying to nail down that elusive H.

Just 40 miles through the trees and gentle Appalachian hills and we’re at the Flight 93 National Memorial. Established and maintained by the US National Park Service at the crash site of United Airlines Flight 93, it is a tribute to the passengers who helped save the US Capitol, in Washington, DC, from attack on 9/11/2001. It functions not only as a memorial, but also as a classroom that honors those killed by terrorism on that day, the bravery shown on that day, and America’s enduring spirit.

Going back a bit further in time: this stretch of road coincides with part of the original Lincoln Highway, America’s first coast-to-coast motorway. Conceived in the Edwardian/Pre-war Era, in 1912, with construction beginning a year later, the Lincoln Highway was one of the first really grand endeavors to link America’s appetite for free-spirited adventure with the automobile.

Lincoln Highway Historic Sign Marker

Coming sooner in our trip along US 30, but farther back in time, and we’re passing through Bedford. Bedford is named for Fort Bedford. A bit further along the highway, and soon after the Flight 93 Memorial, we’ll cross a ridge and drop into the Ohio/Mississippi basin. Soon, we’ll come to the small borough of Ligonier, which is named for Fort Ligonier. ^[4]

To tell the story of these forts — Fort Bedford and Fort Ligonier — we’ll go back a bit further, to 1707. But first, let’s stop at 1762, at Jean Bonnet Tavern, an establishment providing lodging, food and beverages to travelers across Pennsylvania since 1762.^[2] Located on US 30 just past Bedford on the way to Shellsburg, they’ll nourish you with fine local and historic cuisine – and impress you with an impressive selection of refreshments, including beers and ciders (if internet reviews are to be believed).

To figure out why the Tavern is there, we’ll have to continue back to 1707, before returning.

1707: That’s just at the same time as the formal union of Scotland and England into a single country: Great Britain. John Forbes was born that year, across the Firth of Forth from Edinburgh, Scotland, in the lovely peninsula called “the Kingdom of Fife” and “the Birthplace of Golf.” He was raised there, at the family estate, as the son of an army officer.

John became a military man himself. After a distinguished career he was appointed a Brigadier General by Prime Minister William Pitt (the Elder). This was during the French and Indian War ^[3] (1756-63), which was the largest fight for control of North America between England and France. In 1758 Forbes was appointed the task of taking the French stronghold, far across Pennsylvania — across the Appalachians — at the head of the Ohio River: Fort Duquesne.

Forbes was a very practical and straightforward man. The path from British-controlled Philadelphia – across the mountains – was difficult indeed.

Forbes chose this very route we would travel for his road. He chose it for its gentler elevation changes and few river crossings. It would be called “Forbes Road.” Fearing loss of communication and supply lines, Forbes had strongholds built along Forbes Road, among them Fort Bedford and Fort Ligonier. So well-chosen for location – water supply and good transportation links through the mountains — that they became the boroughs ^[4] of Bedford and Ligonier along our Highway 30 path.

Forbes grew unhealthy as he led his road-building army across Pennsylvania through the summer of 1758. By the time they reached Fort Duquesne he was very ill indeed. His bravery and resolve through the illness helped inspire his men.

The British initial attempt to take the fort was beaten back by the French and their Amerindian allies. However, it soon became apparent that Forbes had far superior numbers and a solid supply line: he could lay siege to the fort indefinitely.

Consequently the French lost their Indian allies and, subsequently, chose to abandon Fort Duquesne without further fight. But not before they had burned it completely.

Forbes claimed the strategic location for the British crown. He had the fort rebuilt and named for the man who had commissioned him: Fort Pitt.

He named the settlement likewise after Pitt, and sent him a letter informing him so. In the letter he spelled it in his native Scottish style: Pittsbourgh. No doubt intending it to be pronounced like a Scotsman would pronounce Edinburgh: Edd-inn-burr-ah.

Forbes, now gravely ill, returned almost immediately to Philadelphia. Unfortunately, he died only a few months later, aged only 51. ^[5]Forbes Avenue in Pittsburgh was named after him, as was the baseball stadium Forbes Field, which stood from 1909-1971.

When the city was officially chartered by the state of Pennsylvania in 1816, citing Forbes’ letter to Pitt, the charter read Pittsburgh, with an “H”.

Well that explains how the “H” got in Pittsburgh, but that’s not the rest of the story. An earlier version of the Domestic Names Committee of the US Board on Geographic Names (see footnote 1) detested the “H” in “-burg” named cities.

In 1890 the H was excised, and – officially anyhow, at the federal level – the name was Pittsburg, without the H. Oh those Germans must’ve been happy.

Oddly, beginning in 1817, when the official copies of the charter were made, the printers assumed there had been an error, and spelled it without the “H.” The Board on Names’ 1890 decision cited these copies containing the error as justification for dropping the “H.”

Famous 1910 Honus Wagner card; uniform without the H

Strong-willed as most Pittsburghers and many Pennsylvanians are, they would not change the spelling. They put up quite a fuss. All city and some state documents and correspondence continued to proudly use the “H.” So did Pittsburgh University and the local press. The Pirates, however, a major league baseball team, used the official spelling, sans H. (see photo ^[6]).

Well, the feud persisted, until , in 1911 (in the Edwardian/Pre-war Era) – after a reorganization of the US Board on Geographic Names – the government agency in charge of names finally relented.

Was it because of the obstinacy of Pittsburghers? Or was it because they’d been made aware of the spelling in the true copy of the original charter? Who can to say? Regardless, the name was officially Pittsburgh, with the H, once again.

I guess it pays to be consistent (or is that persistent?) when arguing about silent letters.

Happy and Safe Travels

[1] – Raystown Branch: The Domestic Names Committee of the US Board on Geographic Names does not like possessive apostrophes. This river was called the Ray’s Town Branch until 1890. Similarly, Ray’s Hill Ridge is now: Rays Hill Ridge. Hence: Pikes Peak, not Pike’s Peak, etc. Five such names have been permitted, including, most famously, Martha’s Vineyard.

[2] Jean Bonnet Tavern: http://www.jeanbonnettavern.com/

[3] French and Indian War, 1756-63: most non-American and non-British commonwealth historians call this The Seven Years’ War.

[4] Boroughs in Pennsylvania are akin to Towns in many other states. Usually much smaller than cities, population is usually from a few hundred to several thousand.

[5] John Forbes

Forbes Trail: http://www.warforempire.org/visit/forbes_trail.aspx

Biographical notes: http://www.undiscoveredscotland.co.uk/usbiography/f/johnforbes.html

[6] A very rare baseball card indeed. A whole story behind it. A mint condition Wagner card like this recently sold for $2.8 Million.

[7] Continental Divides of North America. See the Eastern Divide in western Pennsylvania

Old Maps

Lincoln Highway, 1924, Western Pennsylvania

Early Map of terrain and Forbes Road, South Central PA