Don B Snyder - Part 4: Riding the Rails 2; Coming Home

Don B Snyder
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This is Part 4 of a 13-part blog series sharing my Grand-uncle Don’s life story, in his own words, via an autobiography sent to me by Don’s grandson, Ron Oldfield, after Ron stumbled across one of my prior posts about his grandfather. It is shared with the permission of both of Don’s children and Ron Oldfield. [Note – Anything in brackets with green type is my added explanation of something in Don’s text.]

Don’s story:

Part 4 - Riding the Rails II: Coming Home

[While home recovering from the foot injury gotten in the Athletic show (described in Part 2 of this series)], the truant officer came and wanted me to go back to school. I said I couldn’t. When it healed I joined the Civilian Conservation Corps. We didn’t goof off as one might think. We worked hard and were in excellent shape. I hate to tell this, but after three months a guy I knew said his father died and they wouldn’t let him go home. He knew I had experiences riding the rails and coaxed me to go home with him. I really didn’t want to, but then I thought “why not?” so I did.  That was a mistake. [Throughout the rest of the story he refers to his traveling companion as “Ick”.]

We were 250 miles from the nearest railroad, but we hitchhiked to it in one day. All that was there was a water tank and barren hills. As it was getting dark I thought we might have made a booboo. We finally heard a train whistle echoing in the hills and, sure enough, it came and stopped to take on water. There were no empty boxcars so we climbed into a gondola (coal car) about six feet high. To our surprise, there must have been a dozen people in it, including two women. We heard a brakey [railroad company brakeman] walking and kept quiet, but one guy made a noise and he heard it and climbed up. Instead of chewing us out, he said: “My god, you will freeze to death.” He then said, “follow me.” We did and he came across a boxcar with a tin seal on it. He broke the seal and told us to get in. We did and he was right. We would have been awful cold. We crossed the Great Salt Lake. All trains stop in the middle to take on water. It gave us all a chance to get out of the boxcar to get warm as the sun had come up, and it sure felt good. I’ll never forget, of the other people there was a couple of women with their husbands. One was a very pretty young lady, and I thought, “what a shame for her to be in that situation”. As I said before, times were very bad and when people tried to go away looking for work, it was about the only way they could travel.

Family Riding the Rails in the Great Depression. Public Domain.
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          The train took us to Ogden, Utah. There was a dairy there where we could get free buttermilk, which we did. Some rancher was there unloading milk and asked us if we could milk cows. Ick said “yes, we were raised on a farm,” the old liar. He offered us a job milking cows for $30 a month and board. It was on a ranch about 70 miles north of Ogden. I thought “yeah, probably some line shack in the wilderness,” so we said no. The train we came in on was the Western Pacific, so to get to Salt Lake City we had to catch the Union Pacific. They had a bull there that got a quarter for everyone he caught. Those he caught got 91 days on the rock pile, cheap labor. Anyways, we caught the train to Salt Lake City. No empties so we had to get on a tank car, standing on a wooden walk and hanging on a rail around the car. There also were three other guys on it. As we slowed down in the Salt Lake yards, I spotted the bull [railroad company security detective] up ahead. Before we got to him, we jumped off and headed up a street where there were some houses and the street was perpendicular to the railroad. I knew he couldn’t follow us on the street so I was not in any hurry. I glanced back and there he was about 15 feet behind me. I took off like a big ____ bird yelling at Ick to do the same. After going a block we looked back and no one was in sight. Ick said, “Let’s go up this street toward town.” I said, “No! He would know we wouldn’t go back in the country but towards town.” We did go straight ahead, crossed a highway and went up a hill so we could see what was going on. Sure enough, we could see him putting the three guys in a car.

          Whew, close one! We then had to walk north to south to get to the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad to get to Denver. Boy, that was a long walk from Salt Lake City. There at Provo, Utah we caught the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad to Denver. That was a nice ride after what we had been through. We were in a boxcar with about eight other guys. The weather was warm and the train at places went slow as we went up the Rocky Mountains. I remember one guy had a can and we came along a stream, crystal clear dashing down the mountain. The guy with the can jumped off and got some water. We pulled him back in the car. Then we all had a good drink. Another guy had some bread, a little hard, but we poured some water on it to soften it and another man had some sugar and we all had some. It tasted like cake to us.

Freight-hopping, National Archives Archeological Site [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
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          The train rolled slowly up the mountain. It finally stopped. There was a house nearby and I said, “let’s try to get something to eat.” I had hardly ever done this, but we would give it a try. I figured maybe a lot of fellows did this, but it was worth a try. A nice fellow came to the door and said no. We said “O.K.,” and [he] suddenly said, “Why not?” He, his wife, and two kids were at the table, just finishing supper. Just as we sat down the train whistled (gave the highball, meaning it was leaving). He laughed and gave us some bread and we ran to the train. It was already moving slowly. I held up my arms and the guys in the boxcar pulled me up and in. Ick was not so fortunate. He caught the hangers at the end of the car, crawled along a small rail at the bottom of the car and made it. I felt sure he would fall off. If he did I’d jump off too and we would have froze high in the mountains. Up ahead around the bend, we saw the train going into the Moffat Tunnel. It was the longest railroad tunnel in the country at six and a half miles long. We then slammed the doors shut as the coal burning engines let out a lot of smoke. One guy got claustrophobia and begged us to open the door a bit. We did and the smoke piled in. We slammed it shut. Later we did it again with the same results. The train was going real slow and we finally stopped. We opened it again and the smoke piled in. The guy got scared again. We slammed it shut and one guy explained the situation. Going up the grade we had one or two pushers on the back end. When it stopped we were right on top of the continental divide. There the pushers cut loose and went back. From then on we moved pretty good. When we entered the tunnel it was daylight. When we exited it was dark. [Experience it a bit: “a ride through the Moffat Tunnel, part 1”, YouTube video, HERE] There was a man in Toledo who was called ‘King of the Hoboes’. I’d seen his picture in the paper with articles. I met him downtown in Toledo and mentioned I used to ride the rails. He didn’t seem impressed. I asked him if he ever went through the Moffat Tunnel. He hesitated and then said “yes.” I asked, “inside or outside?” He hesitated again and said “outside.” I asked him if the smoke didn’t bother him. The old liar said, “I put a wet handkerchief over my mouth.” That was the end of our consultation. He died some years back, I think.

Benefits of construction of Moffat Tunnel,  Popular Science magazine, November 1922
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          Coming east out of Denver we had to catch a meat run. We did and found an empty reefer. It had six or eight guys in it. The next day I went on top to get some fresh air. After a while, I saw a guy crawl out of the other end of the car towards me. You had to crawl and hang on to the boardwalk, as the train was going so fast. He was an awful looking guy, bottom of the barrel. As he approached me and got 12 or 15 feet from me I said,“that’s far enough.” He wanted me to go into the other end with him. I knew what he wanted. I said no again. He hesitated and I had decided if he came close, I would do humanity a favor by kicking him off. I was strong and I knew I could do it. At 70 miles an hour, no one would have ever found him in that prairie country. Somehow he got the message and went back.

          After dark we crossed the Colorado and Nebraska line, stopping at a small town called McCook, Nebraska. A bull [railroad company security detective] or somebody called us out of the car. We walked on and by the time he had got us all off, Ick and I were out of the yards. I don’t think I mentioned it, this was the Burlington route from Denver to Chicago. I said, “Ick, let’s go around the yards and catch it leaving.” We did and watched as they searched the train. When they went back it took off fast and we had to catch it from the engine. About 50 miles down the line it stopped at another small town named Arapaho, Nebraska. It was pitch dark and you couldn’t see anything. I said “Ick, let’s go back,” as the steam engine was throwing off small pieces of slate that kind of stung us. I thought he heard me so I climbed down the ladder. Pitch dark, so I just stepped off knowing I would hit the stones. I didn’t, just floated through the air. It was on a bridge and I fell 30-40 feet on a few dead tree branches with my feet near the water. Ick had noticed me not being there and found we were on a bridge. He crawled along the track and the train took off. He yelled and luckily I had hit on my back. I could hardly answer him. He came down and found me. Asked me to move and I couldn’t. He said he would go for help. I didn’t think, but must have scared the dickens out of him as I said, “hurry, I don’t think I’m going to make it.” As he left I thought “here I am busted up in a deep ditch over a thousand miles from home, no money.” It wasn’t very encouraging. After about a half hour I heard voices. It was midnight on Saturday and the town dance had broken up. These small towns out there don’t have much excitement. I think everyone (kids) and others came out. Anyways, they found me. I had thought my lungs were punctured as I could only take short breaths. They tried to figure out a way to get me up this embankment. One guy said we could get the undertaker’s basket. I said, “no, I’ll be in that soon enough.” Then they said, “let’s try to carry him.” About eight guys picked me up and by stumbling and falling they got me up and to the hotel. There they woke up the town doctor and he examined me. Then he took x-rays and put a rubber pipe up my penis and it came out blood which showed I had an injured kidney. He did the same the next day and blood came out again. On the third day, it came out urine which showed it was healing. I was on a liquid diet the first three days with no food. On the fourth day, they said I could go downstairs to eat. I was so dizzy I almost passed out on the big winding stairs. All I had was a small bowl of soup and a few crackers. I felt better the next day and the doctor put tape from my chest center down to my waist as I had two rib fractures in front and two broken ribs in back, plus a chipped pelvis. Maybe more but he didn’t say. On the second day, two well-dressed men visited me. I think one was a lawyer from the railroad. He asked me a lot of questions about the accident and I leveled with him, as I had nothing to hide. One thing he nonchalantly asked was how I knew what train to catch. I told him someone in the yards in Denver told me. I signed his paper and he left. The next day I was shocked. He had brought the entire train crew to my room. He lined them up across the room. They were in their train clothes, holding their hats looking scared to death. Then he asked me to point out the man that told me what train to catch. I looked at them and said it wasn’t any one of them. Boy, you couldn’t buy a job then in the 1935 depression. Funny thing is it was a yardman that told me. Also, that was not the train we left Denver on. About an hour later we had pulled onto a side switch and stopped. Soon another train was passing us going the same way fairly slow. I said, “Ick, that train is faster than this one so let’s cross over to it.” Sort of dangerous as there isn’t much space between them, but we did it. That was the train I fell from.

"CCC Boy Injured in Fall from RR Bridge" & "Card of Thanks"
 Public Mirror, June 18, 1936 (Arapahoe, NE), used with permission
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On the sixth day, we thanked everyone for being so kind to us. The marshal gave me a notation of my injuries, which I never used. That was 67 years ago and I still have it. We traveled all day hitchhiking across Nebraska to Omaha. To cross the Missouri River it cost ten cents apiece, which was all the money we had. We tried to talk the toll man out of it, but the bum said no and took our last 20 cents. We crossed the river to Council Bluffs, Iowa. It was around midnight and started to rain. Where to go? I said, “let’s go to the city jail, where we can sleep till morning.” Back then people would often do that to get out of the bad weather. Now! Where was the jail? We came across a cop and he told us where it was. It wasn’t too far away and we finally got there. We checked in at the front desk, but I didn’t tell them of my injuries. They took us to a room that had three steel cots over each other with no blankets. Some guy was sleeping on the lower bunk, but I’ll bet not for long. Ick said, “you take the middle one.” I tried, but couldn’t do it. He helped me and I finally got in it. It turned out to be one of the most miserable nights in my life. It was just hard steel and every way I turned it hurt bad and I moaned and groaned. We left Council Bluffs and got to Iowa City. Passing a house at the edge of town, we saw a guy on his front porch. He said hi. We could hear the radio and it was Joe Louis fighting, against James Braddock I think. He said come onto the porch and listen if we wanted to. We did and I think he gave us something to eat, then said we could sleep on his front porch as it was getting late. We thanked him again and took off in the morning.

Hitchhiking 1938. Napa Valley, California. Farm Security Administration
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In Davenport, Iowa we were walking down the street and a woman passed us going the other way. She stopped, turned around and asked, “are you hungry?” Ick said,“yes, we hadn’t ate for three days.” She took us to her place and we ate along with her husband and two kids. Those depression days were bad, but a lot of people had compassion.

One thing that surprised me, we had split up, since it was easier for one person to get a ride rather than two. I had him get in front so he would get a ride first. We didn’t arrange a meeting, as one of us might get a long ride. Later on, I got a ride to the Mississippi River. It was a long bridge and only a few walking it. I looked up ahead and saw a guy with his jacket over his left shoulder and a funny lope as he walked. Ick. It had to be him and it was. We got to Fort Wayne and it was dark. He wanted to hitch, but I didn’t, so we split up again. I slept in a junkyard and the next day I caught a freight on the Nickleplate Railroad to Fostoria, Ohio, and then a train to Findlay right by my house. They were surprised to see me. Ick had called them when he left me in Fort Wayne and said I was in a hospital and might not make it. What a mix-up. Later I sort of wondered why no one bothered to reply. It was later on that I found out he had lied. His father was alive and well and working at the Cooper Tire Company. I later worked at the Cooper, too, and I knew him and liked him. Ick became a tinsmith and one time I stopped at his house next to Wright Field at Dayton, Ohio. He seemed quite successful as he had a nice house, some thoroughbred horses and about five or six businesses next door that he rented out. The family embarrassed me by saying I was some sort of legend. He died some years back.

Other Related Posts (links):

52 Ancestors: #7 Don B. Snyder (1918-2012) 

Don Snyder's Fall 

A Treasure to Share

Don B Snyder. Part 1 – Riding The Rails 1, Growing Up

Don B Snyder. Part 2 – Athletic Shows

Don B Snyder. Part 3 – Civilian Conservation Corps

Don B Snyder, Part 5: Joining the Army

Don B Snyder, Part 6: The Pygmies of New Guinea

Don B Snyder, Part 7: The Japs

Don B Snyder. Part 8: Shot in the Leg 

Don B Snyder. Part 9: Army Boxing

Don B Snyder. Part 10: Cooper Tire

Don B Snyder. Part 11: Barber  

Don B Snyder. Part 12:  Caving  

Don B Snyder. Part 13: Women

Don B. Snyder. Part 3 - Civilian Conservation Corps

Don B Snyder

This is Part 3 of a 13-part blog series sharing my Grand-uncle Don’s life story, in his own words, via an autobiography sent to me by Don’s grandson, Ron Oldfield, after Ron stumbled across one of my prior posts about his grandfather. It is shared with the permission of both of Don’s children and Ron Oldfield. [Note – Anything in brackets with green type is my added explanation of something in Don’s text.]

Don’s story: 

Part 3 - CIVILIAN CONSERVATION CORPS 

[In this entry he speaks of three different CCC Camps he worked at: Camp Indian Springs in the Nevadan desert, Camp Tulelake at the then-newly-opened Lava Beds National Park in California, and Camp Prairie Creek at Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park near Orick, California. He intertwines talking about them quite a bit but I tried to make it clear which Camp he was talking about when I could.] 

Rudolph Wendelin CCC Art,
 Library and Archives, Forest History Society, Durham, NC, USA
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There are probably just a few people alive today that knew what the Civilian Conservation Corps was. Thousands of men couldn’t find jobs, so FDR [President Franklin Delano Roosevelt] came up with the PWA, Public Works Administration [in 1933]. The government sponsored it and the men got enough work to live on. It was a life saver. They worked fixing up parks, building roads, and in Findlay [Ohio] they straightened out the river that always overflowed. Now! If the men couldn’t find jobs, what about the older kids? He put thousands of them in camps all over the country. They worked in parks, built roads, etc. The main camp I went to was in Nevada about 40 miles west of Ely. There was a big barren valley about one hundred miles north and south, and about 30 miles east and west with mountains on both sides. The Lincoln Highway crossed it east and west. Our camp, Indian Springs, was seven miles off the highway, as that was the only place they could drill for water.

Map 1 of site of Camp Indian Springs CCC Camp in Nevada
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Map 2 of site of Camp Indian Springs CCC Camp in Nevada
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          This was mostly desert-like. No trees, just sand, sagebrush, lizards, horned toads, etc. I don’t remember seeing coyotes, but I did come across a dead one in a trap. I did come across some rattlesnakes. A couple of guys went with me into some hills back of our camp. There you could look miles out with nothing but barren ground, alkali, and some sagebrush. Going back to camp we took a shortcut down a cliff. There were outcroppings of rock, so it wasn’t so bad. Some broken rocks were in a small crevice. I started to put my foot on a rock and I heard a buzzing kind of like a bee or rattle. Then I saw two rattlesnakes. I pulled a rock loose and hit both of them, killing them. As I reached down and threw them out I heard another rattler about a foot from my hand. It hadn’t been touched. I threw another rock and killed it too. I don’t know why it didn’t bite me. If it had, I’d have had a rough walk to camp.

Johnny Allen was a kid who lived down the street [in Findlay, Ohio]. He lived with his father, an alcoholic, and his mother, a nice lady, and three sisters. He wasn’t cocky, but easy going. A tough kid, I saw him fall off a railroad car on a rail and barely whimpered. Anyways, I’m sorry to say he grew up and really didn’t amount to much. He’d get off work on Saturday night, get real drunk and often spent the night in jail. During WWII he was drafted and was put in our battalion which was composed of a lot of local Findlay men inducted into the United States Army. Some months later I was transferred into the 38^th Infantry Division from Indiana, where I was the platoon sergeant of an anti-tank platoon that was new in each battalion. I never heard of him till WWII was over. I had heard that he volunteered to be with the noted Merrill's Marauders in Burma. They had fought all the way to China. Some years passed by and I met him in Findlay, still in uniform, a master sergeant. I said, “what are you doing in uniform?” He replied that he had stayed in the service. I said,“were you in Korea?” He said yes. I said, “you aren’t going back, are you? You don’t have to.” He said yes, so I said, “Johnny, you might get killed this time.” He replied, “so.” Well, he went back and he got killed. I saw in the paper he was the highest serviceman in Findlay that they ever had. The Distinguished Service Cross, that’s next to the Congressional Medal of Honor, plus two Silver Stars, and several Bronze Stars, plus several Purple Hearts. Now that’s a real hero. He is buried in Findlay and each time I’m there, I stop and pay my respects.

I wanted to relate to Johnny going into the 3-C’s. This was his second time as it was with me, but we didn’t want to wait a year as was required so we had to change our names. He kept his name and when we were waiting in line, I said “Johnny, I don’t know what name to use.” He said “Walter Leroy Snyder.” I did and made it. A major that had been in a previous camp recognized him and cheerfully said “hello Johnny,” then looked at the sheet and said, “this isn’t you.” Well, Walter Leroy Snyder went to the Lava Beds National Park [in California] and Johnny had to stay home.

CCC new recruits at Camp Tulelake, Lava Beds National Park (in public domain)
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My name change gave me some problems. Someone would say “hey Walt.” I wouldn’t reply and when they yelled it again I’d wake up and reply. Our first sergeant was a little older, bigger, and a nice quiet guy. One time at mail call he called out “Don Snyder” with a surprised look, and said, “we don’t have a Don Snyder here.” I reached up and said, “give me that,” and I pulled it out of his hand. He gave me a long questionable look but didn’t say anything. I figured he had an idea about me, but we were from all over, and from all walks of life. Sometimes things are better left unsaid. I read years later that one can change their last name, but shouldn’t change the first. That made a believer out of me. We had a number of men from the hills. Several couldn’t read or write, but when it came to playing dice they were really sharp on the odds of betting. All in all, it was really good on us teenagers. As to the CCC life, it was good. We worked hard, got three meals a day, WWI army clothes, and $5 a month for you, and $25 sent home which most people saved for us.

We had guys from the cities, the farms, and a lot from Kentucky. You learned how to get along. I remember a guy from the city got caught trying to cheat at cards. They ran him upstairs between two beds and he pulled a knife out. I saw it, but don’t think there was any violence. One time at night some guys were in front of the barracks playing cards. They heard some moaning and went back to the stove and a guy 6’ 7” tall was moaning on the floor. His scalp was ripped open back a ways. No one knew what happened. Well, they took him to the infirmary and the doctor kept giving him a lot of shots kill the pain. Eventually, the truth came out. He and another kid, not big, were playing cards on the floor by the stove. The smaller guy accused him of cheating. He hit the kid and almost knocked him out. They were both from the hills. Maybe they settled things that way. The kid got up, grabbed a stove poker, and let him have it. I think there is a lesson to be had from that. They sent them both home. One time in Nevada, riding a truck to work, a guy (bigger) hit the smaller kid beside me. I said, “cut it out.” He turned at hit me on the shoulder. I hauled off and almost kicked him off his seat. I never saw him do anything to anybody after that. These guys are bullies. Stand up to them and they won’t fight.

Just a few things of no importance. Once, we had a short skinny guy named Pappy Dejernot. He would drink anything alcoholic, including vanilla and lemon extract. Once, I was looking out our barracks door and the door slammed open and he was standing in the door. He stepped down two steps, made a circle, banged up against the outside wall, fell down and passed out. Lemon extract. Another time a kid in the front end of the barracks had been drinking this cheap muscatel wine. He passed out in his bed and vomited all over himself. Guys were playing cards close by, couldn’t stand the smell, so a couple picked up his bed, blankets, and him. Took it out of the barracks and set it down in the rain. When it rains in the redwoods it pours and he never moved.

I’m getting a little ahead of my story. In the Nevada desert there was little to do, so if you had a few bucks you would go to town. I’d go to a movie, have some ice cream, and gamble a few nickels in the nickel slot machines. They paid off a little. You could play a bit, course you would lose in the end. This was cattle and mining country and I’d see some ranchers with big stacks of money there. Later I’d go up to High street and talk to the friendly ladies. They each had a room with a door window. They were all alike. About the only thing in it was a bed and a chair. The rooms were all connected down the street. They would sit by the open window and try to coax you in. One older woman tried to pull a couple guys through. They wanted three bucks and no one would pay that. I guess in the evenings they were busy with the cowboys and miners. I wondered why these pretty girls would work there. Someone said it was because they went to Hollywood and didn’t make it. I don’t know if it’s true, but it’s possible.

We would occasionally have a movie in the mess hall. Occasionally a few cowboys would come in, stand in the back and watch. These were not your drug store movie well-dressed cowboys. I’ve seen them each heading a herd of steers to lord knows where and bring them back in the evening. They were polite, didn’t talk and looked as they say, “one tough hombre.”

A heavy mattock has a long handle ending in an ax blade opposite a chopping blade.
By Stemonitis (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons
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Our camps were run by the army. A captain in charge and a first lieutenant executive officer, plus an army doctor second lieutenant. We had army barracks, army clothes, etc. Also had a first sergeant (not army). The man in charge of each platoon was called a leader. We worked for the Division of Grazing building roads. In building our road across the desert [at Indian Spring Camp in Nevada], a survey crew would stake out the road with markers, then in ‘crews’ we peons would grub up the sagebrush with heavy mattocks; we would hit the sand just ahead of the sagebrush with a heavy mattock, then we would lift it up, snapping the root. Others would pile and burn it. Then trucks would bring in and drop gravel, and a grader would level it. The road headed south from Route 50, Lincoln Highway. No one knew where it went, but we were told it would go between two peaks you could see 90 miles away. Some years ago I saw a detailed map and saw a little red line going south and figured that might be it.

In the lava beds of California, we did the same. The Modoc Indians had lived there and there was a Modoc Indian war. I don’t know who won, but I assume we did. However, there is a monument for General or Colonel Canby, who was burned at the stake. [Gen. ED. R.S. Canby was assassinated during peace talks with the tribe (but was not burned at the stake). One of the principal military encampments of the Modoc War of 1872-73 became the center of Camp Tulelake, the base for the CCC crews who worked on the Lava Beds National Park.]

CCC work to control the Malibu fire near Angeles National Forest, California, in 1935
(US Forest Service, in the public domain)
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Later we transferred to Camp Prairie Creek in the Redwoods of California on Highway 101. We were in the mountains just south of Crescent City. We went out fighting the fires as soon as we got there. I might add we mostly controlled the fires, but it took the fall rains to put the fires out. After that we split rails, posts, etc., to better the place. [HERE is a 1-minute video of CCC clearing debris and making signs at Camp Prairie Redwoods State Park. ]

The ocean was only about a mile away [from Camp Prairie Creek] and I liked to go there. The water was cold and few of us got in it. I had a very bad experience there. At lunch-time three of us went down to the water. Going back, one of us mentioned going up this steep grade. One didn’t go, but a guy from Ashtabula and I did. It got steeper and steeper. Then it was too late. We couldn’t see down. We would take hold of little rocks sticking out. Often they would crumble. Some didn’t, but if it did and you had weight on you would probably go crashing down. We were nearing the top, hoping we wouldn’t go crashing down on the big rocks below. An outcropping of rock separated us and I couldn’t see him. Well, real slow we made it. I saw his head coming out at the same time as me. His face was red and he was breathing heavy. I suppose I was, too. He looked at me, hesitated, and said, “I prayed.” I said, “me too.” Since then I’ve thought “what if the top curved out?” That probably would have been the end of us. Funny thing I’ve had several close calls besides that some years later. I liked it there but my time was up after six months and [I] went home.

After I got back [home to Findlay, Ohio] I caddied at the country club. The river had a big bend with two holes that crossed it. That meant they had to cross the river four times. You couldn’t hardly get a job then so another friend and I swan the river at the country club for golf balls. The water got to eight feet deep in the middle. The club gave us two cents per ball we turned in. Lots of members had their names on them. We knew them and would give them the balls with their names. Then they would usually give us ten cents or 25 cents per ball. Then women usually had floaters. For that, we got a nickel each. Once, some women were crossing the river and one ball splashed in. I didn’t move. A guy there said, “Aren’t you going to get in?” I still didn’t move. Why? I knew she would hit two or three in the water and I’d get them all at once. The pay was not much but was better than caddying. Besides, the club wanted us to keep the other kids out, which we did.

One day my brother-in-law came out and took me out to the Cooper Tire where he worked. The waiting room was usually full of men hoping someone might quit or get fired. In a depression like that you get desperate for a job. I was interviewed, first told no, then yes. In the two previous days, they had worked two men one day each and fired both of them. I worked like a dog and was surprised when the foremen told me to come back the next day. I did and stayed with them thirteen years including the five years I spent in the army. I later became secretary, chief steward, and president of the local union. I liked negotiating contracts, wages, etc. with the president of the company and his staff.

Other Related Posts (links):

52 Ancestors: #7 Don B. Snyder (1918-2012) 

Don Snyder's Fall 

A Treasure to Share

Don B Snyder. Part 1 – Riding The Rails 1, Growing Up

Don B Snyder. Part 2 – Athletic Shows

Don B Snyder. Part 4: Riding the Rails 2; Coming home

Don B Snyder, Part 5: Joining the Army

Don B Snyder, Part 6: The Pygmies of New Guinea

Don B Snyder, Part 7: The Japs

Don B Snyder. Part 8: Shot in the Leg 

Don B Snyder. Part 9: Army Boxing

Don B Snyder. Part 10: Cooper Tire

Don B Snyder. Part 11: Barber  

Don B Snyder. Part 12:  Caving  

Don B Snyder. Part 13: Women

Don B Snyder: Part 2 – Athletic Show in the Great Depression

Don B Snyder

This is Part 2  of a 13-part blog series sharing my Grand-uncle Don’s life story, in his own words, via an autobiography sent to me by Don’s grandson, Ron Oldfield, after Ron stumbled across one of my prior posts about his grandfather. It is shared with the permission of both of Don’s children and Ron Oldfield. [Note – Anything in brackets with green type is my added explanation of something in Don’s text.]

Don’s story:

Part 2 – Athletic Show

Athletic Show Boxing Poster (in public domain)
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          On the athletic show we traveled with a truck and a car. The Greek that owned the show had a wife and a young daughter that traveled with him. We had a tent with the ring inside. Our dressing room was a canvass in one corner. The Greek was 52 years old and he would wrestle anyone in the crowd. He was short and stocky, but he knew wrestling. He had once trained Joe Savoldy, a heavyweight world champion when wrestling was real. Next was ‘Speedy’ Martin, about six feet tall and about 180-190 pounds. The ‘boxers’ (I prefer the word ‘fighter’) were Paul Reese, about 145-150 pounds, and I, at 135 pounds. Paul would take on anyone. I’d take on anyone up to 150 pounds, with no scales. To familiarize it, we had the tent, ring, and ‘bally’ stand. This stand was in front of the tent on the midway. It was about three feet by 12 feet and stood about three feet high. When it was show time we would get on the bally stand. [The bally stand is a platform in front of a fair or carnival sideshow tent on which sample of the show may be performed in order to lure spectators inside.] 

          The Greek was a master showman. We would hit a brake drum with an iron bar that you could hear all over the midway and the people would all come to see what was happening. I remember a girlie (dancing) show across from us. They drew a lot of people but not as many as we did. One time there was not too many people around. He got on the bally stand in his tights. Seen about four or five girls coming. He raised his arm limp, shoulder high and looked at it, pretending he had muscle. They stopped, looked and laughed and said “you haven’t got any muscle.” He would look serious and pretend to show that he did. First thing you know people would stop to see what was going on. The more they stopped the bigger the crowd. Then we would get on the bally stand with him and challenge the crowd. Sometimes we couldn’t get anyone to come up. Then he would apply some heat, get them a little mad and finally someone would come up and we would start. It cost those who came in to see it 10 cents. They would have to stand and of course the ring was about three or four feet high. If nobody came up he would try some more heat. He might look at a young couple and say, “what’s the matter, are you afraid?” They might be, but in front of their girlfriends they would often come up. I think when the people saw they didn’t hurt bad, others would get on the bally stand. You had to remember not to apply too much heat, like saying they were yellow or farmers. These shows were at county fairs, homecomings, etc., so you had to be careful. I’ve heard more than once that the crowd got mad and tore the tent down. These smaller towns usually didn’t have any boxers or wrestlers, maybe one. They didn’t want to get shown up so often fighters would come around when people were not there. They would hint or come right out and say that they wanted to work. By that I mean take it easy, pull your punches and make it look good. If he would draw or maybe even maybe win, he’d be popular and later could tell his grandkids. It saved us a lot as we might have to fight two to six times a day. Sometimes in the dressing room I’d ask him, “Do you want to work or shoot?” If I thought he was a nice guy I’d explain it to him. If not a nice guy I’d say never mind and go in and fight. Once in Napolean, Ohio a kid seemed nice so I explained it to him. He said yes. I left openings and WHAM! I got a hard one. I thought it was a mistake, but he did it again so I let him have a few. I went to the dressing room and he was in there crying. I felt bad and said “you tried to take me.” He said “no.” I felt bad and said “let’s do it again and do it right.” He said “O.K.” and we did it twice more. He was happy and the people liked it. When I told him he tried to take me, he said “no.” I told him “don’t try to kid me buddy, I do this every day and I know.” Anyways, it came out all right.

Midway Boxing Bally Stand (England, off copyright)
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          Sometimes things happened that were really funny. One time we were at a town that had a good heavyweight wrestler. He came and ‘worked’ with Speedy Martin. His name was ‘Killer Briner’. Speedy thought that he was working too stiff (rough). The Killer would just laugh. One day the crowd had thinned down so the Greek, being the showman he was, said, “I’ll put both boxers along with Speedy against the Killer.” The crowd piled in. I heard Speedy tell Paul “now is the time we can get him.” I wanted no part of that, as I liked him. They started and Speedy got a half-Nelson on him with his head sticking out. Paul took aim, and WHAM hit him hard on the nose. I saw a little blood come out. He let out a roar like a wounded bull. Paul got out of the ring fast. I couldn’t as he had a hold of Speedy and his big legs around my neck and quivering. I couldn’t breathe. I think he saw that and felt I was not in on it and let me loose. I didn’t waste any time getting out of the ring. Then he worked Speedy over. Speedy got a good lesson and the crowd got their money’s worth.

          One other thing was funny. The Greek’s wife took in the money. Paul told me to watch her counting the money for the days take. He said occasionally she would raise her dress and shove some bills in her pocket and to let her notice I was watching and it would pay off. I did watch her and sure enough, she did that and saw me looking. I noticed a few extra dollars in my pay then.  

          At that time some men worked for a dollar a day. Trouble was we had to eat out and that took most of our money. After fighting, we would take a bucket bath in our dressing room. Then we would gather in the front of the ring and shoot the breeze with each other or with fighters or wrestlers from the area. At the Bucyrus, Ohio, fair Speedy had kinfolk from nearby Galion, Ohio. They brought hogs to the fair. Usually, we would crawl under the ring, drag out our blankets and sleep in the ring that we had fought in that day. Believe you me, it was a pretty rough life. Especially as I was only seventeen. Back to Speedy. He wanted me to go the barn where his kinfolk had their hogs. I said O.K. and when it came to sleeping we laid on the top of a bunch of straw about 10 or 15 feet high. Did I say sleep? Hardly. Them darn hogs squealed and snorted all night. Then in the morning, I was embarrassed as the farmers came in early to see the hogs. And there we were in our underclothes and I thought “boy! Never again.” But how many people can say they slept with the hogs, yeah! And who would want to?

Sleeping pigs (Pixabay.com)
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          I hurt my leg hitting a sharp tent stake. With all the fighting it became badly infected and I left for home. It looked almost like gangrene had set in. Mom would put a tobacco poultice on it in the daytime as it was strong and would burn the flesh. At night she would put on a poultis (these were wet) of bread and milk. Well, that’s one old-fashioned remedy that done the trick and it healed good. [How to make a milk and bread poultice, HERE] I might add sometimes I’d step barefooted on a nail sticking up. This old remedy always did the trick.

Other Related Posts (links):

52 Ancestors: #7 Don B. Snyder (1918-2012) 

Don Snyder's Fall 

A Treasure to Share

Don B Snyder. Part 1 – Riding The Rails 1, Growing Up

Don B Snyder. Part 3 – Civilian Conservation Corps

Don B Snyder. Part 4: Riding the Rails 2; Coming home

Don B Snyder, Part 5: Joining the Army

Don B Snyder, Part 6: The Pygmies of New Guinea

Don B Snyder, Part 7: The Japs

Don B Snyder. Part 8: Shot in the Leg 

Don B Snyder. Part 9: Army Boxing

Don B Snyder. Part 10: Cooper Tire

Don B Snyder. Part 11: Barber  

Don B Snyder. Part 12:  Caving  

Don B Snyder. Part 13: Women