This is a chapter from the writings of Berry Wardlaw (Sturgis Motorcycle Hall of Fame) on the people who influenced his life and career.
The year was 1968, and on a hot, humid August day, my family relocated from the Louisiana Army Ammunition Plant, a guarded, locked-in community of 26 families, mostly military (we weren’t), to a Mayberry-esque town some fifty miles south.
I can’t recall if I had ever heard of Coushatta, Louisiana but it was to become the only place I ever lived where I felt a sense of acceptance, of home. No place before or since ever touched me the way my coming-of-age home did. We would live here but a scant four years, leaving behind my beloved tiny town on the river, left but too fond, distant memories.
Coushatta is the seat of Red River Parrish and in 1968 boasted a population of 2,100 souls. The tag line of the local paper, The Coushatta Citizen, was “Heaven is above us but here we have Red River Parrish”. I ultimately believed that to be true. At least it was while I lived there.
The Red River borders the west side of town with Ringgold Road, East Carroll Street, and the Cut-Off Road forming a triangle around the central part of the town. This was our main cruising course with turnarounds and meeting places like Don’s, Bam’s Grocery, Fiddler Green and the venerable Kreme Kup, home to curly fries and location of an occasional drag race, a first taste of an adult beverage, and best of all that first kiss. This road to teenage Mecca was locally referred to as “Making the Loop”.
I just loved downtown Coushatta. It had everything a kid could possibly want. Baldwins Record store for the hit songs of the time, Fowlers and McGee’s drug stores both with soda fountains, L.P. Stephens department store, Townsend’s grocery, Smith and Driggers barber shops, the rec hall, Coushatta bank and a few other notable businesses. This one block long collection of “downtown” buildings were connected brick structures with different facades, varying in heights and widths, each decorated with advertising of the period.
Across Front Street were the railroad tracks, train depot, and loading dock. The tracks consisted of the main line and two more sidetracks. This was where I smashed my first penny, jumped my first train, and saw my first hobo. Glorius times for an adolescent boy, I tell you. Glorius times indeed.
I can remember riding my JC Penny Swinger, a copper-colored Hi-rise bicycle, to the train depot to pick up my Havahart live animal trap I ordered from Kirk Anderson’s Boy’s Life magazine. I have always liked to catch animals live to study and play with. I have been bitten by just about every critter you can think of. I can’t believe I have never been envenomated, picked up a disease, or worse.
Luck counts, God is good. I could go on and on about my small downtown but that is not why I’m here. Not this time, anyway.
Of the two drug stores on Front Street, McGee’s was my go-to. McGee’s had the iconic Rexall sign out front, a Watling mirror fronted scale awaited just outside of the front door. It was on this maroon and cream painted, deco-styled machine that you could check your weight, admire your appearance in the fingerprint covered mirror all the while, and miraculously so, have your dreams and great fortunes told to you. All of this for only a penny.
You gotta be kiddin’ me!!
Walking through the front door you were greeted by shelves of greeting cards, bric-a-brac, over-the-counter pharmaceuticals, and the standard health aids as seen in most drug stores of the time. Ah, but in the back left corner was the four stool soda fountain, always attended by Larry Parker. A lift top slider-style drink chest was just to the right of the counter.
Next to the well-used drink machine stood a shelving rack that held the treasures purchased with my hard-earned yard mowing money. Models. Lots of models and other than west side Bam’s market and Bate’s, the only source of models in town. These were mostly car models but every so often there would be a motorcycle model. I would ask for it to be put back for me until I could mow another yard.
Allowances were not given in my family. You worked and I did so gladly. Seemed normal to me.
Along the back wall was a slightly lofted area with a counter and this was where Mr. McGee stood, plying his trade as local pharmacist and owner of McGee’s Drug. To the right end of the pharmacist counter was a small walkway leading to a back door and out to a dirt road that was used by all the stores on Front Street for deliveries and such. Right next to this small walkway, located along the north wall was my source of all things of true interest. This was my mechanical version of the Dead Sea scrolls, McGee’s Drugstore magazine rack.
These magazines were to be my source of education, my connection to the outside world that fed my obsession for cars, motorcycles, customizing, and racing. These magazines connected me with the people I felt akin to. People I could relate to and learn from. My mentors from afar, as I always say.
It took two or three models in which to complete one project. I would need tires from this one, an engine from that one, and maybe accessories from another. With kits from MPC, Revell, AMT, and Monogram and the use of my mom’s Sears electric manicurist kit, the possibilities were seemingly endless. I was now able to configure models that would emulate the custom-built cars and bikes from the magazines I read at McGee’s drug store.
The models would range in price from $2.50 up to $3.50. Making $2.50 average per mowed yard (I was not paid for mowing the family yard), $2.00 for cleaning the L’Herisson pool (twice a month, summertime), and $4.00 for cleaning the L’Herisson barn, twice a summer. From the income obtained in comparison to my obsessive modeling expenditures one can clearly see that the grass didn’t grow fast enough.
And then there is the additional overhead of .22 long rifle bullets and 5mm pellets. Well, there just wasn’t much left over. Fortunately, I wasn’t a big Coke and candy kid, not when it came to cars, motorcycles and guns. It’s funny that fifty-five years later that still holds true.
This is where Mr. McGee really affected my life and became another mentor from afar. I am eternally grateful for his kindness and his consideration as he had no idea just how he helped to shape the mind, interest, and creative drive of all thing’s motorsports for the little boy he hardly knew.
Once a month McGee’s magazine rack was replenished with new publications displaying my cherished connection to the outside world of motorsports. Names like Hot Rod, Road and Track, Cars, Dirt Bike, Cycle World, and even Car Model adorned the shelves.
In 1970, I entered and won a photo contest in Car Model magazine with a Harley-Davidson Knucklehead chopper model I had built and then photographed with the camera from my Secret Sam Attaché Case. I still have that picture and the model. I had little money left over from my purchased modeling priorities for my penchant for any of this fine literature.
Leaning my handlebars of my imaginary chopper against the brick wall I would walk through the back door entering the short hallway which ran alongside the now exposed pharmacy area. Mr. McGee would be there filling prescriptions and speaking with his customers.
I would always address him if he weren’t too busy and in a somewhat timid way, continue to the “Rack of Knowledge”. I would then choose my favorite of the newest selection and ever so carefully open to an article that would pique my interest. With my number 2 Ticonderoga in hand, I would begin to copy down said article, word for word, into my mostly blank school notebook. I would go article to article, magazine to magazine copying topics of interest trying to limit my time as to not be an annoyance. I can only assume Mr. McGee knew I couldn’t afford to purchase the magazines, and he allowed me to copy the articles.
I have no memory of ever discussing this with him. I would, however, receive an occasional nod of approval upon my departure. Once home, I would read each penciled article over and over, trying to recall the pictures that accompanied the written words. To this very day I can open a magazine from that period and recall exactly what the article was about.
At best I was an average student. By the seventh grade I had already been to four different schools in four different towns with four different sets of friends. I was a daydreamer, a compulsive doodler and probably an alphabet kid (ADD, ADHD, whatever), and that’s just the way it was. My passion for motorsports and motorcycles and Mr. McGee allowing me to copy from the pages of these magazines were directly responsible for critical components of my education that I would use for the rest of my life.
I wholeheartedly believe this. It helped with my spelling, phrasing, punctuation, and definitions of words. I seldom would have encountered these words or topics in school in such a way that I could have related to. My mind just didn’t work like that. While reading my penciled articles I would use my mom’s maroon and blue World Books to unlock the mysteries of aerodynamics, Bernoulli’s law, thermodynamics, vacuum (high and low pressure), and so much more.
Mr. McGee was indeed a mentor from afar, as he had no idea that one day, the little boy at the magazine rack would be inducted into the Sturgis Motorcycle Hall of Fame. I think of you often Mr. McGee. I thank you and I love you for all you did for me. May Godspeed
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