More memories of Flint from Pat McFarlane, born at Hurley Hospital in 1930.
Why can’t I be like Alberta Whaley? As far back as I can remember that question would pop into my consciousness like a Hindu mantra.
Alberta was my best friend. She lived in the next block on Illinois Avenue at a time when blocks were cities unto themselves and you knew everyone. Some families were considered undesirable, like the Bach’s who lived a few doors down from our house. My every outdoor excursion was prefaced by my parents with “Don’t play with the Bach kids.” Of course, my rebellious nature made me devise clever schemes to do just that. Now I realize that the Bach’s were poor. Although we were working class, my parents had high standards that had nothing to do with money. When discussing the Bach’s my dad would say, “You don’t need money to mow your lawn.”
Alberta’s parents were Southerners who had migrated to Michigan looking for work and a better life. In the thirties, Flint was a Mecca for the unemployed looking for jobs in the booming auto plants. “Go West Young Man” had turned into “ Go North.” Her dad worked the night shift at Buick and her mother was a telephone operator for Michigan Bell in the days when you dialed zero a real person answered. Alberta’s mom was a true, soft-spoken Southern lady. I had my suspicions that her dad was a quiet drinker but this was never discussed. Alberta and I knew that some things are best left unsaid.
Our friendship was an unlikely one as she always did what her parents told her and I was always asking “Why not?” Perhaps that’s why we were such good friends, each fascinated by our respective differences.
I spent most Saturday afternoons at the Roxy, a small neighborhood theater a few blocks from my house. I loved the darkness and the roar of the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer lion heralding an afternoon of previews, world news, serials and finally the main feature. It was usually a western or film noir, allowing me to escape into the Wild West or the shadows of a mysterious city. Alberta could never go with me as I think her parents considered movies sinful.
At that time, my parents didn’t attend a church, believing that God knew they were good people simply because they were Scots and had arrived in Michigan from Iowa. But I was drawn to religion. I made pilgrimages to various churches and Sunday schools. I even had myself baptized. Twice! Sometimes I would go with Alberta and her mother to their evangelical church. It was nice until the call to march up to the altar and “accept the Lord Jesus Christ as your personal savior.” In spite of the gentle hand of Alberta’s mother urging me on, my instinct was to run, so my evangelical experience was short lived. I eventually became a Catholic, where you were not coerced into marching down the aisle to communion, but it was understood that if you didn’t you would bypass purgatory and go directly to Hell. I could identify with that doctrine.
Occasionally, we would get to spend the night at each other’s house. Unlike today’s “sleepovers,” it was a special occasion and done only between families who knew each other well. It was always a quiet event at my house because my bedroom was right across the hall from my parents. But Alberta’s house had one bedroom downstairs where we slept. We giggled, told secrets, read Nancy Drew books and best of all, raided the icebox for our favorites — left over fried pork chops and banana peppers, which were an exotic food to me. I don’t think they existed in the Scottish food chain.
But like many youthful friendships, Alberta and I drifted apart. By the time we reached Central High School, we’d simply say hi in the hallway, talk occasionally, but that was it. I was reminded of Alberta when her name appeared on the honor roll every semester, while mine was often on the tardy list.
I loved history, social studies and band. I played alto sax and being in the band meant being classified as a nerd. I preferred to think of the band members as artistic intellectuals. Some of us played in jazz bands after school and a few went on to become professional musicians. The male drum major in later years became the mayor of Flint. And many, like most Flint high-school graduates, went to work for General Motors.
I still remember the thrill I felt when our band marched onto the football field playing the fight song and I knew whatever I did in life it had to be exciting. I didn’t realize exciting can sometimes be a lonely road to travel.
I became friends with a drummer in the band named Jerry. He lived a block from Central and we sometimes ate at his house. His mother had painted nails, wore red lipstick and was divorced! She was remarried to a real estate salesman that Jerry hated. Just after VE day, Jerry’s older brother, Richard, returned home from the Navy. Suddenly, lunch at Jerry’s became very inviting. Dick was going to college and playing saxophone in jazz band, and we all know the low moan of an alto Sax in a smoke filled room is the Pied Piper of love.
Forget high school! I spent all my time taking my fake ID and trying to get into bars and clubs where the band was playing. I may have invented the catch phrase “I’m With The Band.”
The bass player, Earl, was my first exposure to a brooding intellectual. He was tall, dark, handsome and involved in the socialist movement. He soon had me passing out the Daily Worker and going to Detroit to see Russian propaganda movies in secret mysterious places. I was flattered that someone so intelligent could like me. He eventually earned his Ph. D. and became an archeologist, widely published and well known for his projects everywhere from Northern Michigan to Mexico. We always remained friends. I knew he loved me and I often wonder how my life would have played out with him.
I lost track of Alberta after we graduated from high school and I left Flint. My mother sent me the newspaper announcement of her wedding to a policeman. Some years later I heard she had a son who was severely disabled. I understand she and her husband were devoted to caring for him. God knew what he was doing when he sent that baby to Alberta. She was full of goodness and love.
Now, even though many years have passed she is still a part of my life. In my darkest moments of despair, misjudgment and just plain selfishness, it crosses my mind like a banner behind a small plane. Why can’t I be like Alberta Whaley?
Is she somewhere pondering, Why can’t I be like Pat McFarlane?
Flint Expatriate Rand Simberg, who writes the Transterrestrial Musings blog, checks in with a request for information on the dearly departed Musical Tent and the AC concerts.
“I was born in Flint in 1955, still have family in the area, attended Potter, Pierce, Whittier and Central, and Mott Community College, but haven't lived there since the mid seventies. (I went to Ann Arbor in 1977, then moved to California on graduation in 1980.) “I was wondering about a couple things. One was the Musical Tent. Do you have any recollections of it? It might have been a little before your time, but it was a tent that was raised in the summer out on Dort Highway, most of the way to Clio (or even beyond toward Birch Run?) where they produced Broadway-style musicals. “The other is the Fall and Spring AC Concerts, which were held in the IMA Auditorium in the sixties. The latter is of particular interest to me, because my father was an executive at AC, and he produced them. They had big-name stars in them (e.g., Florence Henderson, Edie Adams, Anita Bryant, in her pre-orange juice, gay bashing days, etc.), combined with the AC men’s and women's chorus and local talent.”
Look, just accept the fact that you cannot relive the experience of seeing Dissonance live in the eighties. But the music made by Flint's seminal hardcore punk band is out there waiting for you. From the Dissonance myspace page:
"From 1982 - 1987 Dissonance grew from humble punk roots to become a viable force in the Midwest underground music scene, developing a respectable and loyal following. Committed to a strong DIY ("Do It Yourself") work ethic and willingness to explore, they combined elements of hardcore with metal, rock, funk and (arguably) even hip-hop. Hosting many nationally-touring bands via their own booking and promotion efforts, they played with groups such as Black Flag, Suicidal Tendencies, C.O.C, 7 Seconds, D.R.I., Wasted Youth, Die Kreuzen, Toxic Reasons, Crucifucks and Slayer. They toured the country in the summer of 1986 and disbanded in the summer of 1987. The smell, however, has lingered...
"Reuniting for one last swing in December 2005 to honor the memory of their dear friend, supporter and independent record store owner, Doug Earp (Wyatt Earp Records), Dissonance was revitalized just long enough to properly release the band’s entire oeuvre.
"Al Steele, now at the helm of Wyatt Earp Records, and in cooperation with Dissonance, has reissued the band’s previously available material with many bonus goodies in a whomping retrospective as the inaugural release on Earp’s dream, Wyatt Earp Records (the label!)
"The release, a tightly-packed 2 x CD & accompanying 45-minute DVD bonanza featuring re-equalized original recordings; unreleased live recordings; liner notes from renowned author and Flint native, Paul A. Toth; and introduction from Scott Carlson of Repulsion fame; a newly recorded version of The Chosen; live footage at Wild Bill's nightclub (1983); live footage from December 2005's first Earpfest; Paul A. Toth narration of condensed liner notes to slideshow; comments and memories by fellow Flint companions of the period; and Paul A. Toth narration of excerpt from his acclaimed novel, Fizz."
Just head to the Dissonance myspace page for downloads and information on how to purchase the reissue.
Like many of the people you know from Flint, the former band members have scattered far and wide. Andy Turpen (vocals), Jim Holbel (guitar) and Brent Bonet (guitar) now live in Atlanta. Bassist Tanya Narhi is in Ypsilanti. Mike Grossklaus (vocals/guitar) resides in New York City. Matt Olivo (guitar) and Brian Story (guitar/vocals) were last spotted in California. Steve Newlan (guitar) still lives in Flint, and Chris McNichols (guitar) is missing in action.
Sadly, drummer Phill Hines died on Christmas Day in 2006. For a podcast dedicated to Phill (who preferred two L's in his first name), head to Tothword.
This is a clipping from the Flint Journal covering an early '80s visit to Flint by Henry Rollins and Black Flag. They played the decidedly un-air-conditioned Ukrainian Hall.
I recently uncovered it tucked between pages 318-319 of my old copy of A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole, who committed suicide after failing to find a publisher. His mother, with the help of writer Walker Percy, managed to get the book published posthumously.
There's a single paragraph underlined on page 318, presumably by me: "A scarf here. A cutlass there. One or two deft and tasteful suggestions. That's all. The total effect is rather fetching."
The quote fits nicely with the fan in the Tam O' Shanter near the stage, who, if memory serves me, just might be Flint Expatriate Scott Hiteshew.
UPDATE: Of course, the great Take No Prisoners has the full article on the 1985 show! Thanks, Aaron.
Former Flintoid Jim Cummer and his wife, Solange — who is from Brazil but spent a year in Clio as an exchange student — have a restaurant that transports the sublime joy of Coneys to Tempe, Arizona.
"Our customers who never had this style of Coney have shared with us their pleasure: most expected a cheap, tired, old hot dog drenched in canned chile on a stale bun," Jim reveals. "Our Flint style Coney is a genuine Koegel's casing hot dog, imported from their Flint factory, housed in a steamed bun, covered with our own fresh homemade Flint style Coney sauce, topped with mustard and crowned with fresh sweet onions. This is a Coney symphony!"
A mysterious figure going by the name Smurf's Inc left this intriguing comment that demands more information:
"Does anybody remember northside legend Captain Bubblegum? A crazed maniac who dressed as a super hero and terrorized school children for years? The last story I heard about him involved the good Captain chasing three teenage boys while wearing his trademark cape and mask... and riding a moped."
There you have it. If you can fill us in on Captain Bubblegum, we're eagerly awaiting your information.
"After taking some landscape photos from the roof [of the Durant Hotel] I headed down and walked across the street to get some lunch. While waiting for my order I asked the cashier which areas I should avoid to keep out of trouble. Her response was almost comical had she not been serious. Her reply to my answer was simply to stay out of Flint altogether. With my lunch in hand I thanked her for the advice and headed back to my car."
With commercials like this one, it's hard to fathom how Flint's downtown Hyatt Hotel went belly up. (Warning: This video contains extremely uncool white people.)
Gerry Godin racked up more than 16 years at Buick before retiring in 1997, so he has a lot of stories to tell on his amazing blog All Things Buick.
"It's hard to believe that 52 years ago, fresh out of High School I started there at $1.47 per hour and worked the 5:30 PM till 7:00 AM shift in the Cleaning Room inspecting Castings. Thirteen hours, 7 days a week was big money then. I bought a 1955 Chevy Belair hardtop fully loaded for $2358."
If Ben Hamper captured the big-picture insanity and hilarity of factory life in Rivethead, Gerry captures the fascinating details with humor and insight. How else would you know where one horticulturally inclined shop rat grew pot in the '70s? (It was on the mezzanine to the right of the big Buick logo visible from Hamilton Avenue.) Or discover one of the few fringe benefits of working with the searing industrial ovens in the paint department?
"This was the oven where I would heat my ham and cheese sandwich. Hot lunch was about the only good thing about working the third floor paint. Some people liked it but I think the heat and fumes got to there brains. I even think I got some Dain Bramage."
Gerry's got one-of-a-kind photos and the stories behind them, including the sad tale of this ill-fated 1980 Regal:
"This was entirely my fault because I didn't have my forks through the sturups on the basket. The baskets were rectangled with the shorter side facing forward for loading in the semi trailer. I should have rotated the basket before moving but I was out of practice and just gotten back on the job. Due to a cutback I was placed back on my old axle press after an eight year hiatus. Like an elephant Buick never forgets. So when there was a cutback you went back to the lowest position inline with your senority. I did not get a reprimand for this accident because the pictures showed the car was parked over the yellow line at the time. I was so nervous that I went home after cleaning this mess up. The final insult was this car sitting for about a month on the second floor of factory #94 as if on exhibit for all to see."
But some of the most powerful images are the before-and-after photos of Buick City, a precise reminder that a way of life disappeared along with the actual factory buildings.
And you can take it all in while listening to Gerry on guitar singing the Buick City Blues:
up all night/just couldn't sleep must go to work/gives me the creeps management, the union, too they’re for themselves/not me and you
Buick City, Flint, Michigan hell on earth and here I go again
speed up the line/add work to me they’ll drive us nuts/but don’t you see? profits soar/now they get rich just pile it on/ain’t life a bitch?
Buick City, Flint, Michigan Hell on earth and here I go again
we work all day/we work at night we break our backs/it’s quite a sight whip us like dogs/but can it be? we will survive/just wait and see
Buick City, Flint, Michigan Hell on earth and here I go again
now life goes on/and day by day must go to work/or I don’t get paid it’ll never change/this life I know the rich get richer/just rollin’ in the dough
Buick City, Flint, Michigan Hell on earth and here I go again Buick City
More memories of Flint from Pat McFarlane, born at Hurley Hospital in 1930.
Alberta’s parents were Southerners who had migrated to Michigan looking for work and a better life. In the thirties, Flint was a Mecca for the unemployed looking for jobs in the booming auto plants. “Go West Young Man” had turned into “ Go North.” Her dad worked the night shift at Buick and her mother was a telephone operator for Michigan Bell in the days when you dialed zero a real person answered. Alberta’s mom was a true, soft-spoken Southern lady. I had my suspicions that her dad was a quiet drinker but this was never discussed. Alberta and I knew that some things are best left unsaid.
But like many youthful friendships, Alberta and I drifted apart. By the time we reached Central High School, we’d simply say hi in the hallway, talk occasionally, but that was it. I was reminded of Alberta when her name appeared on the honor roll every semester, while mine was often on the tardy list.
The bass player, Earl, was my first exposure to a brooding intellectual. He was tall, dark, handsome and involved in the socialist movement. He soon had me passing out the Daily Worker and going to Detroit to see Russian propaganda movies in secret mysterious places. I was flattered that someone so intelligent could like me. He eventually earned his Ph. D. and became an archeologist, widely published and well known for his projects everywhere from Northern Michigan to Mexico. We always remained friends. I knew he loved me and I often wonder how my life would have played out with him.
