“I’ve got some wheels down at my house!” Mike proclaimed.
Tommy replied, “We got two tricycle wheels in the garage. I think they’d work great.” Tommy and Mike were both nine, three years older than me. This was one of just a few times when they allowed me to play with them. They were planning on making a police wagon out of scrap wood. I didn’t contribute much in the way of ideas, but when they needed something, I found it and brought it to them. I was a “gofer.”
Tommy said, “Timmy, you find the wheels in the garage. Mike and I’ll go to his house and get his.” At that, they both headed up the street.
Without further thought, I went to the garage and began searching. Within a few minutes, I found the wheels under Pop’s workbench in the back corner. They were connected by a round metal rod about eighteen inches long. I lugged the heavy wheels out to the front yard where I had last seen Tommy and Mike. I waited and was glad to do so.
Back then, in 1955 when I was six, my brother Tommy and I still got along pretty well. There were squabbles, of course, but nothing more than normal sibling conflict. Tommy was my idol although I don’t think he ever really understood that. He was smart, strong, and usually a good example for me. He could fix nearly anything.
Mike was a good guy, fun to be with. He was into being a gang leader, but not the kind of gang where we stood on a street corner and intimidated people. Ours was more like the old “Our Gang/Little Rascals” movies type. Tommy and I were part of that gang. I usually played with Mike’s younger sister, Lynn, one of my best friends. That day, however, I was being allowed to play with the big kids. Even though they left me at our house while they went to Mike’s, I still felt important. That was enough to make me eager to help.
I finally saw them coming down the street from Mike’s house, only three houses down and across North Washington Street. It seemed like a mile to me. They crossed the narrow, alley-like street to our side and came into our yard.
“Neat!” Mike shouted when he saw my wheels. “An axle, too!”
I thought to myself, “Oh, an axle! That’s what that metal thing between the wheels is.” I did say out loud, “Neat! Yours has an axle, too.” I didn’t really understand what an axle was for, but I did understand that Mike thought it was “neat” and then so did I. We took our finds into the back yard to the scrap wood pile. We’d find the makings of our wagon there.
Pulling boards from the pile, we began showing them to each other. Pretty soon we had most of what we needed. Mike held up a board. “We can use this to hold the front axle.”
“Yeah,” Tommy responded.
“Yeah,” I agreed, again not really sure why it was important.
Our older cousin, Jim, had built similar carts before. Tommy and I had not only seen them, but had been allowed to drive them. Tommy had an idea of how to construct our wagon. He and Mike began putting boards together in a mock-up of the frame of their dreams. I fetched nails, screws, a hand saw and boards. By the end of the afternoon, there really wasn’t much to show, but we were excited and didn’t want to quit when called to dinner. Mike headed home.
Over the next few days, our police wagon started to take shape. It had front and back wheels and axles secured to their wood bases by bent nails. The back axle didn’t move back and forth. The front axle turned from side to side, pivoting on a bolt at the center point and a rope attached to each side allowing us to steer by pulling. The wagon had a tall cab, big enough for any one of us to sit in and drive. The finishing touches involved painting parts of it, including putting “Police DEPT.” on the top of the front.
When it was all done, we stood back and admired our work, smiling with pride at each other. We each took turns sitting in it and driving on trial runs while the other two pushed. It was a real police wagon and it was awesome.
“I know!” Mike cried out. “Let’s drive it downtown to the Tribune office and Dean can take our picture and put it in the paper.
Tommy and I looked at each other and then back at Mike. “What? Tommy asked, not really understanding what Mike had said.
“My dad knows Dean, the guy that runs the paper. He’ll do it. I’m pretty sure.” That was good enough for us.
We nodded in agreement and said, “Yeah!” excitedly.
“I wanna wear my guns,” I offered. \We all had toy cowboy pistols, holsters, and belts. The older boys didn’t play with theirs too often, but I did. I could think of nothing better than wearing my cowboy guns for an official picture.
“Yeah, it’ll make us look like real police.” Tommy responded. Agreeing, Mike headed home while Tommy and I went straight to our shared bedroom. By the time we belted up our sidearms and went out, Mike was on his way back.
Tommy drove first. He had done most of the work on it, so that seemed right. He got in and we headed to “D” Street, which was only one house away. He turned onto “D” and we pushed down to busy Adams Street where we waited to cross. After that, we each took turns driving two blocks. When my turn came, I was full of excitement and a real sense of importance.
We finally stopped in front of the Dixon Tribune office. Tommy got out and he and I stood guard while Mike went inside. He walked in and saw Dean Dunnicliff, the editor and said “You wanta see somepin’ good?”
Dean came out, took one look, and went back in to get his big camera.
We stood, looking at him seriously while he took our picture. It was published in the Dixon Tribune that week. We were famous!
I have no idea what ever happened to our Police Wagon. I’ve learned over the years that most of the time, no matter how precious an object might seem, it usually disappears, leaving only memories behind.