Just a block east of the square, on Commerce Street in Lewisburg, Tennessee, stands a rather rundown, nondescript building that houses the Good Samaritans and the Masonic Lodge. Looking at the drab old place, a newcomer could not possibly imagine its former splendor. Yet I assure you, most splendid it was.
This was the Easy Pay Tire Store, commercial empire of Mr. Robert Wallace Ritter, Sr., assisted ably by my Aunt Kathryn Scott (as bookkeeper/salesperson), along with a large crew of really fine folks.
Bob Ritter
By the way, my Aunt Kat was the first professional business woman I ever knew. They weren’t too common in Middle Tennessee in the 1950s. She was a tremendously self-motivated woman who entered Columbia Business School right after graduation and learned accounting. When Mr. Ritter opened the doors of Easy Pay in 1943, Kat was his first employee. They were a formidable team — and they loved one another like brother and sister.
Kat also was a tremendous athlete — I still have her many golf and bowling trophies. She brought that competitive fire to making the tire store a resounding success. She was an absolute, 100% professional.
Kat in the 1940s with her husband Edwin Scott.
The Easy Pay Tire Store crew which, by 1966, included Bob, Jr. (second from left).
The Easy Pay Tire Store in 1966.
The Easy Pay Tire Store sold Goodyear tires in addition to everything else you could think of — Schwinn bicycles and Spiegel-Catalog-worthy toys, Norge “Never-Frost” refrigerators, Fedders air conditioners, big Zenith console stereos and TVs, and Excello Wall Paint.
Christmas was especially great for a young kid. Mr. Ritter pulled out all the stops. The store was brightly decorated, Christmas music blasted from those big Zenith speakers, and there was always something grand and unexpected featured in the toy department. One year, there was a kid-sized electric Model-T Ford — unheard of for the 1950s — and the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
My brother and I standing in front of the Model-T
The store was so successful, in fact, that in 1966 Mr. Ritter became the president of the National Tire Dealers & Retreaders Association for a term. Consequently, his stature grew within the Goodyear Tire and Rubber Company.
Contributing to the store’s prosperity was Mr. Ritter’s personality. He was a true character — a hilarious raconteur, a legendary practical joker, and a consummate showman. For instance, in the summer of 1966, he decided to host a contest — every paying customer was issued a ticket for a drawing, and just a few lucky winners would be chosen to ride in…the Goodyear Blimp!!!
The airship Mayflower was on a goodwill tour of the Eastern United States and Mr. Ritter persuaded Goodyear to swing the blimp by Lewisburg, Tennessee for a three-day stay! Ellington Airport was merely four years old at the time and its hangars, gleaming with new paint, were just four and a half miles from the courthouse square, a perfect site for the event.
By the way, in addition to the contest winners there were other special guests and dignitaries for whom Mr. Ritter arranged passage. Incredibly, through the good graces of my Aunt Kat, my brother and I were booked for a late afternoon flight.
My brother.
Me.
I remember this as if it were yesterday. It was mid-September, 1966, just before my 13th birthday, when my aunt drove up in her brand new , sparkling Chrysler New Yorker. My brother and I met her in the playing field of Whitthorne Junior High School. When we sat down in her car, she immediately handed us two brand new crisp J. C. Penney Towncraft sportshirts, still folded and pinned.
“Put these on, if you don’t mind,” she said. “We have Goodyear executives down here from Ohio and I want you boys to look your very best.” Which was her way of saying, “I bought these shirts because, by 3 o’clock in the afternoon I knew I could bank on your’s being dirty if not torn up.”
As a matter of fact, just prior to her arrival, my brother had a fistfight with a boy named Freddie D’Noblo and I thought I noticed blood on his shirt pocket. It was either blood or chilli con carne from the cafeteria.
Anyhow, we rode thirty or so minutes to the airport where we encountered throngs of people pressed against the chainlink fence, outside the gate. As they watched the blimp land, they cried and screamed and yelled like they were at a Frankie Avalon concert. It was a really big deal for Lewisburg in 1966. We didn’t have a whole lot going on back then.
Two men opened the gate for Kat’s New Yorker and we passed through the crowd of poor contest losers like a revolution scene from a Graham Greene movie.
The throng.
As we taxied onto to the tarmac, adding to the surreal and cinematic aura, a bright, brand new 1966 Buick Sport Wagon station wagon suddenly materialized in the distance, driving toward us. Kat came to a stop and the Sport Wagon pulled next to us. To me, it looked like a rocket ship out of Lost in Space. It sported the first blue-tinted sky roof I ever saw on an automobile.
Two broadly-smiling men stepped out looking like suit models for Hart Schaffner Marx.
“Hi, Kat! Are these the boys?”
I was amazed these movie stars knew my aunt.
The Goodyear Men.
“Yes. Are you ready for them?” Kat asked.
“Well, it will be a little while,” replied one fellow with an Akron accent. “Would you boys like a pop while you wait?”
I really didn’t know what a “pop” was but I figured it was probably something good — because these fellows were treating US like movie stars! They were very cordial, high-energy, and up-beat.
“Sure!” we predictably answered.
So the fellows brought out two ice-cold Pepsi Colas (soda pops) from a cooler in the wagon, popped the tops and handed them to us.
While we observed the crew pull down the blimp by ropes and secure the craft to the tarmac, one of the Goodyear men noticed I had quickly dispatched my Pepsi.
“Gosh! You must be thirsty! Would you like another?”
Cunningly avoiding my aunt’s disapproving gaze, I answered in the affirmative.
The Goodyear man was handing me my second drink when, unexpectedly, a new Studebaker Ambassador drove up. Disembarking were Coach Bo Culbertson and his four-year-old son Johnny, a cotton-headed little kid who looked decidedly wary of the blimp bobbing around on the runway.
The Sport Wagon.
Everyone cheerily greeted one another. Bo was Bob Ritter’s 35 year-old son-in-law and Johnny was Bob’s grandson. Bo coached and taught at the Connelly Middle School.
After awhile, my brother, Bo, Johnny, and I boarded. I was sort of shocked at how small the gondola was. There were only about six seats, plus the Captain’s.
BUT, it was quite a sensation as 147,000 cubic feet of helium majestically lifted us from the earth and sailed the blimp toward the emerald, heavily-forested hills of Marshall County. Johnny Culbertson SQUALLED from the time we lifted up until we reached an endless, four-lane red-dirt road bed, deep in the countryside. This was Interstate 65, still under construction. The pilot sailed low over the empty, eerie highway, dragging the ropes along the dirt median. This maneuver seemed to quiet Johnny down.
Somewhere along the way, the Captain got a message from the airport through his headphones. After he signed off, he turned to us with a big grin and announced, “Folks, this is going to be quite a treat for you. The crew has gone to supper so, instead of the usual 30 minute ride, we’ll be up here for an hour and a half!”
Johnny SQUALLED!
This just motivated our Captain. If I were to give him a name, I’d call him Smilin’ Jack. He just smiled and smiled and tried to humor Johnny while he demonstrated every pilot move he ever learned in blimp school. He was trying his best to entertain us — particularly Johnny, who was going through such a turmoil.
Finally, after floating at a top speed of 35 miles per hour over miles and miles and miles and miles of red cedar and rocks, with a musical score supplied by a screaming four year-old, our ride came to an end. And I was glad.
Sometime back, about 30 minutes prior, as we made our third loop around the Lewisburg Reservoir, those Pepsi Colas kicked in. I was under a lot of pressure. In fact, it was hard for me to see the countryside, I was squinting so.
Thankfully, the blimp descended over the airport runway and the crew emerged to pull the ship down. Looking out the window, I could see the two smiling Goodyear executives and Aunt Kat, anxiously waiting to greet us.
Night was beginning to fall and a cool breeze blew softly as we stepped off the gondola. My brother was the first to step down the ladder.
One of the Akron men rushed up to him and enthusiastically inquired, “Well, how was it, son!?”
My brother nonchalantly and dismissively answered,…”It was alright…,” and he kept walking.
I could see abject disappointment register on my aunt’s face, the person who had arranged this once-in-a-lifetime, magnificent adventure. I so wanted to say something to make up for my brother’s boorish behavior. BUT, I could not.
By then, I was totally focused on my desperate bladder crisis. Therefore, I performed a quick, stiff-legged shuffle past all the well-wishers, without repartee, before breaking into a trot to the nearest hangar.
I think about my Aunt Kat often. I think about all the trouble and expense she went to on our behalf. I think about the blimp ride. I think about those two plaid Towncraft sportshirts.
I imagine she realized, right then and there, it takes more than J. C. Penney to dress up some folks.
My Aunt Kathryn Scott.
