MR. SPRAGUE AND THE SUPERTEST CARNIVAL

 

05-22-2021

November, 1958. Thonotosassa, Florida

Our new home on Fowler Avenue was screened by two tall, wide stands of Australian pines on either side of an oyster shell driveway, blocking most of the view from the road. If you didn't know where to turn you could miss it. The small white wooden rental house rested on top of a hill in front of a ten-acre orange grove. Two spreading jacaranda trees framed the circular drive in front of the house. Large avocado trees grew at each of the four corners of our new home. Grapefruit trees crowded the backyard, abutting the rows of wide, spreading orange trees. A lime tree, a prehistoric-looking sago palm, and red hibiscus shrubs filled the side yards. To a nine-year old boy, it was a one-acre Eden of citrus trees and other unidentifiable growing things.

Prices were higher in Florida. We'd paid twenty dollars a month rent in Texas. Our little house on the hill cost forty-five dollars a month, a princely sum at the time, even for Eden.

Daddy had rented a U-Haul trailer in Texarkana that was filled with every scrap of our belongings. We left nothing behind in Texas. We weren't going back. Looking back, I don't know how our old car did it, towing that heavy trailer a thousand miles, protecting Mama, Daddy, and three boys aged nine, five and two. Our parents were both twenty-nine years old.

I don't know how Mama and Daddy unloaded all our furniture, beds, boxes of clothing, cookware, and everything else by themselves, but somehow they did it. That night we slept in our own beds, in a strange house, listening to strange noises, homesick for the family left behind.

 

Then we were introduced that night to the Florida palmetto bug, also known as the giant armor-plated cockroach.

I woke in the middle of the night with the need to relieve my bladder. The house was pitch dark. Barefoot, I made my way to the bathroom, my feet crunching on something. It never occurred to me that I was crushing cockroaches. I'd never seen a cockroach in Texas. My hands outstretched in the dark, I felt for the open bathroom door frame, reached around for the light switch, and flipped it on.

I screamed! The linoleum floor was carpeted in cockroaches, hundreds, perhaps thousands of alien brown creatures two to three inches long, long antenna feelers flicking, frozen in place by the bright bathroom light. I screamed again, and the roaches scattered, disappearing into their wall hiding places in seconds.

My mother was the first one up, freaking out, having no idea why her son was screaming, entering the small dining room adjacent to the bathroom just in time to see the last exodus of cockroaches disappear. She screamed.

Daddy was the next one up, dashing into the dining room in his boxers, ready to confront intruders, but all he saw were Mama and me. Except for the dozen or so I had crushed underfoot in the dark, the scary roaches were gone. My mother told Daddy she couldn't live in a house infested with giant cockroaches. He promised to take care of it.

My brothers, Dan and Tom, slept through it.

The next day, Arthur Wetherington, the owner, drove up in his old pickup truck to meet his new tenants. Daddy had gone to work. Mama was polite and gracious asking about the cockroaches. Mr. Wetherington told us that the roaches were called palmetto bugs, and mostly lived in orange groves, but the house had been vacant for a few months, giving the nasty-smelling bugs, roaches, whatever one chose to call them, an opportunity to colonize the rental house.

Someone at work told Daddy how to fumigate our house and get rid of the roaches. Friday night we closed all the windows and opened all the cabinet doors and dresser drawers. Daddy put two Holiday foggers in the house, switched them on, and hurried out the door. Insecticide gas filled the little house. We couldn't return for several hours, until the poison gas had dissipated.

We went to the Fun-Lan drive-in on Hillsborough Avenue for the evening, a huge treat. Hotdogs and popcorn. Looking back, it seemed like Daddy was trying to make up for all the recent disruption we'd endured.

We were home by eleven. Daddy went in first, opening windows and doors, turning on a fan, airing out the place, hitting the lights. He cussed.

Mama went in behind him. She cussed. My brothers and I stayed outside, in no hurry to enter. Mama was sweeping with a broom in the living room, cussing at every stroke. I stood on the front porch and looked inside.

For a moment I wondered how all those dry leaves had gotten in our house, then realized they were dead roaches Mama was sweeping up, not leaves. The floor was completely covered with dead roaches. The ''roach bomb,'' as we called it, worked. We could get up during the night to use the bathroom without fear of treading on roaches.

Every month or so, after Mama complained of seeing another cockroach, we would repeat the process.

Gasoline was plentiful and cheap in the 1950's. ''Gas wars'' were common. Gas stations across the street from each other would post prices a few cents per gallon cheaper than their competitor, who would then lower his prices a few pennies less. A famous photograph in the Tampa Tribune showed two signs in front of a gas station — ''Kerosene —19.9 cents per gallon,'' and ''Gasoline —18.9 cents per gallon.'' That photo was published in newspapers and magazines nationwide. Kerosene was typically a cheaper petroleum product, used in space heaters and paint brush cleanup (not to mention diesel and jet fuel), and for gasoline to cost less than kerosene was unusual and newsworthy.

An independent gas company, Supertest, had the cheapest gasoline prices, always undercutting the name brand oil companies. That's where Daddy bought his gas. The nearest Supertest station was on Fowler Avenue, two miles west of our house, on the way to Temple Terrace or Tampa. Daddy would always pull into the Supertest on Friday nights, to fill his gas tank, on our way to buy groceries at the Kwik Chek grocery store.

Mr. Sprague owned the combination gas station and little store. A tall, thin man wearing a fishing cap and smoking a pipe, even around the gas pumps, Mr. Sprague looked like the artist, Norman Rockwell.

His little store was fascinating to my brothers and me. It wasn't like a 7-Eleven or cookie cutter convenience store. It was old, like Mr. Sprague. Additions had been built on over time. Although he sold sodas and other typical store items, Mr. Sprague's emphasis was on fishing. You walk into his crowded little store the first things you see are fishing lures painted with eyes and colors like little fish, with treble hooks attached. There were dozens of different fishing lures, silver ''Johnson spoons,'' colorful plastic worms, tables with boxes of small to large lead weights, hooks of every size from tiny to humongous, hooks big enough to tackle the biggest fishes. Corks and floats of every description. Rods and reels. Rolls of monofilament fishing line. Minnow buckets. Fish knives.

 

Photos of fishermen and their catches hung on the walls alongside taxidermy largemouth bass frozen in time with the inherent message, ''You, too, can catch a lunker.'' Fishing paradise to a nine-year old boy.

Around the side of the store outside Mr. Sprague lined up several small fishing boats on trailers for sale. Every week, while Mr. Sprague filled the car tank with gasoline, Daddy would roll a cigarette and talk with the old man, his eyes cutting over toward the unobtainable fishing boats.

''Service stations'' in the 1950's and 1960's were unlike the impersonal behemoths we have today. On TV I see little old ladies at modern gas pumps filling their tanks. That didn't happen in the Fifties. You pull up to the pump, ask for a fill-up or a couple dollars’ worth, the attendant pumps your gas, washes your windshield with a spray bottle, a squeegee and a clean rag, opens your hood, and checks your oil. Tire pressure low? Got that. Full service. Mr. Sprague personally dealt with every customer, most of whom considered him like a kindly uncle.

The old man took an especial liking to my father and our small family. He told us about the Supertest carnival, in Tampa, with rides, ponies, wild animals and concession stands, for Supertest customers only. For every dollar of gas purchased, the attendant would give you four Supertest tickets, redeemable for rides at the carnival. Mr. Sprague gave Daddy an entire roll of twenty-five cent tickets to encourage him to take us to the carnival. We boys begged to go, but Daddy did things in his own time. He wasn't ready to take us to the Supertest carnival.

Meanwhile, Mr. Sprague talked up the joys of Florida freshwater fishing, particularly Lake Panasoffkee, an hour's drive north of Tampa, near Bushnell. Mr. Sprague closed his store every Wednesday morning until noon so he could be out on the lake fishing before dawn. It was a large lake, and you needed a fishing boat to cover the expanse of water. Daddy couldn't afford to buy a boat, but Mr. Sprague convinced him he could rent a boat and ''kicker'' — that's what fishermen called small outboard motors — from Jim Veal at the Pana Vista Lodge at a very reasonable price. Mr. Sprague outfitted us with all the necessary gear we'd need.

''Pay me five dollars a week,'' he said, ''You're good customers.''

In later years, when Daddy had his own nice boat, he and Mama would spend the weekend in a rental cabin on the lake. Long after Mr. Sprague had passed on, I realized that the old man must have contacted Jim Veal and smoothed our way in those early days. We always got special treatment. That was the way he was.

Daddy took off a rare Saturday from work. Mama cooked us a very early breakfast. She wasn't going. She couldn't swim, and no way was she going out in a boat that would surely capsize if she got in it, life jacket or not.

''You boys have a good time,'' she said. ''Bring me back some fish.''

We did. Not a boatful, but plenty for a Saturday night fish fry with grits, hush puppies, and Cole slaw, and leftovers enough for another meal.

It was a great day for us all. We were on the water before sunrise. Daddy enjoyed teaching Dan and Tom to fish, just as he had taught me. Everyone caught fish. The lake was beautiful, and we spent more time cruising and exploring than fishing, the four of us lost in our own worlds. Panasoffkee means "Valley of Water" in the language of the early Indians who lived in the area beginning in the early 1800’s. Lake Panasoffkee is a somewhat shallow, true spring-fed lake that covers about 4450 acres, even now famous for its bountiful fishing.

 

Daddy took us up the Withlacoochee River, which flowed out of the lake, to a railroad trestle over the river. A freight train passed overhead, whistle blasting. I baited a hook with a large earthworm, dropped it deep in the middle of the river, and almost immediately hooked the fish of the day, a fat catfish over two feet long. That was the last fish caught.

That fishing trip was the first we went on together, the first of many. Our trips to Lake Panasoffkee instilled a love for fishing in my brothers that never cooled off.

Mike Henry convinced Daddy to take the family to the Supertest Carnival on a Saturday night. He was a young man who worked with my father at Booker, newly-married to his teenage wife, Clara, who loved the Supertest Carnival, having visited it since she was a little girl. Since Daddy had the roll of free ride tickets, Mike and Clara volunteered to guide us around the little carnival.

The first thing we saw, approaching the Supertest Carnival on North Dale Mabry Highway, was the Ferris wheel turning, lit up with strings of colored lights. The first thing we heard was the loud carnival music blasting from the merry-go-round, children squealing with joy, riding the painted carousel horses going up and down, round and round. The first things we smelled were the wafting blends of frying corn dogs, swirls of pink cotton candy, red syrup-dipped candy apples, and fresh, hot popcorn.

Clara wanted to ride the Ferris wheel. Her husband, Mike, refused. He said he didn't like carnival rides.

''Come on, boys,'' Clara said, grabbing Dan and me by our shoulders, leading us to the waiting line. ''Ride with me.''

We both looked to Mama and Daddy, holding Tom, standing off to the side. Daddy nodded. We boarded the Ferris wheel, Clara sitting in the middle. The attendant slammed shut the safety bar and rotated us into the air, then loaded the next passengers.

The metal seat squeaked and groaned as we rocked higher and higher into the sky. I looked at the safety bar locked into a steel slot and was alarmed to see the bolt holding the bar had worn almost halfway through. I suppressed the urge to panic, afraid to say anything, fearful that Clara and Dan might panic, too, as we fell out of the sky.

Nothing happened. The Ferris wheel, fully loaded, spun through the sky. It was the highest I had ever been. I dared look at my companions. Dan's and Clara's expressions, like mine, combined fear and joy. As the rickety Ferris wheel picked up speed all three of us screamed. Whooshing around at ground level, I glimpsed Mama, Daddy, Tom and Mike watching us fly by. I risked a quick wave and little Tom, grinning, returned it.

The Ferris wheel finally stopped with our seat at the pinnacle. Tampa's scattered lights were bright and beautiful contrasted against the black sky. Yellow headlights and red taillights of slow-moving cars snaked along Dale Mabry Highway. A passenger jet landed at the nearby airport. I could have stared at the panoramic scene forever, but in scant moments we were rotated around to the landing and disembarked.

Mama rode with Tom on the merry-go-round, balancing him on a horse. He was delighted. Dan and I mounted nearby steeds, as did Clara, big kid that she was.

Clara wanted to see the monkeys, which turned out to be several scraggly chimpanzees in a small stinking steel cage, humanlike hands held out through the bars begging for peanuts. The only thing separating the chimps in their cage and the carnival goers was a low wire fence about three feet in front that could be easily stepped over. Several teenage boys and girls on a cheap date crowded around the front of the chimp cage, teasing them. One obnoxious boy held out a peanut, acted like he was going to throw it, then would pull back, shell the peanut, and eat it himself, frustrating the big male chimpanzee, who grimaced and growled.

His next trick was spitting on the male chimp, then laughing as the chimp cringed and wiped off his face.

Finally the big chimp had enough, retreating to the back of the cage, screaming louder and louder as he sucked in and built up a mouthful of spit and snot, then racing to the front of the cage, where he launched a huge yellow-green snot hocker through the cage bars. The glob of slime flew through the air and hit the teen bully square in the face, nose and mouth. The boy screamed, trying to wipe the thick chimp snot off his face.

The big ape hooted and howled in delight, bouncing up and down on his fists and feet. The human onlookers backed away from the cage, getting out of his range in case the chimp reloaded with ape snot, everyone laughing and pointing at the teenagers scurrying away, humiliated.

I wanted to ride the Shetland ponies, so that's where we went next. I was disappointed at the sad condition the ponies were in. They had walked in a circle so long the path was over a foot deep. The ponies' hooves were split and splayed and in desperate need of a blacksmith or veterinarian.

Two ponies were swaybacked, obviously old and barely able to keep up with the others, even at the plodding slow pace. Dan and I sat on our mounts, Shetland pintos, mine with splotches of black and white, Dan's with brown and white splotches, our feet in the stirrups, hanging on like the ponies might suddenly break loose and gallop to the highway. Daddy put Tom on a ride and walked the circular path beside him, making sure he didn't fall off. Tom wanted to ride again, and started crying when Daddy said it was time to go.

Clara made sure we rode every ride together. Why not? Daddy's roll of tickets was free. Mike seemed bored and angry, barely talking, as he followed us around from ride to ride, humoring his wife.

It was time to go. We headed back out toward the concession stand. The rides were free, but not the food. Daddy bought corn dogs and put mustard on each one for us. We were exhausted. Tom was asleep, his head on Mama's shoulder. Clara hugged everyone, promising we would do it again soon.

Soon turned out to be months before we returned to the Supertest Carnival. On the way home Mama and Daddy discussed Mike's odd behavior. He had seemed angry with Clara, hardly talking.

''He was jealous,'' Daddy said.

''Jealous?''

''Did you notice how he acted when Clara got on the Ferris wheel with the boys?'' Daddy said.

''How could he be jealous of two little boys?''

''That's how he is, jealous of everybody.''

A few evenings later Daddy took us to the Supertest gas station after supper. Mr. Sprague led Daddy around behind the store. I followed. He pointed out a beat-up wooden fishing boat on a trailer with one flat tire. Mr. Sprague pointed out the damage, a couple of holes in the side, peeling paint, a damaged bench seat.

''It's a good boat,'' he said, walking around the boat and trailer. ''Needs some work. I don't have the time or inclination to do it. I'll fix the tire.''

''How much?'' Daddy asked.

''Like I said, it needs some work. Right now it's just taking up space I need. You want to tackle it, you got a trailer hitch, come get it Saturday. Deal?''

''Deal.''

They shook hands.

''Mama, Mama, we got a boat!'' I jumped out of the car and ran to the front porch, Mama standing there, holding her ever-present broom. I couldn't wait to tell her.

Saturday finally came. Daddy worked half a day at Booker. I was sitting on a thick bed of dried brown needles inside the stand of tall Australian pines in the front yard overlooking Fowler Avenue. I could see out but no one passing by could see me. I often sat inside the shaded stand of trees waiting for the postman, the breezes whispering through the fragrant pine needles, lulling me. Sometimes I'd doze off until I heard Mama calling me. Today I was anxiously awaiting Daddy's return with our boat.

Finally Daddy arrived, turning into the driveway, climbing the hill, towing the beat-up boat on its trailer. I ran alongside the boat and trailer as Daddy made a circle, then backed the trailer beside the house.

It looked worse in daylight, paint faded and peeling. Mama stood on the front porch, unsmiling. She stared. Daddy unhitched the trailer and parked the car under a shady jacaranda tree.

''It'll look a lot better sanded down and with a fresh coat of paint,'' Daddy said.

Mama said nothing. I could tell she wasn't sold on this project.

Uncle Rufus arrived a couple hours later to examine the boat. He was the expert. He gave it his seal of approval. He loaned Daddy his electric drill sander along with a few cans of wood putty and some tools. He made some suggestions, sat on the front porch and drank iced tea with us for awhile, then returned to Dade City.

Rufus Norman was one of my favorite people. He was seven years older than Daddy. He spoke matter-of-factly to even young children, like they were adults. When summer came, he went swimming with us at Reese's Beach on the north side of Lake Thonotosassa on a Sunday afternoon. He stayed close by me in the waist-deep water.

''Can you swim, son?'' he asked, noticing that I was just splashing around in the water.

''No, sir,'' I said.

''This is a good time to learn,'' he said.

He taught me how to swim.

He taught me to hold my breath, eyes open, then duck under the water until I needed to come up for air. He taught me how to float on my back, how to paddle, and to swim out to deeper water and back. Soon I was swimming so well you'd think I'd been swimming all my life.

It took weeks to get the boat ready for painting. Daddy was too tired after work, so the boat repairs took up a couple of spare hours on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. Daddy used the drill sander, but gave me a block of wood and sandpaper to smooth out hard to reach places. Dan and Tom wanted to help, too, but they were too young to do much. Daddy fixed up sanding blocks for them, too, and showed the boys how to use them. They soon got bored. He taught me how to clean out the holes in the wood, fill and smooth the wood putty with a putty knife and sandpaper, how to seal the cracks.

Finally it was time to paint. Daddy and Rufus had turned the boat bottom up on saw horses in preparation. Daddy bought a can of high gloss dark green marine enamel to cover the wood inside and out. Daddy did most of the work, but he let us spread some paint on the boat (and ourselves). Mama wasn't happy about that. Marine enamel didn't wash off very well.

Daddy let the paint dry a week between first and second coats. Meanwhile he painted the boat trailer white. When all was done, the boat mounted on the trailer, aluminum registration numbers affixed to the sides, it looked brand-new. Daddy was pleased. Even Mama thought it was pretty. We couldn't wait to try it out, but Daddy said no, he had to work this Saturday, it would be another week before we could go to Lake Panasoffkee.

It must have been four a.m. when we sat down to breakfast the following Saturday. Dan, Tom and I were excited about going fishing in our own boat, at last. I'm sure Daddy was excited, too, but he didn't let it show. He tried to convince Mama to go, but she adamantly refused to get in a boat.

''It will be nice having the house to myself for once,'' she said.

Pana Vista Lodge and boat ramp was already busy with all manner of boats being launched when we arrived before dawn, from small aluminum Jon boats to expensive fiberglass fishing boats sporting pairs of powerful outboard motors.

Our small ten horsepower rented kicker served us just fine.

We had a great day on the water. Water birds flew overhead. Turtles sunning themselves on heavy tree limbs fallen into the water dove off the limbs like synchronized swimmers at our approach. Large fish rolled below the surface, inhaling bugs.

The fish were biting.

Everyone caught fish, little fish, bream and bluegills, speckled perch, and bigger fish, catfish and largemouth bass. On the way home Daddy stopped at Mr. Sprague's gas station. He'd promised Mr. Sprague he would show him the boat when he finished repairing it. He wanted to show the old man our catch, too.

Mr. Sprague was suitably impressed. He walked around the boat and trailer and smiled. ''You want to sell it you let me know,” he said.

Daddy offered him some fish instead.

Despite his jealous streak, Mike and Clara stayed married, raising two boys. At Booker, Mike graduated from the shipping department to the sales counter up front. They remained our friends, and I remember Clara inviting us to her parents' house in East Tampa for a dinner one night. They had Muscadine grapes growing in their backyard, which suitably impressed my brothers and me.

The decrepit Supertest Carnival finally closed a few years after our first visit there, following another serious incident with the chimpanzees. A female chimp broke out of her cage after being teased, jumped the low fence, bit off the thumb of a nine-year old girl, raced up an electric pole, touched a live wire, was electrocuted, and fell to the ground, her black fur smoking, next to a crowd of horrified onlookers. That spelled the carnival's end.

In the 1970's, I purposely drove by the site of the old carnival on North Dale Mabry Highway. The front area had been converted to a Pontiac dealership, but at the closed off rear I could see the old merry-go-round amid tall weeds and bushes taking over the site.

Closing my eyes I thought I could hear the carnival music blaring, smell the food, and see the old Ferris wheel spinning, delighting screaming children one more time, under their parents’ watchful gazes.

 

Mr. Sprague continued to operate his Supertest gas station, along with his fishing tackle business and convenience store. I was the one in my family most interested in fishing, and Mr. Sprague would answer my questions along with selecting special lures for me to try.

''Try out this one for me and let me know how it does,'' he would say.

His boat business expanded, taking over more of his property. People would bring their boats and trailers for sale on consignment, and Mr. Sprague would collect a sales commission. He made a good deal on an outboard motor for Daddy, so he didn't have to rent one each time we went fishing.

He blamed his failing health on decades of smoking his ever-present tobacco pipe. A woman he had lived with for years began filling in for him more and more. He left everything to her, and she ran the place for a time until she sold the property and bought another store in Thonotosassa.

Daddy took off work to attend Mr. Sprague's funeral. Mr. Sprague was an Army veteran. Daddy said the funeral procession to the cemetery, Florida National Cemetery in Bushnell, near Lake Panasoffkee, consisted mostly of several dozen fishermen towing their boats and trailers behind cars and trucks, in a show of respect toward an old man who'd spent a lifetime helping and serving others.

 

Travelling back in time over six decades past, remembering people and events I thought were long forgotten, I keep returning to thoughts of my father and some of the things he taught me. Besides teaching my brothers and me how to fish, he taught us how to hunt and shoot safely. In fourth grade he taught me how to do long division when my impatient teacher couldn't. When I got into a fight at school that resulted in buttons torn off my new shirt, he taught me to sew with needle and thread, and how to shine my scuffed-up shoes.

He taught me to keep my word — ''A man is only as good as his word,'' he said. He taught me that any man who hit a woman wasn't a man. He taught me to defend the weak from bullies.

He taught me much more, many things that I vow to remember, foremost among them, how to be a man.

Charlie