It was startling last week to read about the passing of Eddie Morgan. When I was 15, he was one of the older guys I liked to hang around with because he was always up to something. Now, almost 50 years later, Eddie’s death makes me realize that he was only four years older than me, which takes me a step closer to my own mortality. Speaking of mortality, looking back, we were lucky to have survived some of the Eddie inspired adventures. He used to like to go swimming over to Little Lakes, especially at night after a hard day of haying. Bob Bernhardt and Andy Hugick would often be in the swimming party. Eddie had this routine he’d go through after he launched himself off the moonlit dock and onto a tube with a bar of soap in his hand. “Hello campers,” he’d say in a calm voice that came from deep in his throat. He had a way of talking where his lips hardly moved. “It’s the Little Laker out for a swim,” he’d croon. Then he’d follow with phrases like, “Hah, haah, splash me and I kill you.” The banter came out calmly without any aggression or malice. But, it was original and funny and after a while we were all talking like Eddie Morgan. In fact, everybody we knew started talking like Eddie Morgan. The phenomenon lasted for a couple of summers. After swimming, one particular ride back to Richfield was memorable. Eddie had a black and white ‘56 Ford that could really move. He opened it up, the glass-pack mufflers burrapping like machine guns, as we got back onto Route 20. Hugick was right behind him with his ‘57 ford. Pretty soon we were doing 110 mph with the ‘57 right behind in the slip stream. I couldn’t believe it when Hugick moved up to touch bumpers with Eddie as we flew down the road. For me, it was more thrilling than a ride on Coney Island’s Cyclone. Eventually, hard driving took the transmission out of Eddie’s ‘56, so he changed it in a dip out on the lawn in front of the Fireplace which was his family’s late night establishment, the spot everyone would go to for spaghetti after all the bars had closed. It was located right across the road from the Lake House which at that time was running only on one cylinder with the great and colorful cook Andy Kanakaras manning the stove and the bar. Occasionally, a bit of auto wisdom would drop off of Eddie’s hardly moving lips. For example, “If your car burns oil and you add a fresh quart, that’s the first quart that will burn off,” and, “When you’re going down Vickerman Hill, hit the gas every once in a while to take the pressure off of the rear end.” I never checked out the validity of these tips but I also never forgot them. The photo of Eddie that was in last week’s Mercury doesn’t capture the guy I knew. He was heftier with longer hair. Add his dry sense of humor and it made him even cooler, kind of a Rory Calhoun cast in one of those moonshine-running movies. Girls liked Eddie. The only time he was ever mad at me was when I cautioned a classmate that he was older and wiser than kids our age and she foolishly told him what I said. Even then, he didn’t throw his weight around to get even. He was not a mean spirited person. He used to go parking with dates in a nearby farmer’s hay field. The farmer didn’t know who was flattening his hay. He wasn’t happy about it, so he put a board full of nails across where the trampler would enter the field. The next morning, Eddie was limping down the road with four flat tires as the farmer approached. “So you’re the guy,” the farmer said. They knew each other which made Eddie grin sheepishly. Then, they both had a good laugh. When there was nothing to do, Eddie might cook up some spaghetti back in the Fireside’s kitchen or cruise around Richfield looking for someone to bug. One time he stopped off at Sunshine Cabins which was on the west side of town and operated by a guy named Walt Barber. Eddie told him he was looking for a place to stay and had Walt show him each and every one of his units. When the extensive tour was over, Eddie looked Walt in the eye and said, “Firetraps, they’re all firetraps.” Upon hearing that, Walt Barber blew a gasket as Eddie beat it back to his Ford. For the rest of the summer, every time Eddie passed by Sunshine Cabins, he’d yell out, “Firetraps!” Other guys followed Eddie’s example yelling, “firetraps!” as they cruised by. Walt Barber must have had a difficult summer that year. Some of our adventures were a bit too mischievous to mention, ones involving cases of booze locked in his old man’s cellar, or the necessity of having a fast getaway car. To sight the admirable facts about his life, being a union member, liking the outdoors, being in the army reserves, doesn’t quite capture the guy I knew. He was one of the characters that made Richfield a great place to have spent your young years, years filled with Little Lake swims and car races on warm summer nights that we naively thought would last forever. He was unique, a product of our town. There will be other colorful guys to follow but there will never be another Eddie Morgan. Terry Berkson is a freelance writer from Richfield Springs.
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