Zim Zimicki’s Hard Work
Fuels America’s Trip West
Driving
a Model A Ford from Weatherford to Ranger in 1928, I would’ve been worn out by
the time I hit Strawn. My average speed was 35 miles an hour. Pulling off the Bankhead Alternate Highway
at the first gas station I found, Marche
“Zim” Zimicki might have greeted me, might have shown me around. I made such a
trek Thursday, not in a Model A (and more than a little bit faster). Viewing
all that Zim left behind felt like a warm handshake between new friends. Zim
passed away in 1962.
Traveling
from my home to Ranger back when Zim built this place, drivers followed the Bankhead
Highway from Weatherford to Mineral Wells, to Palo Pinto, toward Metcalf Gap, then
they turned south to Strawn, finally attempting one steep hill west up into
Ranger. The Thurber brick-paved Bankhead
Highway was cobbled together from a patchwork
quilt of older already-existing county roads, America’s first transcontinental
highway.
Cross-country auto
travel offered high adventure after WWI, not for the faint of heart. Cars often
carried two spare tires in case of flats. The “Monkey Grip” cold-patch kit,
with glue and about 100 little rubber patches to fix inner tube holes was as
necessary as extra tanks of water for overheated radiators. My uncle could’ve
followed me in a second car, if our family now was as large as it was back then.
When one car “quit” (broke down), the other could tow its fallen brother to the
next mechanic.
Giant billboards of
the time lured westbound drivers approaching Metcalf Gap south to Strawn, onto the
Bankhead Highway Alternate (now Hwy. 16) or west across the historic gap to
Breckenridge. Think Route 66. At slow speeds with a car full of kin, boredom (or
madness) quickly set in. Approaching Strawn from the north, stopping at Zim’s Quality
Beverages to get “fuel-eats-drinks & ice”, use the outhouse and even stay
in the motor court would’ve been mighty tempting.
Zim’s brick
service station – restaurant – Dr. Pepper bottling plant stretched along the
west side of the two-lane highway, just south of the first Palo Pinto Creek
bridge (past the Necessity cutoff). The mid-October morning I visited, 42 degree
silence greeted my arrival. I crawled out and walked across brick pavers to survey
the abandoned brick gas station, the rotting wooden overhangs held aloft by iron
tie-rods. Twenty Model A’s or Model T’s could’ve packed this station, back in
the day.
My Model A now full
of gas, I might have eased down the hill to the Y intersection at the filling
station’s left. Travelers veered left to the Dr. Pepper bottling plant or right
to the tourist court. I opened the gate to the right (with permission). Walking
beneath towering pecan trees, one quickly realizes there’s more here than meets
the eye. The one story “filling station” visible from Highway 16 conceals a two
story labyrinth, housing a gas station (four pumps), restaurant, bar, cavernous
machine shop, bank, office, kitchen and more.
Back then, a
muffled clattering vibration sound would have come from the south. Across the
courtyard a hulking brick warehouse that once housed the Dr. Pepper (and Coca
Cola) bottling plant stares back, once supplying soft drinks to this part of
the state. A “Zim’s Quality Beverages” billboard painted on its side invited
passersby to pull off the highway. West from there, a five bay Dr. Pepper delivery
truck garage connects. Shooting north, five fallen-in tourist court motel room
shells sit abandoned, the forerunner to the modern motel.
“Kids need to be
kept busy,” Zim might have told me, showing me around. There was a small gold fish
pond in the days before color TV. Families could also venture south to Zim’s
swimming hole in Palo Pinto Creek, just below the Watson House (now Edwards
Funeral Home). It was shady and had a rope swing. There’s a story about a
handicapped boy on crutches looking down at this swimming hole from the Watson
House. The embankment caved in, the boy fell in the creek and drowned.
The first thing
you notice about Zim’s buildings is the handsome brick work completed by Zim’s
father-in-law, Pete (“Piotr) Wasieleski. When Thurber’s mines began to wind
down around 1921, Pete began working for Zim. Atop gentle wall arches facing
the highway, three small round brick parapets crown each capital (think a rook
in chess), their symbolism lost to time. The tumbled burgundy bricks lend the
building a warm glow in morning sunlight. Ornate arched brick drains and
soldiered brick accents above windows reveal artistry uncommon today.
“This land looks awfully low,” I might have
suggested to Zim. He would have smiled. Pointing back toward the main highway building,
you come to understand that Zim created this place to “fit”. The Bankhead’s
roadbed soars fifteen feet above the bottomland you’re standing on. Zim snuggled
his two story station against that roadbed. Its second floor fronts the road
(was high enough). The bottom floor faces the other direction, sitting
comfortably on the ground. Elaborate stone-lined ditches channel rain water to
the creek. One rock-lined channel travels under the entire length of the main
complex. Fit your building to the land, not the land to your building. Think
Frank Lloyd Wright.
Marche (MARCH-EE) “Zim” Zimicki was born in
1897 in Pennsylvania’s
rough-and-tumble coal fields. His family (originally Zamitzski) worked in Thurber’s
mines by 1900, moving to Lyra’s mines by 1910 (between Strawn and Mingus). Being
the only boy (three sisters), Zim and dad Pete worked in the mine and farmed
(graffiti on a nearby water well records “Marche 1917”). Zim may have started mining
as young as 13.
When Zim returned
from WWI, capitalism’s wheel began to spin more rapidly in this creek bottom.
Zim took a job nobody wanted, tearing down the old Stephens County Courthouse
in Breckenridge in 30 days. One wonders if some of the pressed tin ceilings above
the gas pumps come from that facility. Streamlining his family name for “only
in America
success”, Zamitzski became Zimicki.
Father and son
pooled their income, giving them the stroke needed to buy these twenty acres
along the northern branch of Palo Pinto Creek. Other nearby land holdings were
added at bargain-basement prices during the Great Depression.
Zim must’ve
absorbed the Thurber “vertical integration” that Colonel Hunter and W. K.
Gordon infused into Texas and Pacific Coal operations, offering coal miners not
only a place to work, but providing for their human needs with company stores,
bars, church buildings, even a cemetery. Zim dreamed of satisfying a similar menu
of his visiting Bankhead Highway
guests’ needs on their journey toward the Pacific.
This
complex was and is a work in progress. Begun in the 1920s, major construction
took about a year to complete. Zim built the gas station, then the restaurant,
ice house, bottling plant, and travel courts. Though run by family and staff, Zim
could be seen everywhere, doing everything. Zim dressed plainly, not being a
“behind the scenes pencil pusher.” Before we arrived, he likely just crawled
out from under a truck, rebuilding its transmission.
Zim also mastered
the load-bearing engineering he observed in the overhead wooden timbers holding
up the uncertain ceilings inside Thurber’s deep coal mines. Zim’s ground floor
machine shop’s ceiling reveals strong concrete beams atop solid columns
carrying the weight of the entire suspended second floor.
Zim built his own
power plant to supply electricity to the complex using a large diesel motor. To
start the diesel engine, one had to light a wick (in place of a spark plug) and
stick it in a hole (filled with gas) while cranking the engine. This required a
man of deep faith (or great speed).
Zim owned the Dr.
Pepper and Coca Cola franchises simultaneously for awhile. Coke asked Zim to tie
into Strawn’s city water and stop using his well water (still in operation).
Zim told them to go to hell (diplomacy not among his virtues). Today’s Strawn
Museum (open 11 – 4, Thursday - Saturday) houses several versions of Zim’s
Quality Beverages heavy, opaque Dr. Pepper and Coca Cola bottles, listing
Breckenridge, Strawn and Cisco as his territory. Zim might’ve also leaned toward
Dr. Pepper, as they also offered Crème Soda, Lemon, Lime and Strawberry drinks
in their lineup.
Zim’s ground floor
machine shop was always turning out clever gadgets – inventions, cattle guards,
truck repairs, and gates. Old truck frames converted into work benches still do
their duty. Discarded tin Coca-Cola signs hang from the black-dark ceiling awaiting
their next assignment. Zim received a patent for delivery truck racks that
allowed drink cases to slide forward on rollers when other cases were removed.
He built a revolving cross for Strawn’s St.
John’s Catholic Church bell tower, though this was
never installed.
Zim
had a bar on the second floor. Accessed from the highway’s front door or up a
winding stairway from the bocci ball courts below, one delights in the stout wooden
columns that frame large mirrors behind the bar. There’s a kitchen to one side,
a wood-planked dining room/dance hall to the north. “It happened right here,” I
felt the room’s shadows whispering, though what happened there, I may never
know.
The new owner, a
kind man, lifted one of the barstool seats from its pedestal and turned it
over. The seats were made from truck hubs, fitted onto cams atop their poles
below, just like a delivery truck’s axle. I know Zim is smiling in heaven as I
reveal his ingenuity and thrift. The bar counter’s base features corners of
ridged glass blocks. The juke box surely played country swing dance tunes as working
class couples circled the dance floor, gold-trimmed ceiling fans click-clocking
lazy circles into the pre-air conditioning summertime air.
Between the
restaurant and the backyard tourist court sat picnic tables, barbeque pits and bocci
ball courts under shade trees providing travelers a much needed overnight
oasis. The southern room of the filling station still boasts a full-sized bank
safe built into the wall. There’s a story that Zim had a little bank for
awhile, though sheltering Zim’s steady cash flow seems as likely (or perhaps a
lack of trust in post-Depression banks).
Under the highway
bridge outside one observes graffiti, colorfully modern and vintage. One scribe
writes “Wiley Wells…From Buffalo, N.Y…going to God’s country. March 29, 1929.” I hope Wiley made
it. Seven months later, Mr. Wells’ young nation plunged headlong beneath the
waves of its first Great Depression.
“Zim was tight-fisted, inventive, and versatile,”
remembers nephew Leo Bielinski, “and quite an accordion player.” In the late
1940s, Edward Dumith was building a home in Mingus. Being Zim’s friend, Dumith
hoped to buy some of the old (but solid) lumber salvaged from the Stephens
County Courthouse at a “buddy” price. No such luck. Dumith could’ve bought
lumber from the lumber yard at the same price. Zim used old Magnolia Beer signs
to flash the bottling plant’s roof. He used discarded Coca-Cola signs to form
the restaurant’s stout structural concrete foundations.
One
neighbor child remembers an army of people constructing Zim’s. As Thurber, Mineral City and other area coal mines were winding
down, cheap labor was plentiful. These ex-coal miners (doing the work of three
men today) did the heavy lifting, with Zim leading the way. In addition to
Wasieleski, Zim’s brother-in-law Big Joe Daskevich helped construct the
buildings, later rising to become bottling supervisor. Zim’s dad Pete (then
about 55) was also an old miner who could handle hard work.
Family helped Zim
achieve his dreams. Zim’s second generation immigrant imagination helped
provide for his family and employees during wrenching economic times. At family
gatherings Zim played his accordion. Wife Stella kept the books. When Zim and
Stella married, they built a small two-bedroom wood home just south of the
bottling works. With all of their wealth, they continued to live there until
1960, when they built the still-standing two story brick home just west of the
original house.
Zim
wasn’t famous for paying high wages. When he bought ranchland around Strawn in
1938, Frank Bielinski and Tut Daskevich were paid $1.50 a day digging post
holes by hand, ten hours a day. Of course, like today, any job was a blessing. When
Zim’s son (Marche Pete) asked his dad to help pay for his senior year at Texas
A & M vet school, Big Zim said, “Gosh, Marche, this school is costing too much. It
might be cheaper if I just bought the damn school myself.”
When
the highway connecting Weatherford to Ranger was finally completed in the 1930s,
it effectively killed Zim’s roadside business. He went into ranching, never
missing a beat.
I was tipped to
look for a hidden compartment built beneath the highway or bridge, to conceal
beer or moonshine. I found no evidence of that. Zim didn’t produce moonshine,
both because of his upright wife Stella and because it would’ve exposed his
prosperous business to seizure by federal revenuers. Hiding his own hootch from
his eagle-eyed wife Stella, however, keeping her from knowing he was “nipping
at the bottle” was certainly a possibility.
Zim did own a
honky tonk to the north in Metcalf Gap after Prohibition was repealed. This was
a rough place, frequented by thirsty cedar hackers (talk about hard work). But
Zim was all about making money. When beer cans came along, most drinkers used a
“key” to open them. Zim invented a foot-operated can opener for his bartenders,
to speed his liquid commerce along.
Shortly before
Zim’s death, he was asked to speak to the Strawn Lion’s Club. He told this
story: “It was a full moonlit night, freezing cold. The birds had nothing to
eat and they were miserable. But an old bull in the corral had just let a nice
steaming cow pie. A mockingbird flew down and gobbled this up. Now he was warm,
and full, and contented, so he began to loudly sing. The disturbed rancher who
was trying to fall asleep grabbed his 12-gauge and blew the bird away. The moral
of this story: When you’re full of BS, keep your mouth shut.”
Zim
finally sold the Dr. Pepper bottling operation to M. L. King in 1937, who moved
it to Ranger. One also finds Zim’s Heileman Brewing distributorship flyers (with
offices in Strawn, San Angelo
and Big Spring)
among historic Zim literature. The multiple offerings of all Zim’s enterprises
may never be known.
Zim
would have been pleased, I think, that another visitor to his American dream got
what he came for. Several that lived in the Strawn area and many that traveled
through it came to know the man Zim Zimicki by his works. I add myself to that
list. The day warmed as I climbed in my car and drove away.