Iron Man Of The Month

Of DAYTON DAILY NEWS AND RADIO'S JOE'S JOURNAL

| September/October 1972

  • 12-Horse Frick Engine
    Courtesy of Joe Fahnestock, Union City, Indiana 47390.
    Joe Fahnestock
  • The old Cat 60
    Courtesy of Joe Fahnestock, Union City, Indiana 47390.
    Joe Fahnestock
  • Omar Swartzendruber
    Courtesy of Joe Fahnestock, Union City, Indiana 47390.
    Joe Fahnestock
  • Iron Man Omar Swartzendruber
    Courtesy of Joe Fahnestock, Union City, Indiana 47390.
    Joe Fahnestock
  • The old Marion Roller
    Courtesy of Joe Fahnestock, Union City, Indiana 47390.
    Joe Fahnestock
  • 1920-40 x 140 Cross Compound Reeves Engine
    Courtesy of Arlo Jurney, Calgary, Alberta, Canada.
    Arlo Jurney

  • 12-Horse Frick Engine
  • The old Cat 60
  • Omar Swartzendruber
  • Iron Man Omar Swartzendruber
  • The old Marion Roller
  • 1920-40 x 140 Cross Compound Reeves Engine

Union City, Indiana.

Swartzendruber-a name to reckon with, let alone spell or remember. It was three years after receiving a letter from Omar Swartzendruber and two personal visits that I was even able to mentally visualize the name sufficiently to register in my memory.

And, when I did decide to seek out the natural habitat of this man with the long, unpronounceable name, my task was made none the easier, simply because I could neither spell nor speak the nomenclature of the one for whom I was searching. Indeed, no one thereabouts in 'them thar hills' could either elucidate about the man with the long, unspeakable name, or guide to his whereabouts, except to advise me to 'bar to the left, then to the right and ask the folks up the lane.'

Finally a pudgy little gentleman, leaning on a crooked cane beside a little red country schoolhouse at the crossroads did recall a certain fellow with a lot of old machinery out beside the red bank barn further on up the winding road.



'I rec'llec the opened up the road with a bulldozer after the blizzard of '50,' quoth he. And on we went over the winding, hilly country turnpike, veering to the right, thence to the left, until the stench of piggy manure stopped the motor of our little red truck right smack in front of someone's hog barn.

The bearded gentleman from within laughed at our dilemma, then directed us to follow the winding path on the other side of his barn to the haunts of the man whose name we couldn't pronounce. And even after visiting a couple hours with him, I still couldn't spell Swartzendruber until I had arrived back home and read it printed in a book he had given me.



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