Times Past: WWII sparks business for ‘drab, cold’ train depot

By Dan Krieger

S an Luis Obispo’s 1890sera Southern Pacific Railroad passenger depot was dirty and even had mice.

But as America rushed into World War II, the depot became a central focus of our community with as many as 18 trains a day stopping at the dreary station. It presented a poor welcome to young men who were going to fight for their country.

On June 24, 1941, the then- Telegram-Tribune, in a frontpage editorial, called it “a singularly drab, cold and colorless railway depot.”

In an accompanying story, the newspaper reported that the City Council voted to urge a mission-style design for a possible new depot. This was over the objection of Councilman Joseph Leary, who said, “People are tired of these Mexican-style buildings.”

Said Mayor Fred C. Kimball: “The mission style is traditional to San Luis Obispo.”

And local residents were urged to send letters to Southern Pacific in support of that style of architecture.

The effort was successful.

On Oct. 15, 1941, the Telegram-Tribune reported that construction was expected to begin in 60 days on a new depot that would be in the mission style. It went into operation in 1943.

The local transportation picture had undergone earlier changes in connection with the war. In a review of the 1941 events published in its Jan. 1, 1942, edition, the Telegram-Tribune observed, “SLO went ‘big time’ on the 20th (of June) when the green buses of the Jones Transportation Co. began to operate on scheduled routes.”

Shortly after the bus system started, San Luis Obispo became a city with an “All- Girl Taxicab Business.” In its report July 11, 1941, the San Luis Obispo Independent said the City Council awarded the franchise over the objections of Leary, who “questioned the propriety and fitness of women as taxicab operators.”

Throughout the war, Steve Zegar continued to provide taxi service. Granny Orr, a public health nurse and lifelong observer of public affairs, recalled: “He was so kind, squeezing six or eight people into his taxi at once, often letting the soldiers and tired nurses go free to save them the walk to the hospital. He was so tired himself, driving day and night.”

If the taxis were rolling, many private automobiles were immobile. In a frontpage story Dec. 31, 1941, the Telegram-Tribune reported that tire rationing would begin the next day. And soon the newspaper was printing the names of those who were allotted tires.

For example, a story March 24, 1942, revealed that “George E. Pounder got one tire and the California Division of Highways and the Dewey Auto Wrecking Co. each got two.”

Forrest Coyner, Fred Kimball’s partner at the Kimball Tire Co., recalled that in 1942, “For six months we literally worked shifts around the clock without stopping to meet the Army’s need for tires. We’d get used tires from the troops in the South Pacific, retread and recap them and send them back. And we did the same things for Camp Roberts and Camp San Luis Obispo.”

Still, civilians generally had a better chance of obtaining a tire than a new car. And this, as a Telgram-Tribune editorial of Feb. 2, 1942, observed, meant a major “dislocation” of auto selling agencies in the United States, including San Luis Obispo.

And, of course, tire rationing was only part of the story. Gasoline also went on the rationing list, with “A,” “B” or “C” stickers on windshields indicating the size of the drivers’ allotments.

Most of us who lived through that era recall the frequent flat tires resulting from the less than perfect “synthetic rubber” inner tubes.

Taking the train made a lot of sense, even if you had to reserve “five days in advance.”

Dan Krieger is professor emeritus at Cal Poly.