#Speedway Avenue

[animikasharma]

Now you will get bank linked residential property in Yamuna Expressway and that too within your budget?

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[herkittenbasement]

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[speedwayavenue-1]

Speedway Avenue Yamuna Expressway Great Option to Live

Speedway Avenue is one of the most luxurious residential projects on Yamuna Expressway. And its location is Sector 25 Yamuna Expressway. Speedway Avenue Yamuna Expressway offers independent 2/3/4 BHK apartments with its prime location, luxurious amenities and commitment to sustainability, it is the perfect blend of comfort and style. https://www.apexspeedways.com/

[wheelscomedyandmore]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐔.𝐒. – 𝐆𝐚𝐢𝐥 𝐖𝐢𝐬𝐞’𝐬 𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲

In the spring of 1964, 22-year-old Gail Wise was a third-grade teacher in Berkeley, Illinois, but little did she know, she was about to make history.

On April 15, 1964, Gail and her father walked into Johnson Ford on Cicero Avenue in Chicago, searching for the perfect convertible.

The family had always driven Fords—her father owned a ’57 Fairlane and a ’63 Thunderbird, so Gail knew exactly what she wanted. There was just one problem: there were no convertibles on the showroom floor.

Seeing her disappointment, the salesman took a chance and showed her something hidden in the back, under a tarp. What he revealed was none other than a "Skylight Blue" Ford Mustang convertible—the first of its kind.

The catch? It wasn’t supposed to be sold for two more days until after the official unveiling at the New York World’s Fair. No test drives allowed either. But Gail didn’t need one. The moment she saw it, she knew it was hers.

The price tag? $3,447.50. Her salary at the time? Just $5,000 a year. But with a loan from her father, Gail became the very first person in the United States to buy a Ford Mustang—two days before anyone else even saw one.

As she drove out of the showroom, heads turned, and people waved. It was as if she had become a celebrity overnight. The next day, she drove her Mustang to school, where the seventh and eighth graders swarmed the car, amazed at what they were seeing.

For the next 15 years, that Mustang was Gail’s pride and joy. She married Tom Wise in 1966, and they had four kids together.

The car became part of their family’s daily life, from McDonald’s runs with the kids to joyrides around town. Back in those days, seatbelts were only in the front seats, and the passenger seat didn’t even adjust.

Despite its quirks, the Mustang was an icon on the road, but after years of Chicago winters, the car began to show its age. Rust took over, and the engine started having problems.

By the late '70s, the Mustang’s glory days seemed over. Tom pushed it into the garage, planning to fix it the next week, but that week turned into 27 years. Gail, ready to move on, suggested scrapping the car, but Tom refused, calling it his retirement project.

In 2005, after retiring at 60, he finally began the long process of restoring the car. He stripped it down to almost nothing, leaving just the four wheels and the steering wheel before handing it off to specialists for bodywork and engine repair.

It took about a year and $35,000, but Tom brought the Mustang back to life, adding a custom horn that sounds like a whinnying horse for good measure.

When the restoration was complete, Tom started researching the car’s history. That’s when they realized Gail’s Mustang was the very first one ever sold in the U.S. It wasn’t long before Ford took notice.

The couple was invited to Mustang events, including the 10 millionth Mustang celebration in Dearborn, and even got the chance to drive the car at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.

Though they don’t drive it much now, the Mustang remains a family treasure. Gail and Tom’s four kids haven’t expressed much interest in keeping it, so it will likely be sold when the time comes.

But for now, the first Mustang ever sold in the U.S. sits proudly in their garage, a testament to one couple’s journey through life and the car that’s been with them every step of the way.

[roscoe-conkling]

Ride the Third Avenue El way uptown and you will find yourself in the wide open spaces of Harlem.

Just to the east beyond the bluffs and along the river there is a wide two-mile stretch of road known as the Harlem River Speedway.

Here you can bet on the trotters, watch the carriage races, try out that new pacer, observe the action from the Clubhouse terrace, or just stroll on the promenade, taking in the view and enjoying the breeze from the river. No horseless carriages please.

[beardedmrbean]

PHILADELPHIA (CBS) – A 24-hour gas station in Germantown is blasting opera music at all hours of the day. Neighbors have mixed reactions to the music.

Since Tuesday, a Speedway in Germantown has been playing opera music.

CBS News Philadelphia hasn't heard back from Speedway's corporate offices on why exactly they've decided to do this, but some customers think it's helping deter loitering.

While customers fill up on Chelten Avenue, French tunes of Léo Delibes' Lakmé opera blast over the speakers. 

People are either confused or amazed by the sound.

"I've never heard it before at a public place like this," Donald Charles, a gas station customer, said. "That's something."

"I think it's nice," Verna Tarpley, a Germantown resident, said. "It's really nice. The first time I've heard it."

While others are wishing they could just press skip.

"I think they need to change the music," Spencer McLeod, a Mt. Airy resident, said. "It was really loud and then, the echo, it was going like three blocks down over."

Gas station employees won't comment on why they play the music, but CBS News Philadelphia has seen other businesses use this tactic before. They use it as a way to deter loitering.

Several customers believe the new playlist might help with the issue.

"What a creative approach, because we have too much conflict in our community," April Warwick, a Germantown resident, said. "Music soothes the savage beast."

"That'd be good if it kept crime down or loitering," McLeod said.

Some customers and residents in the area say the music was too loud so employees have turned it down.

CBS News Philadelphia also checked in with the businesses across the street and they say the music hasn't been an issue for them.

[biglisbonnews]

‘Cockeyed’ Map Shows Both Glamour and Margins of 1930s Hollywood If maps allow our imaginations to travel without care or trouble, then maps of the past do one better: They are time machines into different eras. And pictorial maps, which offer the perspective and subjective detail that mere road maps or city plans don’t, add a bit of couleur locale as extra seasoning. Like this one, of Hollywood in its Golden Age. The humming of 1930s Hollywood street life almost bursts off the page—this is the age of the talkies, after all. A vignette straddling Beverly and Vine sets the scene: A slightly cockeyed map of that slightly cockeyed community, Hollywood, executed by that slightly cockeyed topographer … John Groth. Chicago native Groth (1908–1988) was a cartoonist who became art director of Esquire in his 20s. He would go on to have a brilliant career as a war artist for the Chicago Sun. In 1944, he rode the first Allied jeep into newly liberated Paris. If he’d been any closer to the front, “he would have had to have sat in the Kraut’s lap,” joked Ernest Hemingway. After WWII, he reported from Korea, the Belgian Congo, and Vietnam, among other places. But back in 1937, when he produced this map of Hollywood for Stage magazine, that was all still in the future. The 1930s was a time when Hollywood was dominated by the old studio system. Old? That’s relative. To be fair, many of their names still sound familiar today. There’s 20th Century Fox, on Pico Boulevard, right next to the West Side Tennis Club. Just to the south is MGM, near Venice Boulevard. In between: a fair bit of golfing. And, inexplicably, a Bedouin leading a camel down the boulevard. Paramount can be found on the corner of Western Avenue and Santa Monica Boulevard. Right next door are RKO and NBC. And right across Santa Monica Boulevard is Columbia. Further down Santa Monica, there’s United Artists, a more elaborate operation than Chaplin Studio, right across the street. To the north, on the other side of the Beverly Hills, there’s the gigantic Universal Studios on Cahuenga Boulevard. It’s big enough to contain an entire village—and attract a herd of elephants, coming down the Santa Monica Mountains. Warner Brothers is also on the other side of the mountains—Mount Hollywood, as it so happens; no mention of the HOLLYWOODLAND sign (the LAND was dropped in 1949). It’s also gigantic: They’re filming a sea battle in the back lot. Astride the roof is a Warner Brothers "g-man": a reference to movie detectives, or to the studio’s real-life enforcers? If you liked fine dining, there were worse places to be than Golden Age Hollywood. Halfway between 20th Century Fox and United Artists, there’s the chefs of the Victor Hugo and the Beverly Wilshire, competing for your attention. In the 1930s, Lamaze was a fancy Hollywood restaurant, not a child-birthing technique; right next door were the Trocadero and the Clover Club—all pretty close to the Hollywood Bowl. By the look on his face, the chef at the Lamaze may be going over to the Clover when his shift is over. Other restaurants of note: Perinos, at Wilshire and Western; Levy’s, at Santa Monica and Vine; and Lucey’s, on Melrose. Sprinkled across town were Brown Derby restaurants. Named after the first of the chain, which opened on Wilshire Boulevard in 1926 and was shaped like a semicircular derby hat, the restaurants were a fixture of Golden Age Hollywood. Even outside the glamour of the studios and the high life of fine dining, Hollywood is portrayed as a city of leisure and entertainment. People in bathing suits are diving into the Pacific along the coast-hugging Speedway, from Malibu via the Bel Air Beach Club and Santa Monica all the way down to Santa Catalina Island. Masses of cyclists—yes, cyclists—are cruising down the city’s boulevards and avenues. Could 1930s L.A. have been a cycling paradise? But then what’s with all the horses, not just polo-playing outside of town, but also racing through the center—their riders showing off with their hats in one hand? Surely, this can’t have been a common sight. Buses overflowing with tourists are driving around town, perhaps already then being shown the homes of the stars. Perhaps a star has been spotted near the Carthay; that would explain the rush of onlookers. In the northeast corner, the Santa Anita racetrack is giving punters a run for their money—literally. Closer by, Mickey Mouse waves to passersby from his home on Riverside Drive, not far from a well spouting oil. Huge crowds gather at the American Legion Stadium in the center. Elegant ladies and gentlemen striding around town complete the picture of a city as elegant and attractive as any in the world. Yet Groth wouldn’t be a perceptive—or ‘cockeyed’—observer if he didn’t also look beyond the glamour. Check the bottom right for a Native American couple and their child making their way into Hollywood, looking for opportunity. Two streets down, a Mexican immigrant is doing the same, his donkey laden with wares he will be hoping to sell. And on the corner of La Brea and Venice, Chinese laborers are moving earth right behind the back of a movie director, seated in the classic folding chair, loudspeaker in hand. All these figures are placed near the edge of the map, a textbook demonstration of what it means to be "marginal." This article originally appeared on Big Think, home of the brightest minds and biggest ideas of all time. Sign up for Big Think's newsletter. https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/1930s-hollywood-map

[hillside-dangler]

Charles Schmid: The Pied Piper Of Tucson

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Originally published in LIFE magazine, March 4th, 1966. Written by Don Moser

At dusk in Tucson, as the stark, yellow­flared mountains begin to blur against the sky, the golden car slowly cruises Speedway. Smoothly it rolls down the long divided avenue, past the supermarkets, the gas stations and the motels; past the twist joints, the sprawling drive­in restaurants. The car slows for an intersection, stops, then pulls away again. The exhaust mutters against the pavement as the young man driving takes the machine swiftly, expertly through the gears. A car pulls even with him; the teen­age girls in the front seat laugh, wave and call his mane. The young man glances toward the rearview mirror, turned always so he can look at his own reflection, and he appraises himself.

The face is his own creation; the hair dyed raven black, the skin darkened to a deep tan with pancake make­up, the lips whitened, the whole effect heightened by a mole he has painted on one cheek. But the deep­set blue eyes are all his own. Beautiful eyes, the girls say.

Approaching the Hi­Ho, the teen­agers’ nightclub, he backs off on the accelerator, then slowly cruises on past Johnie’s Drive­in. The cars are beginning to orbit and accumulate in the parking lot—near sharp cars with deep­throated mufflers and Maltese­cross decals on the windows. But it’s early yet. Not much going on. The driver shifts up again through the gears, and the golden car slides away along the glitter and gimcrack of Speedway. Smitty keeps looking for the action.

Whether the juries in the two trials decide that Charles Howard Schmid Jr. did or did not brutally murder Alleen Rowe, Gretchen Fritz and Wendy Fritz has from the beginning seemed of almost secondary importance to the people of Tucson. They are not indifferent. But what disturbs them far beyond the question of Smitty’s guilt or innocence are the revelations about Tucson itself that have followed on the disclosure of the crimes. Starting from the bizarre circumstances of the killings and on through the ugly fragments of the plot—which in turn hint at other murders as yet undiscovered, at teen­age sex, blackmail, even connections with the Cosa Nostra—they have had to view their city in a new and unpleasant light. The fact is that Charles Schmid—who cannot be dismissed as a freak, an aberrant of no consequence—had for years functioned successfully as a member, even a leader, of the yeastiest stratum of Tucson’s Popular teen­age society.

As a high school student Smitty had been, as classmates remember, an outsider—but not that far outside. He was small but he was a fine athlete, and in his last year—1960—he was a state gymnastics champion. His grades were poor, but he was in no trouble to speak of until his senior year, when he was suspended for stealing tools from a welding class.

But Smitty never really left the school. After his suspension he hung around waiting to pick up kids in a succession of sharp cars which he drove fast and well. He haunted all the teen­age hangouts along Speedway, including the bowling alleys and the public swimming pool—and he put on spectacular driving exhibitions for girls far younger than he.

At the time of his arrest last November, Charles Schmid was 23 years old. He wore face make­up and dyed his hair. He habitually stuffed three or four inches of old rags and tin cans into the bottoms of his high­topped boots to make himself taller than his five­foot­three and stumble about so awkwardly while walking that some people thought he had wooden feet. He pursed his lips and let his eyelids droop in order to emulate his idol, Elvis Presley. He bragged to girls that he knew 100 ways to make love, and that he ran dope, that he was a Hell’s Angel. He talked about being a rough customer in a fight (he was, though he was rarely in one), and he always carried in his pocket tint bottles of salt and pepper, which he said he used to blind his opponents. He liked to use highfalutin language and had a favorite saying, “I can manifest my neurotical emotions, emancipate an epicureal instinct, and elaborate on my heterosexual tendencies.”

He occasionally shocked even those who thought they knew him well. A friend says that he once saw Smitty tie a string to the tail of his pet cat, swing it around his head and beat it bloody against a wall. Then he turned calmly and asked, “You feel compassion—why?”

Yet even while Smitty tried to create an exalted, heroic image of himself, he had worked on a pitiable one. “He thrived on feeling sorry for himself,” recalls a friend, “and making others feel sorry for him.” At various times Smitty told inmates that he had leukemia and didn’t have long to live. He claimed that he was adopted, that his real name was Angel Rodriguez, that his father was a “bean” (local slang for Mexican, an inferior race in Smitty’s view), and that his mother was a famous lawyer who would have nothing to do with him.

What made Smitty a hero to Tucson’s youth?

Isn’t Tucson—out there in the Golden West, in the grand setting where the skies are not cloudy all day—supposed to be a flowering of the American Dream? One envisions teen­agers who drink milk, wear crewcuts, go to bed at half past 9, say “Sir” and “Ma’am,” and like to go fishing with Dad. Part of Tucson is like this—but the city is not yet Utopia. It is glass and chrome and well­weathered stucco; it is also gimcrack, ersatz, and urban sprawl at its worst. Its suburbs stretch for mile after mile—a level sea of bungalows, broken only by mammoth shopping centers, that ultimately peters out among the cholla and saguaro. The city has grown from 85,000 to 300,000 since World War II. Few who live there were born there, and a lot are just passing through. Its superb climate attracts the old and the infirm, many of whom, as one citizen put it, “have come here to retire from their responsibilities to life.” Jobs are hard to find and there is little industry to stabilize employment. (“What do people do in Tucson?” the visitor asks. Answer: “They do each other’s laundry.”)

As for the youngsters, they must compete with the army of semi­retired who are willing to take on part­time work for the minimum wage. Schools are beautiful but overcrowded; and at those with split sessions, the kids are on the loose from noon on, or from 6 p.m. till noon the next day. When they get into trouble, Tucson teenagers are capable of getting into trouble in style: a couple of years ago they shocked the city fathers by throwing a series of beer­drinking parties in the desert, attended by scores of kids. The fests were called “boondockers” and if they were no more sinful than any other kid’s drinking parties, they were at least on a magnificent scale. One statistic seems relevant: 50 runaways are reported to the Tucson police department each month.

Of an evening kids have nothing to do wind up on Speedway, looking for action. There is the teen­age nightclub (“Pickup Palace,” the kids call it). There are the rock’n’roll beer joints (the owners check ages meticulously, but young girls can enter if they don’t drink; besides, anyone can buy a phony I.D. card for $2.50 around the high schools) where they can Jerk, Swim, and Frug away the evening to the room­shaking electronic blare of Hang on Sloopy, The Pied Piper and a number called The Bo Diddley Rock. At the drive­in hamburger and pizza stands their cars circle endlessly, mufflers rumbling, as they check each other over.

Here on Speedway you find Ritchie and Ronny, out of work and bored and with nothing to do. Here you find Debby and Jabron, from the wrong side of the tracks, aimlessly cruising in their battered old car looking for something—anything – to relieve the tedium of their lives, looking for somebody neat. (“Well if the boys look bitchin’ you pull up next to them in your car and you roll down the window and say ‘Hey, how about a dollar for gas?” and if they give you the dollar then maybe you let them take you to Johnie’s for a coke.”) Here you find Gretchen, pretty and rich and with problems, bad problems. Of a Saturday night, all of them cruising the long, bright street that seems endlessly in motion with the young. Smitty’s people.

He had a nice car. He had plenty of money from his parents, who ran a nursing home, and he was always glad to spend it on anyone who’d listen to him. He had a pad of his own where he threw parties and he had impeccable manners. He was always willing to help a friend and he would send flowers to girls who were ill. He was older and more mature than most of his friends. He knew where the action was, and if he wore make­up—well, at least he was different.

Some of the older kids—those who worked, who had something else to do—thought Smitty

was a creep. But to the youngsters—to the bored and the lonely, to the dropout and the delinquent, to the young girls with beehive hairdos and tight pants they didn’t quite fill out, and to the boys with acne and no jobs—to these people, Smitty was a kind of folk hero. Nutty maybe, but at least more dramatic, more theatrical, more interesting than anyone else in their lives: a semi­ludicrous, sexy­eyed pied piper who, stumbling along in his rag­stuffed boots, led them up and down Speedway.

On the evening of May 31, 1964, Alleen Rowe prepared to go to bad early. She had to be in class by 6 a.m., and she had an examination the next day. Alleen was a pretty girl of 15, a better­than­average student who talked about going to college and becoming an oceanographer. She was also a sensitive child—given to reading romantic novels and taking long walks in the desert at night. Recently she had been going through a period of adolescent melancholia, often talking with her mother, a nurse, about death. She would, she hoped, be some day reincarnated as a cat.

On this evening, dressed in a black bathing suit and thongs, her usual costume around the house, she had watched the Beatles on TV and had tried to teach her mother to dance the Frug. Then she took her bath, washed her hair and came out to kiss her mother good night. Norma Rowe, an attractive, womanly divorcee, was somehow moved by the girl’s clean fragrance and said, “You smell so good—are you wearing perfume?”

“No, Mom,” the girl answered, laughing, “it’s just me.”

A little later Mrs. Rowe looked in on her daughter, found her apparently sleeping peacefully, and then left for her job as a night nurse in a Tucson hospital. She had no premonition of danger, but she had lately been concerned about Alleen’s friendship with a neighbor girl named Mary French.

Mary and Alleen had been spending a good deal of time together, smoking and giggling and talking girl talk in the Rowe backyard. Norma Rowe did not approve. She particularly did not approve of Mary French’s friends, a tall, gangling boy of 19 named John Saunders and another named Charles Schmid. She had seen Smitty racing up and down the street in his car and once, when he came to call on Alleen and found her not at home, he had looked at Norma so menacingly with his “pinpoint eyes” that she had been frightened.

Her daughter, on the other hand, seemed to have mixed feelings about Smitty. “He’s creepy,” she once told her mother, “he just makes me crawl. But he can be nice when he wants to.”

At any rate, later that night—according to Mary French’s sworn testimony—three friends arrived at Alleen Rowe’s house: Smitty, Mary French and Saunders. Smitty had frequently talked with Mary French about killing the Rowe girl by hitting her over the head with a rock. Mary French tapped on Alleen’s window and asked her to come out and drink beer with them. Wearing a shift over her bathing suit, she came willingly enough.

Schmid’s accomplices were strange and pitiable creatures. Each of them was afraid of Smitty, yet each was drawn to him. As a baby, John Saunders had been so afflicted with allergies that scabs encrusted his entire body. To keep him from scratching himself his parents had tied his hands and feet to the crib each night, and when eventually he was cured he was so conditioned that he could not go to sleep without being bound hand and foot.

Later, a scrawny boy with poor eyesight (“Just a skinny little body with a big head on it”), he was taunted and bullied by larger children; in turn he bullied those who were smaller. He also suffered badly from asthma and he had few friends. In high school he was a poor student and constantly in minor trouble.

Mary French, 19, was—to put it straight—a frump. Her face, which might have been pretty, seemed somehow lumpy, her body shapeless. She was not dull but she was always a poor student, and she finally had simply stopped going to high school. She was, a friend remembers, “fantastically in love with Smitty. She just sat home and waited while he went out with other girls.”

Now, with Smitty at the wheel, the four teen­agers headed for the desert, which begins out Golf Links Road. It is spooky country, dry and empty, the yellow sand clotted with cholla and mesquite and stunted, strangely green palo verde trees, and the great humanoid saguaro that hulk against the sky. Out there at night you can hear the yip and ki­yi of coyotes, the piercing screams of wild creatures—cats, perhaps.

According to Mary French, they got out of the car and walked down into a wash, where they sat on the sand and talked for a while, the four of them. Schmid and Mary then started back to the car. Before they got there, they heard a cry and Schmid turned back toward the wash.

Mary went on to the car and sat in it alone. After 45 minutes, Saunders appeared and said Smitty wanted her to come back down. She refused, and Saunders went away. Five or 10 minutes later, Smitty showed up. “He got into the car,” says Mary, “and he said ‘We killed her. I love you very much.’ He kissed me. He was breathing real hard and seemed excited.” Then Schmid got a shovel from the trunk of the car and they returned to the wash. “She was lying on her back and there was blood on her face and head,” Mary French testified. Then the three of them dug a shallow grave and put the body in it and covered it up. Afterwards, they wiped Schmid’s car clean of Alleen’s fingerprints.

More than a year passed. Norma Rowe had reported her daughter missing and the police searched for her—after a fashion. At Mrs. Rowe’s insistence they picked up Schmid, but they had no reason to hold him. The police, in fact, assumed that Alleen was just one more of Tucson’s runaways.

Norma Rowe, however, had become convinced that Alleen had been killed by Schmid, although she left her kitchen light on every night just in case Alleen did come home. She badgered the police and she badgered the sheriff until the authorities began to dismiss her as a crank. She began to imagine a high­level conspiracy against her. She wrote the state attorney general, the FBI, the U.S. Department of health, Education and Welfare. She even contacted a New Jersey mystic, who said she could see Alleen’s body out in the desert under a big tree.

Ultimately Norma Rowe started her own investigation, questioning Alleen’s friends, poking around, dictating her findings to a tape recorder; she even tailed Smitty at night, following him in her car, scared stiff that he might spot her.

Schmid, during this time, acquired a little house of his own. There he held frequent parties, where people sat around amid his stacks of Playboy magazines, playing Elvis Presley records and drinking beer.

He read Jules Feiffer’s novel, Harry, the Rat with Women, and said that his ambition was to be like Harry and have a girl commit suicide over him. Once, according to a friend, he went to see a minister, who gave him a Bible and told him to read the first three chapters of John. Instead Schmid tore the pages out and burned them in the street. “Religion is a farce,” he announced. He started an upholstery business with some friends, called himself “founder and president,” but then failed to put up the money he’d promised and the venture was short­lived.

He decided he liked blondes best, and took to dyeing the hair of various teen­age girls he went around with. He went out and bought two imitation diamond rings for about $13 apiece and then engaged himself, on the same day, both to Mary French and to a 15­year­old girl named Kathy Morath. His plan, he confided to a friend, was to put each of the girls to work and have them deposit their salaries in a bank account held jointly with him. Mary French did indeed go to work in the convalescent home Smitty’s parents operated. When their bank account was fat enough, Smitty withdrew the money and bought a tape recorder.

By this time Smitty also had a girl from a higher social stratum than he usually was involved with. She was Gretchen Fritz, daughter of a prominent Tucson heart surgeon. Gretchen was a pretty, thin, nervous girl of 17 with a knack for trouble. A teacher described her as “erratic, subversive, a psychopathic liar.”

At the horsy private school she attended for a time she was a misfit. She not only didn’t care about horses, but she shocked her classmates by telling them they were foolish for going out with boys without getting paid for it. Once she even committed the unpardonable social sin of turning up at a formal dance accompanied by boys wearing what was described as beatnik dress. She cut classes, she was suspected of stealing and when, in the summer before her senior year, she got into trouble with juvenile authorities for her role in an attempted theft at a liquor store, the headmaster suggested she not return and then recommended she get psychiatric treatment.

Charles Schmid saw Gretchen for the first time at a public swimming pool in the summer of 1964. He met her by the simple expedient of following her home, knocking on the door and, when she answered, saying, “Don’t I know you?” They talked for an hour. Thus began a fierce and stormy relationship. A good deal of what authorities know of the development of this relationship comes from the statements of a spindly scarecrow of a young man who wears pipestem trousers and Beatle boot: Richard Bruns. At the time Smitty was becoming involved with Gretchen, Bruns was 18 years old. He had served two terms in the reformatory at Fort Grant. He had been in and out of trouble his whole life, had never fit in anywhere. Yet, although he never went beyond the tenth grade in school and his credibility on many counts is suspect, he is clearly intelligent and even sensitive. He was, for a time, Smitty’s closest friend and confidant, and he is today one of the mainstays of the state’s case against Smitty. His story:

“He and Gretchen were always fighting,” says Bruns. “She didn’t want him to drink or go out with the guys or go out with other girls. She wanted him to stay home, call her on the phone, be punctual. First she would get suspicious of him, then he’d get suspicious of her. They were made for each other.”

Their mutual jealousy led to sharp and continual arguments. Once she infuriated him by throwing a bottle of shoe polish on his car. Another time she was driving past Smitty’s house and saw him there with some other girls. She jumped out of her car and began screaming. Smitty took off into the house, out the back and climbed a tree in his backyard.

His feelings for her were an odd mixture of hate and adoration. He said he was madly in love with her, but he called her a whore. She would let Smitty in her bedroom window at night. Yet he wrote an anonymous letter to the Tucson Health Department accusing her of having venereal disease and spreading it about town. But Smitty also went to enormous lengths to impress Gretchen, once shooting holes through the windows of his car and telling her that thugs, from whom he was protecting her, had fired at him. So Bruns described the relationship.

On the evening of Aug. 16, 1965, Gretchen Fritz left the house with her little sister Wendy, a friendly, lively 13­year­old, to go to a drive­in movie. Neither girl ever came home again. Gretchen’s father, like Alleen Rowe’s mother, felt sure that Charles Schmid had something to do with his daughters’ disappearance, and eventually he hired Bill Heilig, a private detective, to handle the case. One of Heilig’s men soon found Gretchen’s red compact car parked behind a motel, but the police continued to assume that the girls had joined the ranks of Tucson’s runaways.

About a week after Gretchen disappeared, Bruns was at Smitty’s house. “We were sitting in the living room,” Bruns recalls. “He was sitting on the sofa and I was in the chair by the window and we got on the subject of Gretchen. He said, ‘You know I killed her?’ I said I didn’t, and he said ‘You know where?’ I said no. He said, ‘I did it here in the living room. First I killed Gretchen, then Wendy was still going “huh, huh, huh,” so I ... [Here Bruns showed how Smitty made a garroting gesture.] Then I took the bodies and I put them in the trunk of the car. I put the bodies in the most obvious place I could think of because I just didn’t care anymore. Then I ditched the car and wiped it clean.’”

Bruns was not particularly upset by Smitty’s story. Months before, Smitty had told him of the murder of Alleen Rowe, and nothing had come of that. So he was not certain Smitty was telling the truth about the Fritz girls. Besides, Bruns detested Gretchen himself. But what happened next, still according to Bruns’s story, did shake him up.

One night not long after, a couple of tough­looking characters, wearing sharp suits and smoking cigars, came by with Smitty and picked up Bruns. Smitty said they were Mafia, and that someone had hired them to look for Gretchen. Smitty and Bruns were taken to an apartment where several men were present whom Smitty later claimed to have recognized as local Cosa Nostra figures.

They wanted to know what had happened to the girls. They made no threats, but the message, Bruns remembers, came across loud and clear. These were no street­corner punks: these were the real boys. In spite of the intimidating company, Schmid lost none of his insouciance. He said he didn’t know where Gretchen was, but if she turned up hurt he wanted these men to help him get whoever was responsible. He added that she might have gone to California.

By the time Smitty and Bruns got back to Smitty’s house, they were both a little shaky. Later that night, says Bruns, Smitty did the most unlikely thing imaginable: he called the FBI. First he tried the Tucson office and couldn’t raise anyone. Then he called Phoenix and couldn’t get an agent there either. Finally he put in a person­to­person call to J. Edgar Hoover in Washington. He didn’t get Hoover, of course, but he got someone and told him that the Mafia was harassing him over the disappearance of a girl. The FBI promised to have someone in touch with him soon.

Bruns was scared and said so. It occurred to him now that if Smitty really had killed the Fritz girls and left their bodies in an obvious place, they were in very bad trouble indeed—with the Mafia on one hand and the FBI on the other. “Let’s go bury them,” Bruns said.

“Smitty stole the keys to his old man’s station wagon,” says Bruns, “and then we got a flat shovel—the only one we could find. We went to Johnie’s and got a hamburger, and then we drove out to the old drinking spot [in the desert]—that’s what Smitty meant when he said the most obvious place. It’s where we used to drink beer and make out with girls.

“So we parked the car and got the shovel and walked down there, and we couldn’t find anything. Then Smitty said, ‘Wait, I smell something.’ We went in opposite directions looking, and then I heard Smitty say, ‘Come here.’ I found him kneeling over Gretchen. There was a white rag tied around her legs. Her blouse was pulled up and she was wearing a white bra and Capris.

“Then he said, ‘Wendy’s up this way.’ I sat there for a minute. Then I followed Smitty to where Wendy was. He’d had the decency to cover her—except for one leg, which was sticking up out of the ground.

“We tried to dig with the flat shovel. We each took turns. He’d dig for a while and then I’d dig for a while, but the ground was hard and we couldn’t get anywhere with that flat shovel. We dug for twenty minutes and finally Smitty said we’d better do something because it’s going to get light. So he grabbed the rag that was around Gretchen’s legs and dragged her down in the wash. It made a noise like dragging a hollow shell. It stunk like hell. Then Smitty said wipe off her shoes, there might be fingerprints, so I wiped them off with my handkerchief and threw it away.

“We went back to Wendy. Her leg was sticking up with a shoe on it. He said take off her tennis shoe and throw it over there. I did, I threw it. Then he said, ‘Now you’re in this as deep as I am.’” By then, the sisters had been missing for about two weeks.

Early next morning Smitty did see the FBI. Nevertheless—here Bruns’s story grows even wilder—that same day Smitty left for California, accompanied by a couple of Mafia types, to look for Gretchen Fritz. While there, he was picked up by the San Diego police on a complaint the he was impersonating an FBI officer. He was detained briefly, released and returned to Tucson.

But now, it seemed to Richard Bruns, Smitty began acting very strangely. He startled Bruns by saying, “I’ve killed—not three times, but four. Now it’s your turn, Ritchie.” He went berserk in his little house, smashing his fist through a wall, slamming doors, then rushing out into the backyard in nothing but his undershorts, where he ran through the night screaming, “God is going to punish me!” He also decided, suddenly, to get married—to a 15­year­old girl who was a stranger to most of his friends.

If Smitty seemed to Bruns to be losing his grip, Ritchie Bruns himself was not in much better shape. His particular quirk revolved around Kathy Morath, the thin, pretty, 16­year­old daughter of a Tucson postman. Kathy had once been attracted to Smitty. He had given her one of his two cut­glass engagement rings. But Smitty never really took her seriously, and one day, in a fit of pique and jealousy, she threw the ring back in his face. Ritchie Bruns comforted her and then started dating her himself. He was soon utterly and irrevocably smitten with goofy adoration.

Kathy accepted Bruns as a suitor, but halfheartedly. She thought him weird (oddly enough, she did not think Smitty in the least weird) and their romance was short­lived. After she broke up with him last July, Bruns went into a blue funk, a nosedive into romantic melancholy, and then, like some love­swacked Elizabethan poet, he started pouring out his heart to her on paper. He sent her poems, short stories, letters 24 pages long. (“My God, you should have read the stuff,” says her perplexed father. “His letters were so romantic it was like ‘Next week, East Lynne.’” Bruns even began writing a novel dedicated to “My Darling Kathy.”

If Bruns had confined himself to literary catharsis, the murders of the Rowe and Fritz girls might never have been disclosed. But Ritchie went a little bit around the bend. He became obsessed with the notion that Kathy Morath was the next victim on Smitty’s list. Someone had cut the Moraths’ screen door, there had been a prowler around her house, and Bruns was sure that it was Smitty. (Kathy and her father, meantime, were sure it was Bruns.)

“I started having this dream,” Bruns says. “It was the same dream every night. Smitty would have Kathy out in the desert and he’d be doing all those things to her, and strangling her, and I’d be running across the desert with a gun in my hand, but I could never get there.”

If Bruns couldn’t save Kathy in his dreams, he could, he figured, stop a walking, breathing Smitty. His scheme for doing so was so wild and so simple that it put the whole Morath family into a state of panic and very nearly landed Bruns in jail.

Bruns undertook to stand guard over Kathy Morath. He kept watch in front of her house, in the alley, and in the street. He patrolled the sidewalk from early in the morning till late at night, seven days a week. If Kathy was home he would be there. If she went out, he would follow her.

Kathy’s father called the police, and when they told Bruns he couldn’t loiter around like that, Bruns fetched his dog and walked the animal up and down the block, hour after hour.

Bruns by now was wallowing in feelings of sacrifice and nobility—all of it unappreciated by Kathy Morath and her parents. At the end of October, he was finally arrested for harassing the Morath family. The judge, facing the obviously woebegone and smitten young man, told Bruns that he wouldn’t be jailed if he’d agree to get out of town until he got over his infatuation.

Bruns agreed and a few days later went to Ohio to stay with his grandmother and try to get a job. It was hopeless. He couldn’t sleep at night, and if he did doze off he had his old nightmare again.

One night he blurted out the whole story to his grandmother in their kitchen. She thought he had had too many beers and didn’t believe him. “I hear beer does strange things to a person,” she said comfortingly. At her words Bruns exploded, knocked over a chair and shouted, “The one time in my life when I need advice and what do I get?” A few minutes later he was on the phone to the Tucson police.

Things happened swiftly. At Bruns’s frantic insistence, the police picked up Kathy Morath and put her in protective custody. They went into the desert and discovered—precisely as Bruns had described them—the grisly, skeletal remains of Gretchen and Wendy Fritz. They started the machinery that resulted in the arrest a week later of John Saunders and Mary French. They found Charles Schmid working in the yard of his little house, his face layered with make­up, his nose covered by a patch of adhesive plaster which he had worn for five months, boasting that his nose was broken in a fight, and his boots packed full of old rags and tin cans. He put up no resistance.

John Saunders and Mary French confessed immediately to their roles in the slaying of Alleen Rowe and were quickly sentenced, Mary French to four to five years, Saunders to life. When Smitty goes on trial for this crime, on March 15, they will be principal witnesses against him.

Meanwhile Ritchie Bruns, the perpetual misfit, waits apprehensively for the end of the Fritz trial, desperately afraid that Schmid will go free. “If he does,” Bruns says glumly, “I’ll be the first one he’ll kill.”

As for Charles Schmid, he has adjusted well to his period of waiting. He is polite and agreeable with all, though at the preliminary hearings he glared menacingly at Ritchie Bruns. Dressed tastefully, tie neatly knotted, hair carefully combed, his face scrubbed clean of make­up, he is a short, compact, darkly handsome young man with a wide, engaging smile and those deepset eyes.

The people of Tucson wait uneasily for what fresh scandal the two trials may develop. Civic leaders publicly cry that a slur has been cast on their community by an isolated crime. High school students have held rallies and written vehement editorials in the school papers, protesting that they all are being judged by the actions of a few oddballs and misfits. But the city reverberates with stories of organized teen­age crime and vice, in which Smitty is cast in the role of a minor­league underworld boss. None of these later stories has been substantiated.

One disclosure, however, has most disturbing implications: Smitty’s boasts may have been heard not just by Bruns and his other intimates, but by other teen­agers as well. How many—and precisely how much they knew—it remains impossible to say. One authoritative source, however, having listened to the admissions of six high school students, says they unquestionably knew enough so that they should have gone to the police—but were either afraid to talk, or didn’t want to rock the boat. As for Smitty’s friends, the thought of telling the police never entered their minds.

“I didn’t know he killed her,” said one, “and even if I had, I wouldn’t have said anything. I wouldn’t want to be a fink.”

Out in the respectable Tucson suburbs parents have started to crack down on the youngsters

and have declared Speedway hangouts off limits. “I thought my folks were bad before,” laments one grounded 16­year­old, “but now they’re just impossible.”

As for the others—Smitty’s people—most don’t care very much. Things are duller without Smitty around, but things have always been dull.

“There’s nothing to do in this town,” says one of his girls, shaking her dyed blond hair. “The only other town I know is Las Vegas and there’s nothing to do there either.” For her, and for her friends, there’s nothing to do in any town.

They are down on Speedway again tonight, cruising, orbiting the drive­ins, stopping by the joints, where the words of The Bo Diddley Rock cut through the smoke and the electronic dissonance like some macabre reminder of their fallen hero:

All you women stand in line,

And I’ll love you all in an hour’s time.... I got a cobra snake for a necktie,

I got a brand­new house on the roadside Covered with rattlesnake hide,

I got a brand­new chimney made on top, Made out of human skulls.

Come on baby, take a walk with me, And tell me, who do you love? Who do you love? Who do you love? Who do you love?

The Pied Piper of Tucson—Life Magazine March 4, 1966 http://books.google.com/books

[speedwayavenue]

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[brookstonalmanac]

Events 9.11 (1840-1970)

1851 – Christiana Resistance: Escaped slaves led by William Parker fight off and kill a slave owner who, with a federal marshal and an armed party, sought to seize three of his former slaves in Christiana, Pennsylvania, thereby creating a cause célèbre between slavery proponents and abolitionists. 1852 – Outbreak of Revolution of September 11 resulting in the State of Buenos Aires declaring independence as a Republic. 1857 – The Mountain Meadows massacre: Mormon settlers and Paiutes massacre 120 pioneers at Mountain Meadows, Utah. 1881 – In the Swiss state of Glarus, a rockslide buries parts of the village of Elm, destroying 83 buildings and killing 115 people. 1897 – After months of pursuit, generals of Menelik II of Ethiopia capture Gaki Sherocho, the last king of the Kaffa. 1903 – The first race at the Milwaukee Mile in West Allis, Wisconsin is held. It is the oldest major speedway in the world. 1905 – The Ninth Avenue derailment occurs in New York City, killing 13. 1914 – World War I: Australia invades German New Guinea, defeating a German contingent at the Battle of Bita Paka. 1914 – The Second Period of Russification: The teaching of the Russian language and Russian history in Finnish schools is ordered to be considerably increased as part of the forced Russification program in Finland run by Tsar Nicholas II. 1916 – The Quebec Bridge's central span collapses, killing 11 men. The bridge previously collapsed completely on August 29, 1907. 1919 – United States Marine Corps invades Honduras. 1921 – Nahalal, a Jewish moshav in Palestine, is settled. 1922 – The Treaty of Kars is ratified in Yerevan, Armenia. 1941 – Construction begins on the Pentagon. 1941 – Charles Lindbergh's Des Moines speech accusing the British, Jews and FDR's administration of conspiring for war with Germany. 1943 – World War II: German troops occupy Corsica and Kosovo-Metohija ending the Italian occupation of Corsica. 1944 – World War II: RAF bombing raid on Darmstadt and the following firestorm kill 11,500. 1945 – World War II: Australian 9th Division forces liberate the Japanese-run Batu Lintang camp, a POW and civilian internment camp on the island of Borneo. 1954 – Hurricane Edna hits New England (United States) as a Category 2 hurricane, causing significant damage and 29 deaths. 1961 – Hurricane Carla strikes the Texas coast as a Category 4 hurricane, the second strongest storm ever to hit the state. 1965 – Indo-Pakistani War: The Indian Army captures the town of Burki, just southeast of Lahore. 1967 – China's People's Liberation Army (PLA) launched an attack on Indian posts at Nathu La, Sikkim, India, which resulted in military clashes. 1968 – Air France Flight 1611 crashes off Nice, France, killing 89 passengers and six crew.

[blueridgeparkway-sept2024]

Day 5. Friday Sept 6: Nashville Tennessee to Huntsville, Grant, Talledega, and Montgomery, Alabama. 486 kms.

Today, I go from the corn, soybeans, and livestock of Kentucky to the corn, cotton, chickens, and peanuts of Alabama - America's 24th most populous state and the heart of Dixie.

My day starts heading south from Nashville towards the Alabama border just 100 miles away and ultimately Montgomery, the capital of Alabama. On the way, I pass by Huntsville, Alabama's most populous city (222,000), and home of the US Space and Rocket Center.

The thing I notice first and foremost, however, is Alabama's red subsoil, caused by a combination of iron oxides and good drainage and perfect for the growth of corn and cotton.

For some reason, I am also struck by a feeling of "have and have nots" as evidenced not only by the homes and farms I pass but also by the preponderance of Baptist churches which always seem to flourish in the poorer areas. Alabama is not poor. It is America's 33rd richest state. It just doesn't seem like it is very evenly spread out.

After Huntsville, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, I come across Grant, small town in Marshal County of only 1,039. It is, however, the home of the Kate Duncan Smith DAR School. The school was established in 1924 and operates under a public-private partnership between the Marshall County School System and the National Society of the Daughters of the American Revolution. The unique and historic campus covers 15 acres and contains 12 buildings, constructed between 1924 and 1957 in the Craftsman style of local stone or logs. Known for its quality education, more than 60% of its students come from families living below the poverty line.

From there, I continue southward to Talladega County, the land of Ricky Bobby, the Talladega International Speedway, and Talladega County Jail, LOL.

One thing I didnt realise was how much water there is in Alabama. The state actually has three broad areas of watersheds: 

Tennessee River drainage: Located in the northern part of the state, this watershed contains the Tennessee River, Pickwick Lake, Wilson Lake, Wheeler Lake, and Lake Guntersville, some of which I rode through.

Mobile River Basin: Located in the central part of the state, this watershed contains the upper Tombigbee River, Black Warrior River, lower Tombigbee River, Cahaba River, Coosa River, Tallapoosa River, Lake Martin, Weiss Lake, and Smith Lake, again some of which I rode through.

Coastal Drainages: Located in the southern part of the state, this watershed contains smaller river basins that empty into the Gulf of Mexico. I expect that I'll be riding through that tomorrow.

Soeaking of water, for the last two hours, there have been intermittent rain drops in the air. In Talladega, however, the heavens open, and I'm forced to pull over to rainproof my ride. It continues all the way to my hotel in Montgomery, and as I sit here blogging, the rain is pouring down outside. It's a gentle reminder of how lucky I have been with the weather so far. This afternoon and tomorrow, that comes to an end. It looks like rain all day tomorrow. I have rain gear, but it likely means, like today, not so many pictures.

A final word on Montgomery. Population 198,000 and capital of Alabama, it was the original capital of the Confederate states before it moved to Richmond, Virginia, and is home to the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, the home church of Martin Luther King Jr. It is also a major center of events and protests in the Civil Rights Movement including the Montgomery bus boycott and the Selma to Montgomery marches. A lot of history was made here.

[speedwayloans]

Unlocking Financial Solutions with Speedway Loans: Exploring the World of Title Loans

In today's fast-paced world, financial emergencies can strike unexpectedly, leaving individuals in need of immediate cash solutions. For many Texans, title loans have emerged as a dependable resource during times of financial strain. SpeedwayLoans stands out as a trusted provider of title loans, offering quick and convenient access to cash for individuals facing temporary financial setbacks. Let's dive into the realm of title loans and discover how SpeedwayLoans can offer the financial assistance you require.

Understanding Title Loans:

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At SpeedwayLoans, we recognize that financial emergencies can affect anyone, irrespective of credit history or financial status. That's why we're dedicated to delivering fast and hassle-free title loan services to our clients in Texas. Whether you're seeking a Title Loan Quote Online in Texas or fast online title loans, SpeedwayLoans is here to assist you.

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With SpeedwayLoans, Texans have access to a diverse array of title loan options tailored to meet their unique needs and circumstances. From title loans that don't necessitate the car to car title loans with no credit check, we provide flexible solutions designed to address your financial requirements. Our Easy Title Loans in Texas simplify the process of obtaining the cash you need without enduring lengthy approval procedures or credit checks.

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In conclusion, title loans provide a convenient and accessible avenue for swiftly accessing cash during financial emergencies. With Speedway Loans, Texans can avail themselves of rapid and straightforward title loan services sans the need for a credit check. Whether you require a title loan quote online in Texas or fast online title loans, Speedway Loans is poised to provide the financial aid you seek. Explore our website today to discover more about our title loan services and how we can assist you in unlocking financial solutions.

[slimeinnocence]

The Dale Earnhardt Memorial Super Speedway

My inquiry into NASCAR-culture and the design of oval-track racing began with a novel interest in the Dale Earnhardt 2001 Car Crash as my initial form of damage control. I took Dale’s case as an avenue into analyzing the intermingling between car and speed culture in relation to American media antics.

Dale Earndhardt’s 2001 crash, when analyzed beyond its immediate impact, could be considered a textbook case of spectacle. Earndhardt, number 3, was already extremely popular at the time of the race, and his instant death only compounded this status, making him reach legendary status in NASCAR history–he is still beloved by fans, both in memory and in material artifacts.

The Daytona 500 is the ultimate competition and broadcast for NASCAR drivers and fanatics–it is their superbowl, so to speak. This was compounded by the fact that the 2001 Daytona 500 marked the first Cup Series race under NASCAR's new centralized television contracts, which shifted responsibility for NASCAR's media rights from the track owners to NASCAR itself.

In analyzing the crash in-itself through autopsy and traffic-collision reports, I realized that the crash could only be understood fruitfully within a system of components–not one single thing “killed” Dale. My drawings then worked towards unraveling these facts. What differentiates his crash from Schrader’s (no. 36, who crashed along with Dale but left the scene basically unharmed) is plentiful, but I mainly focused on the particular velocities and geometries, which created such an arc to enact a particularly brutal impact. I carry this language of forensic and geometrical analysis throughout my design.

The tracks (including Daytona) boast quite an extensive and impressive amount of engineering ingenuity to make racing safer, especially after Dale’s death, which sparked a movement towards safety in NASCAR (which, of note, Dale himself demeaned and constituted as the reason that NASCAR was heading on a downwards path). For example, restrictor plates are enforced upon the stock-cars so that they may not reach the risk of their top-speed.

NASCAR, as many other people comment, has found a way to make the car-crash both safe and beautiful–plenty of crashes have occurred since Dale’s crash in NASCAR, but none of them have been fatal. This is mainly due to the aforementioned engineering ingenuity spawning at NASCAR-tracks, for example, the SAFER-Barrier which enwraps the course of a track so that there is a softer impact, as compared to crashing straight into concrete. 

Inspired by this, I initially began by subverting this safer-barrier design to create a seating situation on-top of these barriers to allow viewers an intensely close view of the track while simultaneously maintaining a high amount of safety.

From thereforth, the objective of my final project became clear: to reimagine the in-situ engineering artifacts currently being deployed at oval-track stadiums and push them to their limits to create newfound perspectives for people to experience the races. To agitate the boundary between risk and safety while paying respect to the culture and ingenuity of NASCAR. 

I decided upon the site of the Bonneville Salt Flats (Western Utah); both for its historical precedent of landspeed records but also because salt is particularly enthralling for speed because of its frictionary properties. My design is kept incredibly long and short in order to keep the landscape views in-tact.

You enter the stadium through an exit-ramp heading Westbound on the Dwight Eisenhower Highway, just a mile or two before Wendover. This ramp is banked and an autobahn, allowing people to experience oval-track conditions for a mile-long stretch until they reach the track itself. Car circulation is handled by roads which are the offset tangential angles of the track’s banked curves.

[chaddavisphotography]

The People's Way inside George Floyd Square on Chicago Avenue. Formerly a Speedway gas station, the area has been a protest zone since May 2020 following the murder of George Floyd. The city has since purchased the property.

[internationalrealestatenews]

[ad_1] A transformative improvement is on the horizon in Northlake, including to the swell of actual property exercise in Denton County.  Canada-based Western Securities is spearheading Chadwick Farms, a 60-acre mixed-use undertaking slated for as much as 900 flats, 60,000 sq. ft of retail, restaurant and leisure house and a lodge, the Dallas Morning Information reported.  Retail Avenue Advisors will deal with leasing for the retail element, which is ready to incorporate a 35,000-square-foot buying middle referred to as Chadwick Commons, in response to Western Securities’ web site. Chadwick Farms, positioned east of Interstate 35 close to Texas Motor Speedway, is close to a deliberate Dallas Stars youth sports activities facility. Northlake residents permitted a $45 million bond in November to fund that improvement. Northlake anticipates that the sports activities complicated will catalyze its financial improvement plan, which identifies sports-oriented tourism as a development driver.  The development timeline for Chadwick Farms is considerably synchronized with the sports activities complicated, the outlet mentioned. The primary part will give attention to the multifamily portion. The Star’s facility is a part of the NHL squad’s purpose to develop its affect past the ice, as it really works to create varied youth sports activities alternatives throughout Dallas-Fort Price.  The multisport facility, projected to have over 1.3 million guests yearly, will characteristic NHL-level ice rinks, basketball and volleyball courts, pickleball courts, a well being clinic and eating choices. It’s anticipated to open by the tip of subsequent yr.  Denton County’s regular inhabitants development has attracted a flock of builders. Irving-based Realty Capital Residential is on the helm of a 20-acre mixed-use undertaking, referred to as Parkway District, southeast of Denton. It should comprise flats, 22,000 sq. ft of retail and restaurant house, 16 townhomes and a lodge. Individually, Dallas-based Technology Housing Improvement is plotting a three-building, $33 million multifamily complicated within the space. —Quinn Donoghue  Learn extra [ad_2] Supply hyperlink

[aqqire]

Hotel for Sale in Indiana: Unveiling Lucrative Investment Opportunities

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Indiana's Allure for Hotel Investment

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Conclusion: Tapping into Indiana's Hospitality Market

Exploring hotel for sale in Indiana offers investors an avenue to tap into a vibrant and diverse market. By leveraging keywords, investors can uncover promising investment opportunities, paving the way for successful ventures in Indiana's thriving hospitality industry. Utilizing these strategic tools, investors position themselves to make informed decisions and secure lucrative hotel investments in the Hoosier State.