1930s Art Deco Evans Trig-a-lite Lighter Case Combo Skyscraper Enamel Guilloche For SaleIMMEDIATE – PROFESSIONALLY PACKED – FULLY INSURED - SHIPPING Buyer pays actual cost of fully insured shipping, very safely packed. All Customs forms will state the actual selling price of items shipped internationally. Evans lighters rank among the finest ever produced. Innovative design, quality craftsmanship and a combination of enameling and guilloche made the Trig-A-Lite an instant classic. I’ve seen this lighter in black, but this is the first I’ve found in green.
It is dark outside, so I’m huddled in my dungeon, forced to use the flash on my camera. “In real life,” the tiny surface scratches are only visible to those way too picky to even worry about.
It measures 4 ¼” by 2 ½” by a little over ½” thick.
A latch button is located on each side, and a “pinch” of the case makes it pop open with gusto. It closes is a secure snap, fits perfectly and stays closed. Quality piece of work.
The spring-loaded “T-shaped” bar carries the Evans name. Don’t let me forget. I want to tell you how an uncle of mine successfully quit smoking – cold turkey.
It says: “Evans – Pat. 80179 – Lighter Pat. Pend’g” and on the cap to the left: “Evans – TRIG-A-LITE.”
I read somewhere long ago that the patent number is actually a Ronson patent, and that some sort of dust-up occurred between the two companies over it. I don’t think any shots were fired, but let’s just say they “unfriended” one another.
More images and commentary continue below my three "Prime Directives:"
1st: I never, under any circumstances, use a reserve, and rarely do I ask for an opening offer of more than $9.00 (sometimes even less).
2nd: I never end sales early.
3rd: I don’t usually clean, repair, or otherwise monkey around with anything. I push enough dust aside to expose any flaws, but if I discovered it in some dusty attic, you can look forward to a little dust on it when it gets to your house. If it has a flaw or a wart, I'll tell you about it.
So rest easy and have some fun.
That’s the back . . . duh. Feel free to skip the text to follow. It’s in black, making it easy to skip.
My Uncle Cleal was non-stop teller of stories who spoke with both hands as a Camel cigarette at one corner of his mouth danced furiously as he talked, entertained and laughed like the good-natured person he was.
Watching him light a cigarette while driving and talking was an amazing sight. He used book matches. With his left hand, he’d flip open the flap, bend a paper match down to the striker, flick it with his thumb and light his cigarette. Then, in a well-practiced move, he’d tear the match out by its root, shake it twice for safety and flick out the driver’s side window, which he kept rolled down three or four inches.
Everybody smoked back in those days, even babies and doctors, sometimes while taking your blood pressure. (The doctors – not the babies. That’s crazy talk.)
It must have been 1962 or 1963, his wife, my aunt, gave him an expensive light for Christmas. It was a beautiful thing – 18k gold with his initials on one side.
Twice a week Uncle Cleal would drive across Tampa Bay on the old Sunshine Skyway Bridge – not the new one that scares the devil out of me every time I drive across it. Anyway, he was crossing the bridge, a friend in the passenger seat listening to a story about who knows what, when Uncle Cleal shook his pack of “humps” and pulled a cigarette with his lips. Then he reached in his pocket, pulled out his brand new lighter and showed it to his friend; “How ‘bout that baby? Slick, huh? The old lady gave it to me for Christmas.”
With that, he flipped it open, lit his cigarette, shook the lighter twice and threw in out the window right into Tampa Bay.
Neither he nor his friend said a word, but within about ten seconds, Uncle Cleal flicked his cigarette out the window, pulled the half pack of Camels from his shirt pocket, wadded it in a ball and threw it to the fishes as well. He never smoked again.
Cleal’s friend loved telling that story long after Cleal died. Later, I forget the year, but you probably remember that a section of the new Sunshine Skyway Bridge fell into Tampa Bay killing several people, as I recall. Cleal’s friend who made the trip alone after Uncle Cleal died, slammed on his brakes and came to a stop with only one other car between his and the abyss. He never drove again.
Dang! I’d never tried relating that true story “in print” before. I’ve told hundreds of folks about it, and it doesn’t take nearly as long. Sorry ‘bout that.
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