State Journal-Register, The (Springfield, IL) - Sunday, November 5, 1989

Herman F. Kluge 89, of Pana, formerly of Springfield, died Friday at Pana Community Hospital.
He was born May 24, 1900, in Springfield, the son of Richard and Anna Murawski Kluge. He married Irene Baggerly in 1923, and she died in 1965. Mr. Kluge, a resident of Springfield most of his life, was formerly employed as a body and fender mechanic for many years. He moved to Pana in 1986. In addition to his wife, he was preceded in death by two daughters, Mrs. Norma Alexander and Judith Kluge; one son, Harold; three brothers, Albert, Danny and Richard Kluge; and one sister, Mrs. Ann Brown.
Surviving are two daughters, Mrs. Irene Stroisch of Springfield and Mrs. Nancy Mitchell of Gilbert, Ariz.; five sons, Donald of San Bernardino, Calif., Glenn and Thomas, both of Springfield, Gerald of Mexico and David of Independence, Mo.; 22 grandchildren; 20 great-grandchildren; three sisters, Mrs. Ella Novick, Mrs. Frieda Plemitcher and Mrs. Ruth Ford, all of Springfield; several nieces and nephews. Services will be at 11 a.m. Tuesday at Staab Funeral Home. Burial will be in Oak Ridge Cemetery.

Herman Kluge's magneto bicycle nearly got him to town and his gold mining machine really works, that's why he's called-
Herman the inventor

If anyone in Springfield invents a better mousetrap it will probably be Herman Kluge. Herman has invented just about everything since he first built a bicycle out of tree branches and bailing wire when he was just a kid. But Herman has never discovered a way to get the frog out of his throat.
"I don't care what it is. You want something made, I'll make it", Herman said with his bullfrog voice. He's already made 75 cars (the first when he was 19), five gold machines, a contraption to cure rheumatism and "a lot of inventions that didn't work."
At 74 years of age, Herman's still an inventing son-of-a-gun. He can't afford to stop. Those measly Social Security checks won't let him.
Herman's house is a stone's throw from Roselawn Memorial Park. Its décor is early Rube Goldberg or modern "Sanford and Son." A tire there, a rim here, half finished thingamajigs everywhere.
"This is more of a workshop than a house," Herman said appearing slightly embarrassed. He showed me the inside of the workshop.
"I almost sleep with my junk, kind of like a pack-rat," he said. "Anything that looks like I might need I get. If I have a piece of junk for maybe three years I still remember where it is."
Herman now needs someone to help him find some of his invention ingredients because an eye operation has diminished his sight.
"Everything looks too deep or too far away," he said adjusting his thick glasses.
Herman then showed me a machine he said cures rheumatism. Herman stood next to a machine that to me appeared too deep or too far away. I took a few steps back, and then forward but the machine still looked the same.
It was a bed with a metal doughnut shaped device at the foot, so that someone lying on the bed would look through the hole in the doughnut.
"The party lies down and puts his feet in ice water," Herman said. "Then this thing (he pointed to the doughnut) moves from one end of your body to the other."
He turned it on. Light bulbs inside the doughnut lit. "See it moving?" I had to say no. "Look at those tow chains, you'll see one acoming and one agoing, maybe that'll give you a clue."
Sure enough they were moving. "Goes at a rate of one inch per second," Herman said. "It takes about an hour to go over the whole body."
"I cured myself with this, but you can't tell other people it works," Herman said. "They just say, how silly, who ever heard of such a thing."
This is the third rheumatism machine Herman has made. "I traded one to a guy who cheated me out of a piece of property, but I didn't tell him how to use it."
Inventing seems to run in the Kluge family. "My father used to invent something and then invite me to see it." Herman said. "Every time I'd tell him the same thing. It ain't going to work. It just ain't going to work."
As soon as Herman grew knee high to a bicycle, he built one. While the bicycle made of tree limbs and bailing wire was hardly a success, that didn't stop Herman from trying again.
This time he attached a battery to a magneto and put them both on his bicycle.
"Man, did it work good, I really went to town," Herman said. "But I got halfway to town and the battery died."
All the magical things Herman has learned about machines (he once made a 134,000 pound gold mining machine) have been self taught. "I've been an engineer all my life, but everything I've learned, even readin' and writin', I learned myself, I never did go to school."
For a long time Herman worked as a body man for various firms in Springfield as across the country. In the meantime he got married and had children, "I had 12 children by my first wife, four step children by my second wife, the third wife didn't do nothing, the fourth wife wasn't no good and the fifth wife I left in Los Angeles," he said and then laughed his bullfrog laugh.
Herman directed me to another invention near the doorway of his house. "This here is a sprint," he said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"A sprint. A racing car," Herman said.
"Oh a racing car, I don't know much about racing," I said.
"Oh well. Neither do I," said Herman.
"Everything on this car will be aluminum, he said of the half finished car. The rear end is aluminum, the frame is aluminum, everything is aluminum. Of course, the driver will have to be a nut, a nut behind the wheel."
To determine how this sprint will finally turn out you really need to see a blueprint. But Herman doesn't draw blueprints. "I prefer to keep everything up here," he said tapping his head.
What does Herman have in mind for the future? A flip top that doesn't break off? A way to get cotton out of an aspirin bottle before your headache goes away? A better mouse trap?
"I have in mind now an engine that runs with cold water," he said.
Yeah, but when are you going to do something about that frog in your throat?

Story by John Halverson; State Journal Register Saturday November 9, 1974