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| A little off on the spelling, but all the cops in town knew him by first name, anyway. |
Dad’s love affair with cars began early. He was 15 years old
when he received a provisional driver’s license. That, of course, is not the age he actually began driving.
His first job was at a gas station. The station was also a mechanic and body shop, and they had a contract with the county to clear the wrecks from the roads. He had a first-hand glimpse into what happened when you took your mind off the road.
Of course, Dad is immortal, so instead of being scared by the twisted hunks of metal, and the horrific scenes that awaited him when he went along on the tow-truck as assistant, he learned. As he rode along those country roads with friends and relatives, he began to assemble his rules of the road. These include:
Look beneath a parked car for
little feet—their owners often can’t be seen by looking over the car.
Don’t worry about the idiot
directly in front of you, but the one a quarter-mile ahead.
Brakes are for stoplights, not for
speed or course corrections.
Speed limits are just suggestions.
Slow drivers are road hazards. Don’t
be a road hazard.
He never forgot those early rules. While some of them
contain nuggets of safe driving wisdom, the lessons he took to heart included
drive hard, drive fast, go around when you can’t go through, and wait till the
last possible second to stop. He’s scared many an unsuspecting passenger and
fellow driver over the years, but, by gum, he’s still standing. He’s just not
driving anymore. But I digress.
When Dad was 18, he bought his first car, a used Henry J.
The mechanic at the gas station had one, and the car treated him well: great gas mileage, solid engine, good for the commute and the errands. Dad figured he’d
give it a try. The one he found was cream with red—nice and sporty looking. It
wasn’t quite as sporty as it appeared, being blessed with only 3 gears, but Dad
still found a way to goose it up: he never took it out of second gear. The
resulting rumble was loud enough to wake the dead—or at least the neighbors.
That car only lasted a year before it somehow needed both a new set of tires
and a new engine.
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| Dad and his new |
Dad then traded in the used Henry J for a new one. Dark
paint job this time, and a 6-cylinder engine. Which, again, he never took out
of second gear. He tried to explain that this practice meant that he never had
to downshift when he needed more power for passing other cars (or pacing trains--not that he would). He claims he always drove responsibly. Naturally.
One year later, it was again time for another motor, er, car. Rest in peace, Henry J.
The Ford that he purchased saw him through his
apprenticeship, through boot camp and on into the Navy, where it was the go-to
vehicle for Drive-In Movie Dollar nights. But that, you know, is another tale,
for another time.
