Category Archives: Childhood Memories/Terrors

Unsafe at Any Speed

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At lunch today my husband and I talked about our first cars. His was a 1948 Chevy.

Knowing that he is not all that mechanical, my first question was, “How did you keep it running?”

“It never broke down,” he said.

Now, that’s just not right.

Growing up, I don’t remember a single car we possessed that didn’t break down. My earliest memory is of sitting next to Dad as we careened down a steep hill, all the while he was frantically trying to re-attach the steering wheel to the column.

Dad owned clunkers where the engine literally dropped out on the road as we were driving or overheated at the slightest incline. (One time I watched Dad resolve the problem by pouring a can of cola into the radiator, but that’s another story.) We once spent an entire month camping in the mountains because the car broke down as we pulled in the campground and we had no transportation, or money, to drive down to get a new part.

I remember riding with my older sister in the first car Dad bought for her. We were sitting at a stoplight. People started pointing and shouting and it took us a while to realize the car was on fire. In our defense the car had the engine in the rear, so it wouldn’t have been immediately obvious to us.  I mean, we didn’t have the radio cranked all the way up and we weren’t fighting over the rearview mirror to check our hair and make-up, if that’s what you’re thinking.

So, my first car was a slightly burnt, hand-me-down from my sister (as were all my clothes by the way – I mean they were hand-me-downs, not burnt – that would be weird.)

One problem was the heater. Heat was conveyed to the interior of the car by a system of ducts connected to the cylinder head. I don’t know much about cars, but I do know I often arrived at school slightly dizzy from inhaling exhaust fumes.

There was also no Park. The display read “R-N-D-L”. No “P.” I’m sure that originally the manufacturer installed some sort of system whereby the car stayed where you parked it but by the time it reached me, that portion of the car was no longer working. My only option was to find a level place to park. In my first week of driving I often came out of school to discover the car had rolled across the parking lot, jumped the curb and sat sweetly in the grass.

On a morning drive to school my love/hate meter shot from one side to the other several times.

“I love this car,” I’d say if I was lucky enough to get it started and out the drive. My love continued unabated, until I hit a bump.

“I hate this stupid car,” I’d yell when the motor shut off. As the car rolled onward I screamed and cursed it, until I’d hit another bump, which caused the motor to engage and I’d make my panicked way to school with the needle on my love/hate meter jumping wildly.

My first car?  It was a Corvair. The car declared by Ralph Nader to be”Unsafe at Any Speed.”

I have to agree with Ralph.

Who’s Crazie Now?

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I just got back from a week in the Rocky Mountains at a resort where, I swear, time has not changed in 50 years. My husband asked if they had a Wi-Fi Cafe nearby. Not only is there no wi-fi, there’s no cafe. There is certainly no cell phone service and the one ancient pay phone only worked a few hours every other day. Personally, I loved it.

I even got to spend some quality time with a few of the following residents of Crazie Town.

The Older Sister – who, I maintain, interpreted the following road sign even sillier than I did. “No Snowplowing Between 7pm-7am.” I decided it meant people shouldn’t be using their own snowplows during this time. My sister decided this meant that when you’re skiing you can’t use the snowplow move after 7pm. I believe I will rate our decisions as “Double Doh’s” since Older Brother explained it meant that during a snowstorm, the roads would not be plowed after 7pm.

The Husband (not an original resident, but has been around long enough to receive dual citizenship) – who gave new meaning to the expression “haste-makes-waste.” As we walked out to the picnic table with the rest of the meal, he was asked to add grapes to the salad before he brought it out. Many minutes later when no salad or husband arrived, I returned to the cabin to find him still in the kitchen. He was inspecting each and every grape on the vine, only removing the undamaged ones. He placed the perfect grape in the middle of a dinner plate where he carefully sliced it exactly in half, only then depositing it gently on top of the lettuce.  I have to admit, it was a delicious salad.

The Niece – who couldn’t quit giggling every time we said we were “Going to the Poudre.” The Poudre River runs through the area where we stayed. It is pronounced, by the locals, as “Poo-der” which is, evidently quite close to “Pooter” which is a word I won’t explain to you.

The Older Brother – who unsuccessfully tried to hide the fact that within minutes of wandering over to the “Pooter” river to inspect the velocity of the rushing waters, fell in. Was he hurt? Who knows. Our only concern was that thereafter, any bonehead move would be dubbed “Doing a Mike.”

The Nephew and his Wife – they’re newlyweds so, let’s just leave them out of this, okay? Well, maybe just one thing. Homemade pie? I know it’s not a competition but on my night to cook I made spaghetti with bottled sauce. On their night they made Juicy Lucys (look it up) and for dessert a homemade four-fruit pie. Four fruits? Really?

And what about the Mayor of Crazie Town? Well, let’s see. I packed two humongus suitcases – 49 pounds each – filled with every essential a Crazie person would need. I used my husband’s travel golf bag to bring two collapsable lawn chairs (in case there aren’t enough chairs at the resort), a set of sheets (I can’t very well sleep on theirs can I?) and two large furniture throws (who wants to spend a week in plaid couch hell?) In the other suitcase I packed hiking boots, several pairs of sneakers, sandals and my clothes, which included all the white t-shirt I own (and are now covered in every kind of stain known to man), a sketch pad, colored pencils and book titled Drawing for the Absolute Beginner (in case my writing career never takes off), and my laptop (which I never even opened.)

And we’ll end with the icing on the cake. because even though I packed my own travel coffee mug, once there I decided to purchase a dust covered “handcrafted” ceramic one for $20 (which I forgot to bring home).

Who’s crazie now? Huh?

P.S.  Do me a favor would you?  Share the Crazie with a friend.  Thanks!