Dad's first car, as I recall,
was a 1941 Chevy sedan,
already ten years old,
both the car and I,
brother, Dick, was five.
Dad used to ride a bike to work,
or hitch a ride in foul weather,
before the acquisition of the Chevy,
all he could afford at the time,
he was a careful driver then.
The stories Dad used to tell,
of growing up, the next to youngest son,
first Ray, then Frank, Betty, May, my Dad,
Jack, (real name, John), and Chuck, (real name,
Charles), I remember pretty well.
He and his brothers used to swim
in the horse trough, against Grandpa's
orders, leaving their clothes in the crib,
skinny dipping in the summer sun.
Grandpa always seemed to know.
One day Grandpa hid behind the crib,
with a switch in hand he swatted bottoms,
each son thinking to blame one or the other,
all butts were targets as they dove in the trough.
The horses, Grandpa knew, would not drink after a swim.
The boys used to ride bare-back on the mare,
also forbidden by Grandpa, who always seemed,
in the know here too. The stallion would set to
whinnying, which alerted Grandpa Jesse's ear.
The boys took to leading the stallion with them on their rides.
The boys were thick as thieves stealing watermelons,
one day the farmer, not Grandpa, hid behind a tree,
shot gun at the ready, bird-shot in the shells. The older boys
had a melon a piece, Dad, one under each arm, as the farmer
let fly with the bird-shot, hitting Dad in the lower legs.
Dad cleared a fence, passing both his brothers as they
high-tailed it to safety. Dad's melons were the ripe ones.
He still carried the bird-shot, which he let me feel, one day.
That farmer became their object for future pranks, like the
time
they took his wagon apart and reassembled it atop his barn.
Observing this, shot gun in hand, behind some bushes,
the farmer, announces to the roof top, "Do you boys think it
would be just as much fun to take the wagon down as it was
putting it up there in the first place". It was not as much fun!
That Halloween they moved his out-house three feet further back.
- Dad told another story about a time coming home late from a party. His brothers were asleep, leaving Dad to drive Grandpa's Model T. On a gravel road, at the bottom of a steep hill, a train was crossing at the same time Dad reached the bottom, brakes failing. He turned quickly up another farmer's lane, drove completely around his house and barn, then back onto the road as the train cleared the tracks.
- His brothers were still, sound asleep. The next morning, Dad reported to them just how narrow their escape had been. Ray said, "That was smart thinking, Jack." Frank added, "Yeah, but what would you have done if the train was longer?" Dad, ready for this question replied, "Well, I guess I would have gone around the house and barn again."
- Getting back to the first car Dad ever owned, he decided that we should take our first vacation together in it to the Ozarks. Mom and Dad, of course, were in the front seat, while brother, Dick, and I, settled into the back seat with a stack of comic books. It was Memorial Day weekend. Dad, careful as usual, never driving over fifty miles per hour, did not want to brave the major highways where the "crazies would be for sure!" And so, with the aid of Mom, our intrepid path finder, they mapped a route to the Ozarks that would take all back roads, gravel, by nature, always tough on tires, especially re-treads. We had six flat tires before getting anywhere close to the Ozarks. The last one, at the top of a hill, in a farmer's field, where no jack of any kind would work. Fortunately, the farmer was at home, and kindly offered to use his tractor to pull us from the mire, for ten dollars, and into town where Dad bought another re-tread. We arrived at the Ozarks, finally. Dad said, "Here we are, boys, the foot-hills of the Ozarks. Look fast, we have to be headed home in a half-hour!"
- On the way home, comic books all read, I was looking out the back window at the place that we had been, just a short time before. Dad was now on a "good road", driving his usual forty-five to fifty miles per hour, when I noticed a brand new Ford convertible, top down barreling toward us. I yelled, "Dad, he is going to hit us!" "No he won't, Bobby," just as he did. We all got out to survey the damage. There was not a scratch to be found anywhere on Dad's Chevy Tank, but the driver of the Ford stood holding his front bumper in his hand, looking at the steam rising from a hole in his radiator. After we determined that no one was injured, and that there would be no need for a police report, we left the Ford, stranded. Dad muttered something about "crazy drivers", as we were passed by many, "Another accident looking for a place to happen!" We did get home safely, with no more flat tires or accidents.
