Classic Article

CLASSIC ARTICLE
(My daughter Mary forwarded me an e-mail, from her sister-in-law Pat, about a father and his driving.)
What a great story, written by Michael Gartner. I wish that I could write as well. I think that his trick is to use a lot of quotes. It makes the writing more friendly. I could relate to some of his tale. Life was much simpler back in the !920’s and 30’s. I had some difficulty reading it, with my “blurred” eyes. I can’t explain my emotion, except for the tender memories it recalled for me.
My Dad drove, but we didn’t own a car - until 1930. (My Dad was 40 and I was 11). My Dad bought a four door - 1928 Chrysler (second hand). This was at the beginning of the Great Depression, and not too many people owned cars. He bought the car only because we were moving from Hillsdale, Michigan to Olmsted Falls, Ohio. My Dad was transferred from Hillsdale to Cleveland, by the New York Central Railroad. They were consolidating their office operations. I never thought to ask him who taught him to drive, and in what make of car. All cars had manual transmissions back then. (Some girlfriends had bruised knees from their boyfriends constantly shifting gears!)
I remember standing on the floor, between the back and front seats, (no seat-belt law back then), when my Dad was teaching my Mother to drive. The setting was the race track at the fair grounds, in Hillsdale. I was startled, when she came around the turn, leading to the finish line in front of the grandstand, and ploughed into the white- wooden - infield fence. I am surprised that my Dad didn’t flunk her.
I rode with her driving, only once. That was enough! In Olmsted Falls we had a long driveway next to the house, leading from the street to a separate garage at the rear of the house. I don’t think that my Dad taught her how to back up. She offered to drive me to school one day. I foolishly accepted. It was one wild ride! She backed out of the driveway, slowly weaving along. She backed across the street, running in front of our house. I didn’t understand why she didn’t use the brake to stop, after she had backed across the street. The next thing that I knew, she hit a concrete stanchion supporting a large link-chain fence bordering the City Park. Well, I guess that is one way to stop a car. It sure saves on brake wear! The experience bothered me more than it did her. She put the shifting handle in first gear and we were off. She never got out of the car to see if there was any damage to the car or the “fence”. That wasn’t bad enough. We crossed (bounced) over the main line railroad tracks in downtown Olmsted Falls. Then, she started heading for the cars parked parallel in front of the stores, barely missing them. There must not have been any police around. It was a small town. About this time, I started praying the “Our Father”. When she let me out at school, I never was so glad to leave a car, as I was then. Fortunately, she didn’t offer to pick me up after school.
In 1932, we moved from Olmsted Falls to Berea - about five miles closer to Cleveland. My Dad was good hearted and trusting. Sometimes, if I needed the car, he would let me use it to drive to school. The only catch was that I had to drive him to and from the depot, for his commute on the NYC “Plug” from Berea into the Cleveland Terminal. “Sticking accelerators” on Toyotas are not a new problem. I experienced the very same problem on that Chrysler! I drove the car home one noon for lunch. I was racing a friend in a 25 MPH zone. The accelerator stuck. And I was probably going 40. I didn’t panic, but I didn’t know what to do. I was fast approaching cars in front of me. The only thing that I could think of was to take to the sidewalk. The car jumped the curb, and fortunately, I didn’t hit a tree. As I was rolling down the sidewalk (luckily, no one was walking there.) My friend was with me, riding in the front seat. I hollered to him to pull up the accelerator, which he did. As soon, as the car slowed down, I drove it back onto the street. While I learned a great lesson, it very well could have been my last one! I often wonder, when actuaries figure out life expectancies at birth, if they crank in miscues by stupid youth such as me?
A year later, my Dad bought his first new car. It was a shiny-black Chevrolet two-door. I was with my Mom and Dad when they bought it in Berea.( I used to be able to recall the name of the dealer, but no longer.). As I remember, the car cost $630. My Mother wanted him to get a four door (I had three siblings). Dad said, “Bessie, that means two more doors to rattle”. In reality, he was frugal! A four door cost $100 more!
Ray L’Amoreaux
February 5, 2010.