July 13, 2003

Lost in BVDs

Perhaps there are a lot worse places than Indianapolis to be cast adrift in your BVDs, but Dad didn't know where that was.

Though opinions differed as to hilarity of the event, all agreed later that it made memorable the Great Safari from Boot Heel, Missouri, to Petoskey, Michigan.

Dad had just purchased his first automobile, a gleaming, black Model-T Ford. The year was 1926 and the Tin Lizzie was king of the road.

The four-cylinder, hand-cranked machine had cost an exorbitant $595. That was a lot of money in those days. However, Dad had won it in a 30-hour poker game, so mother conceded, "Easy come, easy go."

Dad took the family for a drive nearly every Sunday afternoon. The thrill of a Sunday Drive is something the today's generation finds hard to understand. Take my word, it was worth the price of admission.

I was six years old back then, but I still recall the awe I felt when Dad said one Sunday morning: "I'd like an Eskimo Pie. Let's drive to Blytheville and get one."

That chocolate-covered ice-cream delicacy had just been introduced. Folks who had been to a big city and tasted the concoction raved about it.

The audacity of cranking up The Ford Car -- and driving 50 miles just to get a treat -- boggled the mind.

* * *

The Model-T was a man's car. It took a deal of strength and coordination to start the machine.

First, there was the "choke" to contend with. It had to be pulled out at just the right moment, for just the right length of time. The slightest miscalculation and the car wouldn't "catch." Or, it would "flood."

Both conditions exasperated Dad. This, in turn, upset Mother, a farm girl, who was entrusted with the controls while he labored at the crank.

Eventually, Dad hooked up a wire from the choke through a crack in the radiator so he could manipulate it and the crank at the same time.

Early on, however, the "spark" and "accelerator" were managed by levers on each side of the steering column. These had some mysterious effect on "The Engine" concealed in No Woman's Land under the hood.

For better or worse -- usually the latter -- Mother had to contend with them.

In a crisis, she had difficulty distinguishing left from right. Consequently it was chancy which lever she would pull when Dad hollered instructions.

If she advanced the spark too much, the car would backfire amidst a horrific explosion. This gave the crank a jerk that would near break Dad's arm. In fact, broken arms in the early days of motoring were not uncommon.

On one occasion she pulled the accelerator lever all the way down while pushing against the "forward" pedal.

The car lurched like a lion from ambush, knocking Dad to the ground and running over him while he made like a rug between the wheels. The high, ground clearance fortunately spared him injury.

"Damittohell!" Dad roared as he rose majestically from the dust. "Don't you know your left from your right?"

"Don't shout at me," Mother blurted tearfully, shaken by the sudden turn of events. "Just tell me nicely, gee or haw." These were the usual commands for turning well-bred mules but were of little value in a mechanical emergency.

* * *

It wasn't long before the scenic wonders of Boot Heel Missouri paled. Dad conceived a trip to Petoskey, Michigan, then a fashionable summer playground for adventuresome motor buffs.

A few "tourist camps" were springing up along main highways, but facilities for travelers were still in a primitive stage.

Uncle Low, a cotton farmer, had built a trailer to pull behind his equally wonderful tractor and haul bales to the gin. Dad borrowed the trailer and with inspiration put on a roof and installed two bunks.

You couldn't stand upright in the trailer, and it was barely long enough for Dad and Mother to stretch out. Yet, the conception of hauling along sleeping accommodations while you traveled was clearly ahead of the times.

The trailer was a sensation. It bumped and jerked noisily because it was attached to the car frame with an eye-bolt and lynch-pin. The ball-joint hitch was not to come for many years.

Nevertheless, our rig was a great curiosity and was written up in the local paper.

Throughout our trip we were the object of incredulous stares. Every time we stopped, spectators gathered -- wanting to inspect the trailer.

"People must think we've lost our way from a circus," Mother grumbled.

* * *

After we had been on the road a couple of days, Dad began to tire of the monotony. He took to driving for many hours and grabbing a nap in the trailer while mother drove.

We pulled into Indianapolis on a Sunday with Mother at the wheel, me snoozing in the back seat and Dad asleep in the trailer.

A dog darted into the street in front of the car. Mother jammed on the brake pedal.

Back in the trailer, Dad was knocked awake by the sudden stop. Alarmed, he scrambled out of the trailer to deal with the emergency.

The dog, however, was narrowly missed. Mother immediately threw the car into forward gear.

With her usual heavy hand on the accelerator, we careened on -- leaving Father in his underwear rapidly behind. He shouted and ran to catch up, but to no avail.

It is certain he invented some new cuss words for the occasion.

* * *

It was Dad's worst nightmare.

Of all the improbable situations, that was the most. It was Sunday so there weren't ready sanctuaries at hand.

With flushed face -- caused by equal parts of embarrassment, anger and frustration -- Dad trudged two blocks dishabille.

He bore with gnashing teeth the guffaws and taunts of church-bound strollers.

Finally he found a drug store open and darted inside. The proprietor was afraid he had a nut or sex fiend on his hands. It took some fast talking to persuade him to let Dad take refuge in the back room.

Dad and the proprietor, with remarkable presence of minds, hit upon the scheme of calling police in Kokomo -- the next town on Mother's route -- and having them stop her.

Officers had no difficulty spotting her.

We rescued Dad and lost half a day as a result of the escapade. Mother thought the adventure hilarious -- an outlook not shared by him.

Dad was grouchy about the whole thing. "I really wouldn't have minded so much," he declared, "except I had a hole in my sock and a button off my trap door."

Mother thought that was hilarious too.

Lindsey Williams is a Sun columnist.

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Cutline- 4 column

Illustration by Tom Baldwin

[ Dad adrift in Indianapolis ]

Author: Lindsey Williams