Unlucky Garage

I promised, in an earlier post, to relate to you the easy way of driving a car through the back of a garage. I had forgotten this pledge until my lovely mother  reminded me of it and how angry the incident had made her. So, as promised, the easy way to drive through a garage  wall.

As I may have mentioned, when I eventually got my driver's license my Mom was kind enough to supply me with a Chevrolet Chevette to drive. For those too young to remember, a Chevette was a hatchback vehicle, mine was a four door stick shift. It had seen better days but still ran just fine and was more car than a lot of kids had.

The Chevette gave me mobility and also helped out my Mom. My Dad had passed away shortly before I got my license. As a matter of fact, my uncle took me to take my license test the day of my Dad's funeral. I guess they thought it would take my mind off Dad's death. It didn't but was a nice gesture. I have four siblings and they needed ferrying about. Having a second driver in the family was helpful.

A license and car gave me kind of a big head. I had the power and wasn't afraid to use it. In my defense, having four arguing kids wrestling in the back seat was disconcerting in a car that weighed hardly more than those four children. A firm hand was necessary. I also understood, then, why my Dad used to get so hot when we argued behind him.

When one of these arguments was going on, we were on our way home from town and the car was rocking back and forth on the road from all the silliness going on in the back. I had already warned the yahoos  several times and the wrestling kept up. Finally, much like my Dad, I lost my temper and pulled over about a mile from home. I ordered everyone out. They were stunned into submission. Everyone climbed out and I took off. They made it home about twenty minutes later and never failed to calm down when asked nicely afterwords.

My sister, Barb, was closest to me in age. Only eighteen months younger, she was determined that I not have things my own way very often. As the oldest girl, she was a strong supporter of rank based on seniority. One day coming home from somewhere with Barb in the passenger seat, I was pulling into our "garage."

The garage was an open faced shed structure built to the side of another shed on the property. It was essentially a three sided pole barn. The barn columns were telephone poles and horizontally installed two by fours provided a means to attach corrugated steel for siding. It was a nice way to keep the rain and snow off the car parked inside.

As I pulled up to the garage, I noticed a bicycle laying on the concrete slab inside. In the interest of convenience, mine, I told Barb to go move the bicycle. She promptly told me where to stick it. We argued for a minute and then, disgusted but unwilling to leave the car and lose face, I opened my door and leaned out. I leaned out as far as I could but couldn't reach so I stuck one foot our the door, intending, I suppose, to kick the bicycle out of the way. Slowly, I released the clutch and the car rolled forward. I kicked the bike and depressed the clutch.

The thing about a clutch is that it removes the motive power of the engine from the wheels. It is not however, a brake. The car kept rolling toward the back of the shed. If nothing else had happened, I probably would have bumped the back wall and that would be the end of it. Nothing else did not happen.

 As the back wall eased toward us, I had the bright idea to use the brake. To do this, I had to release the clutch. Remember the leg hanging outside? If you have never driven a stick shift, it is important to know that two legs are required to make the system work.

The other thing about a clutch is that when released, the engine re-engages with the tires and the car moves forward. Brakes don't work well when fighting against an engine. It didn't really matter whether the brakes worked or not though. I had missed the brake pedal in my panic and stomped on the gas pedal.

The end result was that the car fairly leaped at the back wall and through it before I got my leg back in the car and applied both brake and clutch appropriately. The front of the car and the tires promptly dropped off the back of the concrete slab and stopped.

That is the easy way to drive through a garage wall.

Luckily, the tires did grab the edge of the slab and the car moved back onto the slab. The two by four holding the siding wasn't destroyed, only pulled loose. The car had a minor scratch on the fender. The siding was kinked but not totally ruined. I patched it all up in less than an hour.

Mom was pretty hot, as I mentioned already but calmed down when she realized little permanent damage was done. There were some new ground rules concerning the driver and passenger responsibilities after that too.

 Another positive note is that I got another little story out of the experience. Lucky me. Unlucky garage.

My Little Red Sh*tvette.

     When I got my license, I was lucky enough to have a car to drive.  I wasn't lucky enough to have a Corvette. Instead I had a Chevrolet Chevette, a sh*tvette in the parlance of the day. It was a tan four door, four cylinder, manual transmission vehicle.  It had no pick up and a heater that took half an hour to catch up to the car. It was my ride though and I was happy enough to have something to get me around town.
     My car was a symbol of adulthood and I felt like a big man in my little car. I was excited to be able to park in the lot with all the other cool kids with cars.  When I looked around, most of the cars were as beat up as mine but we were all just as happy to be able to drive to lunch and make use of some of that freedom that comes with being a grown up.  The option to eat off campus was a huge deal. It made the whole side of the city our lunchroom.
     Like most teenagers I was usually in a hurry. I would play the game of trying to make up a little time by zigging and zagging around the traffic. It took me years to understand how self-defeating this practice was. I always felt like it helped but all it really did was stress me out.
     One time my game got me in a bit of trouble. It was winter and I was heading home from school.  We lived about twenty five minutes outside of town and I was always trying to shave a minute or two off the trip. It was part of the game. I came up behind someone who was driving incredibly slow. I sat behind them for a minute but then whipped into the next lane to pass.
     As an inexperienced driver, I was unprepared for what happened next.  My rear wheels kept moving to the left as the front wheels straightened out. I corrected. The rear went the other direction, a little farther.  Each time I turned the wheel to correct, the rear swung out farther the other way. Eventually I was swinging at a right angle to the road each direction.  I swung to the left and the slow poke passed me on the right. I looked ahead and the oncoming car was definitely a concern since I was in his lane. I swung to the right and the oncoming car passed me on the left.  At this point, my car or possibly God had enough.  I did a complete three sixty in the middle of the road and slid backward off the shoulder.
     After checking my pants and saying a quick thank you, I pulled back out onto the road and held up traffic for the rest of the drive home. I learned to pay attention a bit that day. Sometimes I wonder that I lived past my teenage years though.
     One time I lost the brakes in the car and went through a stop light honking and flashing.  That woke me up and my sister too. Another time, I was having a little fun ramming snow drifts and suddenly the car stopped dead. The car wouldn't start and I got out after I popped the hood. I lifted the top, I was astounded to see that snow was packed to the top of the engine compartment. Every nook and cranny was filled tightly with the aforementioned snow drifts.
     Steve, my best friend, and I walked the half mile back to his house to get his truck and towed my car back to the workshop to thaw. I got the opportunity to replace a timing belt on the car. It turned into a learning experience after all.
     The first time I ever got pulled over was fun too. My middle sister was a real social butterfly.  She was a freshman and got invited to the movies with her boyfriend and some other class mates.  I was assigned to pick her up.  When I arrived, Patti was surrounded by her buddies and wanted me to take them all to her boyfriend's house to hang out. I had reservations. As I mentioned earlier, the Chevette is a compact four door. However, in addition to being a social butterfly, Patti is persuasive. Shortly, there were two people stacked in the front seat, four in the back seat, and two in the hatchback trunk.
     We pulled out of the theater parking lot and were on our way. Everything was fine until I tried to stop.  Apparently the weight of nine people is more than is recommended for braking in a Chevette. When I tried to stop, I almost had to stand on the brake pedal to avoid tapping the car in front of me.  The front of the car dived toward the road and the bumper may or may not have touched the pavement.
     Unfortunately, there was a policeman sitting in his squad car next to the intersection.  When he pulled us over, I could tell he was amused but he took issue with our lack of sufficient seat belts and my inability to see out the back of the car. Luckily Pattie's boyfriend lived close by and he just followed us to his house. After that I kept the passenger quantity to five or less.
      Another time I'll tell you a sure fire way to put a car through the back of the garage. Type at you later.

Time with Dad

When I was fourteen years old, approximately, I found out my Dad had a disease called Lou Gehrig's.  It's also called ALS, or arterial lateral sclerosis.  I don't write this to dwell on the disease or incite pity, or even to encourage research, although I support it. It's just a fact that had a profound effect on my family's lifestyle.

For those who don't know, Lou Gehrig's Disease attacks the nerves.  Those afflicted with the condition are currently certain to die earlier than they would have otherwise.  The nerves and muscles waste away starting, most obviously in my Dad's case, with the muscles controlling speech.

Dad began to talk less distinctly, then unintelligibly.  He progressed from shorter sentences to a pad and pencil. Dad's handwriting wasn't great to begin with and was eventually as hard to understand as his speech had been.  I could see it was frustrating for him.

I was a pretty clueless teen, as I believe most teens are and Dad had so much he needed to say before he was gone that he could hardly stand it some days.  He knew more than I did that I would have to wake up and take responsibility for a much larger portion of my life very shortly.  One day, when I had been particularly obtuse, he asked me why I acted like I didn't know my ass from a hole in the ground.  He had a way of saying some things that stick with me.

One thing that I'm sure Dad was a little worried about was teaching me to drive.  He was never a super patient guy. My nervousness with the process of driving and learning to operate a stick shift 69' Chevy truck didn't help.  To be fair, he didn't yell at me unless I made the same mistake lots of times.

One day he let me drive into town.  He didn't have a lot of choice honestly.  His arms weren't that strong by then and the truck didn't have power steering.  He couldn't talk much at all either.  He could still get his point across.  He had a very expressive face and a way with body language.  I got us into town and back but I killed the truck in one intersection three times before I got us across two lanes of traffic for a left turn.  It wasn't good. When we got home from Columbus, Mom asked how the drive had been. Dad couldn't say anything so he grabbed his hair, pulled it up and went Aaaaahhh!

He was an awesome guy.  I wish I had known him better.  Everything was a learning experience.  Most activities had opportunities to make a point or build a skill.  Dad had a great philosophy of learning by doing.  He would help but we weren't allowed to back out of a situation because of simple fear.  If the truck needed to be moved off the hill, I should get in and move it.  Anyone who has driven a stick realizes that as soon as the clutch is depressed, the truck starts rolling backward until it's given gas and the clutch is released.  Nerve wracking isn't a strong enough phrase.  It was a big hill and a heavy truck.  I have a good imagination and I clearly saw that truck and my lifeless young body in its mangled remains at the bottom. That's not what happened though and I'm glad he made me do it now.

I wish I had known him better.  I said it before and I think it to myself often.  It's amazing how little we pay attention to the people around us.  I had this really cool guy at home every day and didn't realize so much about him.  Dad was an exceptional person.  When we had his wake, so many people came that they had to line up around the building.  The funeral director said he had never had so many people come to pay their respects.  Wow!  He was young and our family is large but still, to have that many people wish to show their last respects is humbling to me.  I was sad and angry and blind at the time but I knew a really good man and had the opportunity to learn a little from him.  I was blessed.  I know that now.

Dad was the one who took us camping.  He taught us to poop in the woods, how to set up a tent, what to cook over the fire, and how to love the outdoors and what was in it.  Dad taught me to play baseball. I was an unwilling student, lazy would be accurate.  I was smart enough that I didn't like trying activities I didn't grasp instantly.  He made it fun though.

Dad devised a game we called nine ball.  He realized that my sisters and I all loved to bat but didn't want to catch.  We weren't stupid.  Throw a rock at our heads and we would rather swat at it than try to catch it.  In nine ball, all the players are in the outfield except for the person at bat.  That person gets to bat until someone accrues nine points, at which time the bat and glove change hands and everyone goes back to zero.

You never saw kids work so hard to catch a ball.  It was a cross between the MLB and the NFL.  We ran over each other, tackled, hip bumped, and hopefully got the ball.  Heaven forbid someone steal a fly ball.  With three points on the line, we called our play and defended our turf.  It was a blast, and I got pretty good at fielding too.

When I ran out of cub scout levels in the local troop, and didn't have a leader for the Webelo level, Dad became troop leader to me and my best friend Steve Bennett.  Our troop of two didn't last a super long time but we made mini catapults in Dad's shop. Then we built really cool ice fishing sledges with a place for a heating gas lamp, all our gear, and a place to sit as we waited to catch half frozen blue gill.  Dad taught me a little about cars, hunting, woodworking, farming, responsibility and teaching.  Even though I still don't know what kind of animal a Webelo is, he made sure I was ready to learn and to help others learn.

Dad forever had a project for us that would teach us responsibility.  We had regular chores.  We fed the dogs, washed dishes, brought wood in for the stove.  If a chore wasn't done, Dad would wake us up in the middle of the night to do it.  I hated that, but it was always a while before I forgot again.

Dad bought rabbits and rabbit hutches.  For a year or two we learned how to raise rabbits, how to breed them, how to clean them and not to name them.  Unfortunately, we were given a German Shepard with a taste for rabbit and the operation went under.

Shortly after the rabbits were gone, we became strawberry farmers.  Our house was on fifteen acres of land and part of it was tillable. One year a huge box of strawberry plants came in the mail and we had the job of putting them out.  Then there was the picking.  To this day, I rarely eat a strawberry.  I like the taste OK,  but I just don't want much to do with them.  I must have picked a thousand quarts of strawberries before we stopped messing with them.  It was good pay for a kid with no other job but it was tough hot work too.  You won't catch me laughing at a migrant farmer.  I've had a taste of the life and it's not easy.

I learned so much from Dad about the joy of living and helping and doing.  He died when I was sixteen years old.  I had to be a stronger, more confident, more responsible human being because of it.  I learned to see the rest of my family and pay attention to the people they are.  I stopped being that obtuse, self absorbed little snot that I had spent so many years being.  I spent years angry that he was gone and then more years thankful to God for the blessings I was allowed.

It would have been nice to reach that age where we could talk as equals, two guys who had a house and kids in common, two men with jobs and wives and projects to do together.  I wish he had met my kids and they had met him.  They would have had so much fun together.  I miss my Dad.  Thank you God for letting me have him, even for a little while.