32 model A
The first camping trip I took with my father ended in total disaster. I was four or five years old and my father was that amount of time from being blown apart in a foxhole World War two. I would guess that my father was attempting to make a father son bonding on that trip. We made camp, set a fire for a dinner of hotdogs on a stick. As the fire burned it's way down to glowing coals, my father killed the coals and we went to bed.
It was monsoon season and the lightning and thunder rumbled and bellowed in all it's magnificence with flashes of lightning creating a contrast of shadows and light. It was loud to a four-year-old boy and it was frightening. I saw monsters everywhere. I begin to cry. My father tried to calm me but the noise and images created by the storm frightened me. Ii wanted my mommy and said so bluntly.
Finally, my father gave up. All the way home, he called me a cry baby. I didn't care. I was going home to the comfort of my mother. That was the other term he used, mommies boy!
We didn't attempt another camping trip until I was in Junior high school in the eighth grade. This trip would take us up Lightner Creek. Fishing, second to baseball, was one of my favorite things to do. I was excited about this trip.
My father seemed in good spirits. He had recently purchased a 1932 model A Ford with a rumble seat. He had been tinkering with it for weeks and was ready for the old car to get us to a desired spot to camp and fish. This was also the car I learned to drive, with lessons from my father. He was a patient, good teacher unlike other times when his patients waned.
Once loaded with our gear we were off with high spirits and anticipation of a good time. The weather was absolutely perfect. It was late spring and the runoff of the snowpack was still high but running clear in all the streams.
With my father at the helm, the little model A Ford moved effortlessly over the dirt road. Where there were potholes, my father maneuvered around them. Some of the potholes were too big to go around so we had to go over them. Fortunately, the little Ford had high clearance and we made it without much trouble.
We drove four or five miles before stopping at a part of the creek that might prove challenging to the old Ford. The water was running high, but clear. My father and I exchanged glances, then he turned to the task of crossing the creek. Putting the Ford in low gear, he slowly began his assault on the crossing.
I watched out my side of the car has the water flowing from my father's side circled around the car. Cautiously, father inched the Ford closer to the other side. I began to notice a tiny stream of water running across the floor of the Ford. As father continued to proceed, the stream of water running through the car increased in size and force.
Soon the water had overtaken the floorboard on father's side and made it's escape over the floorboard on my side. Following the sputtering engine's death moan and silence, the Ford had come to a complete stop. Like the rocks that called their homes in the stream, we became another community, captured by the running water.
Father tried over and over again to start the old car without success. He stopped trying and sat there contemplating his next move. We tried to push and pull the car without success. It refused to move forward or backward. But, it did move up and down like a teeter totter giving us some hope for success.
Exhausted, my father decided on his next move. I would be an important part of his plan. I was happy to do my part.
Behind us we had passed a ranch house. It had the usual ranch machinery but no farm, only a ranch house and a small barn with two sheds. It did, however, have a tractor that could pull us out. My job was to go back and bring help. That meant I had to go the distance of 11/2 to 2 miles. Father would stay with his car.
The sun was setting low and the afternoon shadows begin to lengthen. Dusk would follow and the long shadows would slowly disappear. I had to hurry if I were to bring back help before dark. Running was not my favorite thing to do. Now I was running for a purpose. Each step I took I could hear my heart beat in rhythm. I settled into a comfortable stride. I was all alone and watched each turn in the road rise up before me. I kept my focus on running straight ahead.
I stopped for a moment to sip water from a canteen. Looking around, the shadows had lengthen considerably and things didn't appear as they had before. Had I already passed the ranch as I ran concentrating only on my rhythm and heartbeat?
As I reached the top of the next hill, I saw the ranch a short distance away. Breathing hard I crossed over the fence and sprinted to the front door of the ranch. I knocked on the door but no one answered. I ran to the barn but no one was there. Turning back to the ranch house I would try the front door again. It would be dark before I got back to my father even if I could get help. Finally a man opened the front door. My face was flushed and I was exhausted. Speaking in between gasp for air, I tried to explain my presents but was silence as both of us turned to the road and a 32 Ford model A moved toward us. Father was grinning as he pulled up in front of us.
First, he said we would set up camp on this side of the stream. Then, in an answer to both the man and me he explained how he got the car out of the stream.
Older cars have a starter button on the floorboard of the car by the pedals. To start the car one must press down the clutch pedal and at the same time push the starter button. When the car starts, put it in gear and let out the clutch. When the car is in gear and the starter button is depressed without the clutch, the car will move forward a little each time you press the starter button. Father had put the old car in reverse and pushed the starter button to slowly get the car out of the stream.
Thanking the man for the help we didn't need, we set off to have a good weekend of fishing. It was a nice weekend.
It was monsoon season and the lightning and thunder rumbled and bellowed in all it's magnificence with flashes of lightning creating a contrast of shadows and light. It was loud to a four-year-old boy and it was frightening. I saw monsters everywhere. I begin to cry. My father tried to calm me but the noise and images created by the storm frightened me. Ii wanted my mommy and said so bluntly.
Finally, my father gave up. All the way home, he called me a cry baby. I didn't care. I was going home to the comfort of my mother. That was the other term he used, mommies boy!
We didn't attempt another camping trip until I was in Junior high school in the eighth grade. This trip would take us up Lightner Creek. Fishing, second to baseball, was one of my favorite things to do. I was excited about this trip.
My father seemed in good spirits. He had recently purchased a 1932 model A Ford with a rumble seat. He had been tinkering with it for weeks and was ready for the old car to get us to a desired spot to camp and fish. This was also the car I learned to drive, with lessons from my father. He was a patient, good teacher unlike other times when his patients waned.
 |
| 1932 Model A Ford |
Once loaded with our gear we were off with high spirits and anticipation of a good time. The weather was absolutely perfect. It was late spring and the runoff of the snowpack was still high but running clear in all the streams.
With my father at the helm, the little model A Ford moved effortlessly over the dirt road. Where there were potholes, my father maneuvered around them. Some of the potholes were too big to go around so we had to go over them. Fortunately, the little Ford had high clearance and we made it without much trouble.
We drove four or five miles before stopping at a part of the creek that might prove challenging to the old Ford. The water was running high, but clear. My father and I exchanged glances, then he turned to the task of crossing the creek. Putting the Ford in low gear, he slowly began his assault on the crossing.
I watched out my side of the car has the water flowing from my father's side circled around the car. Cautiously, father inched the Ford closer to the other side. I began to notice a tiny stream of water running across the floor of the Ford. As father continued to proceed, the stream of water running through the car increased in size and force.
Soon the water had overtaken the floorboard on father's side and made it's escape over the floorboard on my side. Following the sputtering engine's death moan and silence, the Ford had come to a complete stop. Like the rocks that called their homes in the stream, we became another community, captured by the running water.
Father tried over and over again to start the old car without success. He stopped trying and sat there contemplating his next move. We tried to push and pull the car without success. It refused to move forward or backward. But, it did move up and down like a teeter totter giving us some hope for success.
Exhausted, my father decided on his next move. I would be an important part of his plan. I was happy to do my part.
 |
| the creek crossing |
Behind us we had passed a ranch house. It had the usual ranch machinery but no farm, only a ranch house and a small barn with two sheds. It did, however, have a tractor that could pull us out. My job was to go back and bring help. That meant I had to go the distance of 11/2 to 2 miles. Father would stay with his car.
The sun was setting low and the afternoon shadows begin to lengthen. Dusk would follow and the long shadows would slowly disappear. I had to hurry if I were to bring back help before dark. Running was not my favorite thing to do. Now I was running for a purpose. Each step I took I could hear my heart beat in rhythm. I settled into a comfortable stride. I was all alone and watched each turn in the road rise up before me. I kept my focus on running straight ahead.
I stopped for a moment to sip water from a canteen. Looking around, the shadows had lengthen considerably and things didn't appear as they had before. Had I already passed the ranch as I ran concentrating only on my rhythm and heartbeat?
As I reached the top of the next hill, I saw the ranch a short distance away. Breathing hard I crossed over the fence and sprinted to the front door of the ranch. I knocked on the door but no one answered. I ran to the barn but no one was there. Turning back to the ranch house I would try the front door again. It would be dark before I got back to my father even if I could get help. Finally a man opened the front door. My face was flushed and I was exhausted. Speaking in between gasp for air, I tried to explain my presents but was silence as both of us turned to the road and a 32 Ford model A moved toward us. Father was grinning as he pulled up in front of us.
First, he said we would set up camp on this side of the stream. Then, in an answer to both the man and me he explained how he got the car out of the stream.
Older cars have a starter button on the floorboard of the car by the pedals. To start the car one must press down the clutch pedal and at the same time push the starter button. When the car starts, put it in gear and let out the clutch. When the car is in gear and the starter button is depressed without the clutch, the car will move forward a little each time you press the starter button. Father had put the old car in reverse and pushed the starter button to slowly get the car out of the stream.
Thanking the man for the help we didn't need, we set off to have a good weekend of fishing. It was a nice weekend.
No comments:
Post a Comment