Now, in my ongoing effort to be fair, that last is not meant as a slight upon the City of Pawtucket; my guess is that chickens in general—not just Rhode Island Reds—are seldom discussed by Rhode Island residents except at outdoor barbeques.  It may be fair, though, to suggest that there are not many people in Pawtucket who might guess that “Stanberry” is a town and not something plucked from a bush for use in a pie.  The one Pawtuckian likely to know this would be a local pump jockey, one of the old school types who, with hopeful eyes, pores over roadmaps of far away places until a signal bell alerts him to an arrival at the farthermost gas pump.

            Small town America still boasts a few “filling” stations, but they wear the silence of a haunted house.  They lack the clatter of Model-A Fords sputtering up to glass-topped pumps and the hurried shouts of, “Fill ‘er up—regular.”

            An old-time pump jockey would leap into action, even as he mused about a town seen on a map of New Mexico.  “Tay-ohs?”  He’d shake his head and plan, “Someday, I’ll head south on US 169, hit Route 66, and go west ‘til I hear a Tay-ocian pronounce it.”

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ã2008 B.K. Showalter August

            On many occasions when commuting from Houston to St. Joe (hmm, sounds like a line from a song) in the late fifties, I wished for a through route that would allow me to make use of all the horses under the hood of my V-8 Ford.  The car got decent mileage, but gas was cheap, so I didn’t worry about that anyway.  Unfortunately, all those drives were on two-lane highways because at the time Interstates 29, 35, and 45 were little more than rumors traded between long-haul truckers.

            The Department of Defense--Ike was still president, so perhaps it was still the “War” Department—had dictated many of the standards for our Interstate highways by then, but only a few short legs of those particular routes existed in 1958, most of those on the outskirts of the largest cities.

            Apparently what convinced Eisenhower to sell the Interstate concept to Congress and taxpayers was his exposure to German autobahns following WW II.  His time in office ended before many of the super highways were useable because Interstates took time to build.  Concrete roadbeds had to be wide enough to allow rapid evacuation from areas hit by a nuclear bomb.  And, if rumor had it right, Interstates were also designed to allow the cross-country transport of an IBM.

            Costs skyrocketed (no pun intended) because overpasses had to accommodate the width and height of the missiles the military might be forced into shuttling around the US if the Cold War ever turned hot.  Not surprisingly, that’s when the highway department decided to make the concrete roadways (“Holy pothole, Batman”) only seven inches thick rather than match the German standard of twenty-plus inches. 

            Differences existed in areas besides construction, too.  Germany’s autobahns were regulated on a Federal level.  In this country, the Feds still rule on finance, dimensions and maintenance, but states control the speeds in their territories.  Interestingly, few states west of the Mississippi posted speed limits before Interstates appeared.  When I studied for my driving test in the early fifties, the rulebook stated that a driver “should proceed at a safe and sane speed.”  Guess how teenagers translated that!

            Car companies were quick to recognize the value of Interstates to profit margins.  Automobiles grew in size faster than grain-fed steers.  And, as they became longer, wider, and heavier, Detroit’s engineers realized the new machines had room for more of everything.  The mid-fifties saw the horsepower war between Ford and Chevrolet grow; paint and bright-work layered every make.  The chrome on a ’58 Oldsmobile reflected more light than a diamond bedecked Liz Taylor trolling for a new hubby.  Chrysler, meanwhile, generated fins faster than a school of fertile sharks.  And, headlights!  Car companies finally decided four were enough, but still cannot agree on where to put them.

            Even as US drivers began to ply the new Interstates, a well-constructed, air-cooled bug from Germany hit the US market.  AMC and Studebaker were VW’s only competitors until the Big Three awakened.  “Econo-car” sales boomed in the early ‘60’s.  Power upgrades naturally followed and Falcons, Novas, and Valiants led us willingly into the pony-car wars.  As Mustangs and Camaros did battle with GTOs and Chargers, they all became larger as did VW’s offerings over the years.  “The better to cruise the Interstates, my dear,” said Mr. America to Mrs. A.  “Well then, fill’er up, Honey,” she said, and he did.  And, we did; and everybody else did.  And, now ..?

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ã2008 B.K. Showalter July

                        The 1955 Ford sedan parked in my garage will have seen sixty years of heavy use in approximately two more years.  The car serves as a reminder that time leaves its mark on men as well as machines.  A bit over a half-century ago, when people encountered a sixty-plus-year-old man, they doubted he’d be around to hear next Sunday’s sermon.  The subject of their conjecture probably felt the same.  Since I sailed past the poet’s magical “three score and ten” some time ago, that’s a presumption I’m allowed to make.

            A look in the mirror supports that reasoning; most noticeable is the ring of white that borders my thinning hair.  I once thought white sideburns accented the graying remainder, making me appear trim and distinguished like whitewall tires add class to a vintage automobile.  I was wrong.  White sideburns cannot help a face that has the weary look of a dog with a lifetime of rabbit chasing under its collar. 

            That’s not a complaint.  A man my age, assuming he has “chased” his fair share of rabbits, should look a bit worn.  Of course, one must remember men are similar to cars in that extreme use affects the aging process more than birthday numbers.

            Einstein failed to grasp this truth as he developed his theories.  His approach to relativity overlooked this important point: a man’s vehicular choices over the years may reveal more than is immediately apparent in his preference for certain makes and models.  (I am sure that most of you realize that it was necessary for me to add “makes” to the preceding sentence—otherwise, the mention of male preferences for “certain models” could be misinterpreted by one of those aforementioned rabbit chasers.)  Car choices made by a young man can be explained by a number of things, but one of the Four “P’s” usually rules.  Pennies come first on the list because money plays a major role in such decisions.  Next--even if money is an issue--appeal to the opposite sex comes into play, making the second item on the list Pheromones.  Male or female, a person’s automobile can send signals that overwhelm the most powerful of haute couture perfumes.

            Performance is the third factor that controls a car selection and, in the case of “gear-head” kids, that too often appears first on their list.  Parents, as usual, rank last.  True, some kids buy their first car after they escape parental domination, but that is difficult these days since the cost of insurance on a vehicle owned and operated by a young driver costs almost as much as a tank of gas.

            In the Fifties, a car was easier to insure, but tougher to finance.  I learned these things in 1958 when I faced up to the realization that my Pennies were too few to permit the purchase of the new Ford with its big V-8 that occupied the dealership’s showroom. Sticker shock torpedoed Performance as, wisely, I walked away from years of debt.

            I ended up buying a low-mileage tan (buckskin in Ford-speak) and white ’55 Customline.  I lived 900 miles distant from my Parents in those days, so their input was nonexistent.  The final item, Pheromones, affected me more than the young ladies I knew at the time.  I thought that shined-up, twin-piped, three-year-old Ford made me look pretty darned sexy.  Nowadays, since I mostly “hang out” with AARP types, the old iron in my garage is unlikely to trigger anybody’s pheromones.  Still, when I get behind the wheel and head out on tour, that mid-fifties Ford makes me feel young again--young enough to make it through at least another year’s worth of Sundays. 

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ã2008 B.K. Showalter June

            “Lay of the land” is an expression regarding a perception of those surroundings or circumstances that may have an affect upon one’s future.

            For a literal example of the first case, take the geography—the lay of the land in Southern Iowa and Northern Missouri where once Levis were bibbed and bandannas outsold Kleenex.   Only a few small bits of those areas match the images held by many US citizens.  Some folks, especially those in the coastal states, once believed that every square inch of Iowa was flatter than a blown tire; Missouri was a sea of straw-hatted Huck Finns smoking corncob pipes and yanking catfish from Mark Twain’s rivers.  Those who happened through the southern portion of the state probably went home certain that Missouri was a land of rocking-chair grannies.  Such notions were and are farther from the truth than a teenager explaining the dented fender on his dad’s Buick.  In fact, the rolling hills, twisting streams, and narrow byways along the IA/MO border are a composite of bucolic purity laid out in 640 acre, mile square “sections.”

            In the second case, a teenaged lothario from this region tends to be more intent upon the curves of his sweetie than those of the graveled roads leading to her house.  Naturally, he drives twenty mph faster than safe and sane, the two words least likely to surface in the sex-clogged brain of a teenaged boy.  (Female teens may have been just as dysfunctional but, even after fathering three daughters and accruing nuggets of knowledge over the years, I claim no comprehension of feminine thought processes.)

            Speeding vehicles on country roads send limestone dust rising high, white clouds of grit that settle upon rural greenery like talcum during a diaper change.  After midnight, at the least hint of a breeze, roadside bushes flutter like sheeted ghosts furthering the illusions that drivers encounter on dark nights.  However, it is disillusion that leads teens, males in particular, into errors of judgment on the road and elsewhere.

            In the early ‘50’s, a typical guy lacked the mental capacity needed to keep up with his expanding interests—tall girls, short girls, and all those in between.  It was perfectly natural that he expected some cuddling from his date after investing three dollars in an evening out in Small Town, USA.  First, there was her movie ticket; next was the popcorn purchase.  Later, after the black and white double-feature ended, she had French fries and a chocolate shake at the diner.

            The theater was the first place he didn’t get kissed.  Worse, after two hours with an arm over the back of her seat, his shoulder ached and his neck was kinked.  The second place he didn’t get kissed was under the pines up by the old B. P. O. E. cemetery.  He had parked the Chevy, moistened his lips, and eased an arm around her shoulders.

            “That moon’s beautiful, ain’t it?” 

            She leans away from his arm. “My dad’s probably wonderin’ where I am.” 

            At this point, the boy realizes the evening does not favor his romantic notions, and he starts the slow (where there is life, there is hope) drive toward the girl’s home.  It’s nearly midnight when they reach her front door, and there she hesitates just enough--noses collide as his lips skid across hers.  Finally!  His hopes are realized but, unless he hits a deer en route home, the Bugs Bunny cartoon at the Bijou will be remembered as the high point of this particular evening.  Still—there was the kiss!  He feels a glow of satisfaction as he reviews the evening.  The lay of the land seems to hold real promise.

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ã2008 B.K. Showalter May

            I spent many nights at Charlie’s place during our sophomore year in high school.  Sleepovers there held more potential excitement than a Saturday night movie at our local theater.  His house at the very edge of town was a trove of oddball personalities, a kind of Alice’s Wonderland deck of cards with extra jokers.  Still, I liked it; Darla, his mom, gave us lots of space, served dessert with every meal, and seldom made us do chores.

            Charlie’s older sister, Sue Lynne, represented the downside of life there.  In her eyes, we appeared to be morons even before she overheard us planning a joyride in the ’35 Plymouth sedan stored in the shed out behind the house.  The car belonged to Charlie’s grandfather, Hatch.  Although Sue Lynne doubted our ability to drive it away or even start it without being caught, she nonetheless kept quiet, content for us to risk the old man’s ire on the off chance we’d succeed.  In that case, she would reap the benefits of its use or, at the very least, blackmail us for cash.

            Grandpa Hatch, and Charlie’s great-uncle, Alfie, usually retreated to their quarters before we got home from school.  That suited me.  They made me nervous, old Hatch in particular.  I was a stranger, and a stranger might be a revenuer readying to jail him for his basement winemaking or, worse, a cop plotting to take his car.  Unknown to me, after one of Hatch’s Sunday drives almost turned into a demolition derby, the town marshal had ordered him to park the Plymouth and “leave it parked!”

            Charlie’s Uncle Alfie suffered a kind of dementia.  He never spoke to anybody but the face that “lived” in a hallway mirror located just a step or two down the hall past Charlie’s room.  Apparently, he could see in the dark, for sometimes, late at night I’d hear Alfie haranguing his reflection.  Fortunately, the old man’s ramblings seldom lasted more than the fifteen minutes it took for me to go back to sleep.

            Charlie never did stay at my place--turnabout was the usual policy, but he probably thought that if I was willing to overnight in his house, mine must be worse.  For sure Charlie’s was not a Father Knows Best household; in fact, his dad was gone, maybe even dead, but I never dared ask.  His mom dated a long-haul truck driver who took her dancing in a bug-spattered Peterbuilt.  Sue Lynne practically lived in the home’s only bathroom—not a bad thing considering how she looked with green goop plastered on her face and wearing the stench of a Toni home permanent.  Add in Hatch and Alfie and—well, Charlie’s was life in a peepshow tent at the county carnival. 

            By year’s end, he and I were spending a lot of time out in the little barn where the Plymouth was collecting dust, bird droppings, and cat tracks.  The battery had gone dead but, in that era, rural folk still remembered how to hand crank an engine.  We were both exhausted before the fuel pump finally pushed gas enough into the carburetor and the car’s flathead six finally began to fire on all cylinders.  After that, we ran the motor daily, keeping the battery charged--until the gas tank ran dry.  In between those heady moments when we took turns driving two feet forward and two feet in reverse, Charlie and I walked the fences around the twenty acre pasture behind the barn seeking a route off the property that did not require us to drive past the house.

ã2008 B.K. Showalter April

            There are those who might wonder what a boy learns about girls and cars from his use of a bike or a yoyo.  “Look, no hands, Ma,” is not the best way to survive in a high-speed automobile.  Nor is “walking the dog” with a yoyo likely to upgrade a lad’s ranking by the fairer sex.  On the plus side, a bike rider may gain improved spatial cognition for keeping a car in the proper lane while a yoyo might provide the coordination needed to operate the mechanical devices one sometimes encounters on clothing.

            Some of my readers are saying, “Yeah, but,” as they question the validity of my arguments that either of these skills might add anything to a boy’s social capabilities when in the company of a female.  Right up front, I’ll say, “Not much,” and add that his mother is a boy’s best bet when it comes to learning how to behave around girls.  Still, when a boy starts dating, hormones tend to outweigh parental input, largely because that quantum leap from bicycles and yoyos to girls and cars comes to a boy in a single instant of fire and flame like lightning striking an oak.

            A number of my friends commented upon the failures they experienced in their first romantic endeavors and, in almost every case the guru they relied on for advice worked at a local full-serve gas station.  Now, I’m not one to sell pump jockeys short when it comes to guidance in matters involving the opposite sex.  Early on I figured out that the guys who manned the gas pumps, especially those on the late shifts, had a greater supply of sex magazines than the average newsstand.  Ergo!  These chaps surely knew what was what—and how---and, probably, who.  However, it soon became clear that their primary interest was cars--motors and speed, not girls.  They talked knowingly and glowingly of dirt track racing and drag strips but never commented on the racy strippers pictured in the magazines they had stashed behind cartons of thirty-weight oil and anti-freeze. 

            In the end, access to those research materials did little to improve my knowledge or skills with the females that occupied my attention.  My study of those magazines was a bit like looking at a Goodyear blimp while airing up balloons for a kid’s birthday party.  Maybe that’s why the guys down at the local Texaco said so little about those airbrushed beauties found in Playboy.  Greasy reality trumped Hefner’s fictions.

            As to the truths exhibited by teenage girls in the ‘50’s, what you saw was not necessarily what you got.  Starting in 1951, clothing for girls began to accentuate the best of Mother Nature’s gifts.  Seamless stockings and strapless dresses with narrow waists accentuated by bulky crinolines gave females the shape that would make the ‘50’s memorable for boys of that era.

            Magazines for girls in those years served up the newest clothing styles; Modern Romances offered “the mostest with the firstest” in a take off on a WW II line.  By 1953, the only thing with more styling changes than automobiles was women’s wear.  Car grills and sweater girls pretty well occupied the attention of US males.

            As ad agencies shifted into overdrive, the girls got “Riding Hood Red” from Max Factor “to bring the wolves out.”  Gals were not immune to colorful hardware either; they adored the tri-colored Dodges that appeared in ’55, a line that included pink-trimmed “La Femme” hardtops equipped with matching parasols.

            Sexy pink girls! Sexy pink cars!  Sixteen-years-old in 1954, I parked my bike and hung up my yoyo; it was time to see what my toys had taught me.

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ã2008 B.K. Showalter March

            Many of my born-in-the-USA ancestors lie in a hilltop cemetery two miles from the nearest paved highway.  They rest in peace beneath a blanket of bluegrass behind the vine-laden iron fence that surrounds that lea.  A few steps away there is a small church in which all the dead and some of the living sleep through always overlong funerals.

            Access to this hallowed area is a winding, narrow lane that dead-ends at the cemetery gate.  Every other year or so, the road receives a light scatter of gravel to firm up the spongy spots, but much like plastic surgery on an oldster’s sags and bags, that serves only as short-term camouflage.

            Seldom is enough gravel applied to fill shallow potholes, let alone the deep ones.  Those remain, spaced out along the road like traps for unwary tigers.  In the late ‘40’s, the depth in some of those pits was such that, in wet weather, Dad’s 1941 Ford Tudor wallowed through them like an LST inbound to Omaha Beach.  On a number of those occasions he grumbled that if people would forego the use of tombstones, the potholes could be put to good use.  That bit of imagery seeded my eight-year-old mind with a week’s worth of nightmares even before Eddie, my older brother, began adding horror film details to Dad’s word picture.

            Those nightmares faded as time passed, but I can still visualize the grand assortment of vehicles parked around the churchyard during one funeral.  It was not uncommon to find a big bunch of cars parked in a public place, but in this instance a small boy could nose around them without a parent noticing.  As a rule, a kid my age did not so much as touch someone else’s vehicle but here it was possible for me to stroll between various machines, do a quick one foot up onto a running-board, and head-duck through an open window for a quick gander at the car’s dash area.

            Keep in mind that instruments and controls for autos of the thirties and forties were designed in a time when Art Deco was the height of fashion.  Steering wheels, radio grilles, and switch knobs were as much ornamental as they were functional.  Moreover, unlike today’s jellybean cars stamped from the same mold, chrome trimmings carried that Art Deco motif into the designs visible on car exteriors.  I could identify the make of a car from a mile away, but I wanted a close-up look at those fancier car cockpits where, when a driver toggled, switched, shifted, pushed, pulled, or clicked, dials registered, needles waved, and indicators flickered.  The driver of a ’38 Cadillac had almost as many controls to monitor as the captain aboard a DC-3.

            Now, after another check to be sure no one was looking, I hopped up for a peek into a 1940 Ford pickup.  Next to the truck was a ’36 Chevy similar to my grandfather’s, but I skipped it because just ahead of the Chevy was a black, hearse-sized Buick sedan.  No doubt it belonged to some city-folk for it lacked the crusted dirt so common to vehicles from my rural surroundings.  Sunlight reflected from its shiny paint as I eased my upper body through the window and grabbed the steering wheel for support.

                “Who the …?  Hey!  Kid, get outta here!”   Two heads popped into view from beneath the blanket spread across the back seat; one had long hair, the other short.  With my brain concentrating on a speedy departure, I failed to register anything else.  Only later did I wonder at the couple’s stupidity.  Only idiots would choose an un-shaded black car for a nap and certainly they needed no blankets on such a hot day. 

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ã2008 B.K. Showalter February

When I was kid in the ‘40’s and ‘50’s adults wore hats.  Cars then had room for a guy’s fedora or Panama, not to mention the elegant chapeaus females fancied.  However, as time progressed, it seemed as if each automotive style change included a lower roof-line.  Hats for both sexes began to shrink and, by 1960, many folks considered headgear passé except for occasions such as funerals and weddings.  It is quite probable that Detroit was responsible for ending daily hat use.

I noticed this only because the change of seasons at our house was less a matter of leaf color than of hats.  When selling real estate, Dad fancied “ Panama” straws during warm weather, “snap-brimmed” fedoras when it was cold.  At home in summer, he wore a battered straw no longer suitable for business; his winter choice was a billed cap.

He gave close consideration to such things as door clearances and roof heights of the Fords and Chevrolets he preferred, always mindful of the headgear worn on his business outings.  Mom treated my father’s hats with a prideful care that neared reverence for he did not otherwise indulge himself in pricey clothing.  Her own hat (singular) had been designed by someone who apparently admired the helmet used by the US Army in World War I.  Navy blue, equipped with a veil, it was apparently indestructible and, after a decade of use, still looked fresh out of the box.

Of course, as any good cowboy or real estate broker knows, a quality hat elevates one’s rank in the herd, an Alpha male attitude that makes guy headgear so expensive.  Dad’s fedoras would last two years, but his straws were good for only one.  Hats had to look nice and clean as in those days men tipped their hats to ladies and often saluted men that same way.  Of course, “showing” rural property to prospective buyers as my father did almost daily was hard on his clothing, hats in particular.  However, one hat tragedy had nothing to do with ladies, manners, or sales.

On a bright summer day following lunch, Dad invited me to ride into town with him.  As he donned his new Panama, I yelped “yes,” anticipating a stop for ice cream.     When a ten minute stop at the bank left the inside of the car hotter than a Bessemer furnace, Dad drove past the drugstore without so much as a glance.  We were almost home when he spotted several neighbors “canoodling” for catfish in the Platte River near our bridge crossing.  Heat was reason enough to join the fun, but Dad was also quite fond of fried catfish.  He halted the car and in two minutes we had stripped and jumped into the water. 

Over the next two hours we splashed around with the other twenty or more naked men and boys, all of us grabbing fish hemmed in between the nets stretched from bank to bank across the stream.  When the “fish corral” was empty, we shared out the catch that filled two burlap sacks with carp and “channel-cat.”  That’s when everyone realized the breeze had strengthened and that a line of thunderheads was moving in fast.

Dad and I joined the flight of nude males.  Burdened with flopping fish, we looked like wingless pelicans in our mad race to the cars.  A few raindrops spattered the Ford as we tugged on our clothes and shoes.  That’s when I noticed Dad peering beneath the car.

“Son, look around over there for my hat.”

We never found it, of course.  His hat, probably lifted high by the gusting wind, was at least a mile away and possibly already back in Panama.

A VENT WINDOW VIEW

ã2008 B.K. Showalter January

            A two-lane blacktop connected the eastern part of our county to the western half.  Where that highway passed through small towns it was, inevitably, signed as “

            The “bus” that delivered me to Mrs. Rainwater’s first-grade classroom was a blue 1941 Chevrolet pickup with a barn-red, wooden cubicle bolted to the bed.  The box contained two benches that accommodated 12 small-sized students.  A single six inch by twelve inch window provided light, but not enough to read by.  In winter, the bus was an icebox and, while I was happy to get away from the farm, the frigid ride to school meant my first hour in class was a misery of thawing toes and dripping nose.

            Unsupervised time during recesses was the norm in 1943.   Mrs. Rainwater did require that we return to her classroom before the final bell.  That promise was easier made than honored because the school stood just across the street from a one-block square city park.  Businesses formed a “U” on the far side of the streets around the park’s other three sides; the street on the south was the state highway that wore “Main Street” signs over the four or five blocks where it passed through town.

            Traffic on Main was twice that on any other street in town.  Naturally, that made the south end of the park our favorite play place.  And, from the stage railings of a wedding-cake bandstand, one could watch trains whistle by on the C&GW tracks that marked the town’s eastern limits.  Trains at mid-day were usually freights that we saluted with a wave, although we were too far away for the train crews to notice. 

            An occasional truck rumbled through town on Main, all of them smaller than the ubiquitous, bright-colored 18-wheelers that fill today’s highways.  A lot of them were C.O.E.s because space limitations on town streets made those “stub-nosed” cab-overs popular.  And, when someone mentioned a “van,” Wonder Bread trucks came to mind.

            Truck lines used straight-bed Diamond-T or International rigs but, in our rural area, people used the same open trucks utilized for moving cows, hogs, and grain to market.  Some of those were rated “two-tonners,” but few, if any, had double axles.  Even the cross-country Trailways and Greyhound buses that plied the highway through our town rumbled along on single axles.  Buses were a common sight on secondary highways during WW II, as uniformed men and women hurried home for a few days of leave between duty stations.  For those of us kids who could read, the destination signs on bus fronts never failed to arouse wonder and envy; Denver, Little Rock, Kansas City, Des Moines—faraway  places with far-sounding names!  Travelers going beyond those points took a train, service even our small town had in 1943.

            Travel, whether by car, bus, or train, was a mainstay topic among us kids those days, second only to the war.  Every one of us had some connection to that through stamp sales, war bonds, and paper drives.  Newsreels about the battles overseas, book-ended the Saturday night knockdown-dragouts fought by Gene or Hopalong in the Land of Make-Believe.  None of us first-graders knew where Hollywood was or what it was about, but we knew it was a magic place.  Moreover, I knew the route to Hollywood started with that state highway.  In the early days of that New Year, that two-lane aorta to the high point of planet earth was whispering, “GO!”  Forty years later I went, only to learn that Hollywood wasn’t as exciting as recess in that city park across from the schoolhouse.

A VENT WINDOW VIEW

ã2007 B.K. Showalter December

Back in an ancient time, well before the occasion became commercial and politically complicated, Christmas crowned the year.  I’m still an aficionado of the Holiday Season largely because of the music, a carryover from the years when my family sang old-time carols around the parlor piano.  A new Christmas song appeared annually—I Saw Mama Kissing Santa Claus and Gene Autry’s Rudolph may not qualify as “carols,” but we kids belted them with off-key enthusiasm.

Nowadays, by the time parents (AKA Santa’s helpers) decide it’s time to make the shift from toys such as Chatty-Cathy and Roy Rogers cap-guns,” their once eager stocking-hangers have morphed into teenaged acne-farms.  Some of these kids are so eager to escape parental control they take frying-pan-into-the-fire leaps that require years of therapy or jail time to correct.  The fortunate ones luck into a job or college.

I was lucky.  My emancipation from the farm occurred in May of 1955, two weeks after my high school graduation and the finish of the “senior class trip.”  Each year, grads from my high school toured the Ozarks by bus.  Money earned and saved from school sponsored functions known as “workdays” during the previous four years financed a week-long trip which, as it turned out, was my final contact with classmates for months—in some cases, years.  Kids then never used telephones, especially those of us on “party-lines,” a system for gossip that could spread rumors faster than a Hearst newspaper.

Stunned when Dad said, “Let’s get you enrolled in college,” I choked back a loud “Hallelujah” and packed.  That was my final day as a farmer.  At NW State, I signed up for every job I could get, especially those available on campus during holiday breaks, and did not return to the farm until December. Then it was only because the campus was closing until January.  Still, Christmas with family seemed like a good idea.

I arrived home on the 23^rd.   It Mom’s birthday, but from the way she treated me, it might as well have been mine.  That day went much too quickly, but the next, Christmas Eve, dragged on forever.  Only the excitement evident in my younger siblings made it bearable.  And, then came Christmas.  With several of the kids still faking a belief in Santa, it was fun, at least until three or four o’clock in the afternoon.

Then, I guess my boredom showed, because Dad let me have his ‘55 Chevy for the evening, the same azure and white “210” I’d used in high school.  With high hopes I set out following supper, but the loneliness I’d felt at home soon returned.  Not one of my pals was home.  I’d heard that some had joined the Navy, but now I learned the rest had enlisted in the Air Force.  Unwilling to give up, I switched genders and found class valedictorian Alicia at her parent’s home and eager for an outing.

Midwestern activities on a Christmas night are typically quiet at home occasions, unless there is a need for an ambulance or a doctor but, by pure chance, we drove into a nearby town and found a theater featuring Clark Gable, Ava Gardner and Grace Kelly in Mogambo.  It did not matter that it was a year old film unsuited to the season.  It gave us a catch-up interlude for a look back at the high school years we had shared.

Later I kissed Alicia goodnight on her doorstep and headed home with a smile on my face; neither of us suspected that 48 more Christmas nights would pass before we’d have an opportunity to reminisce about the one we shared with Clark, Ava, and Grace.

A VENT WINDOW VIEW

ã2007 B.K. Showalter November

A few Midwestern towns can still claim ownership to Bing Crosby’s Dear Hearts and Gentle People, key to what made them so pleasant in 1949 when his song topped the charts.  County seats are the most impressive burgs of the lot, largely because of the courthouses.  Such an edifice rules a downtown like a regal eagle amid a flock of Plymouth Rocks.

 The courthouse square once was a thriving place on Saturdays.  Pedestrians wandered from store to store, eyeing newfangled wonders that sometimes affected their good sense.  Cash, however, was still in short supply following the war which meant a Saturday spent in a real downtown was often all one could afford for entertainment.

In “my” town, an A & P shared most of a block with Montgomery Wards; J.C. Penny’s sat beside a Farmers State Bank.  Watson’s Drug rubbed shoulders with an International Harvester dealership.  Sometimes, in front of those two businesses, aromas from the soda fountain crisscrossed with the smell of new rubber and fresh paint that emanated from a new Farmall tractor visible on the showroom floor.  I-H dealers also carried refrigerators and other appliances, so housewives were often seen inside next to the big, red machine.

There were a number of rollercoaster “humps” in the town’s red-brick streets. One scarcely noticed them when circling the square, but beyond that congested area when speeds reached thirty mph, the bias-ply retreads on Dad’s Ford thrummed like a bass viol.  Sometimes, the sound seemed to tie in with the ragtime beat coming from the car’s loose front bumper, especially when a broken hanger on the exhaust pipe chimed in with a two-note squeak on the bigger bumps.   

Maples and elms lined the streets, silent sentinels that guarded the residents from an excess of summer sunlight.  Toward evening, the quiet ended as regiments of cicadas kicked up their heels and commenced a rhythmic serenade that lasted until the night air cooled their ardor.

The leaders of 2007’s tour of Iowa, Nebraska, and Kansas sprinkled in a number of rural county seat towns for our viewing pleasure.  There was minimal activity around most of the courthouses as we circled various downtown squares with one exception.  In Mindin, NE, a glance up at the ornate building’s highest point offered a surprise.  Four stories up, the lower half of a man’s body dangled from a window in the cupola.  Needless to say, the alarm bells in my brain jingled an alert.

The Ford leaned right like a drunken camel as I cranked in a hard left turn and whipped it into a U-turn.  Now, keep in mind that a “U-ey” at low speed in a car with no power steering is not an easy task but, in this case, the adrenaline had already kicked in a dose of super-powered strength.  As it turned out, workmen were doing maintenance on the cupola or, in the opinion of one CHVA’er, stringing Christmas lights.  Whatever, it was not some guy planning a spectacular end to protest NU’s lousy football team.  Still, all things considered, Mindin offered more than the expected museums.  The courthouse there rivaled the one in Clarinda, Iowa, my birthplace where, except for the Glenn Miller museum, not much has changed since the day of my delivery.  Bing’s Dear Hearts and Gentle People are still there, but on Saturdays they now dine at a McDonalds out on Highway 2.

A VENT WINDOW VIEW

ã2007 B.K. Showalter October

The ability to comprehend and compare measurements by sight is a skill that does not get proper recognition.  I think it is amazing that most of us can look at an opening such as a door and know at a glance that it will accommodate the height and width of our body despite yesterday’s pig-out at the local donut shop.

Those close-up eyeball measurements in which the brain apparently compares openings against the body’s dimensions seem simple enough, but beyond those “shuffle through the doorway” situations, estimating size and distance becomes more complicated.  Scrape marks on the sides of garage doorways and the right-front fenders of too many sedans are proof enough that when reckoning a passage for something larger than personal dimensions, most folks should grab a measuring tape.

Fore-shortening, a technique used by landscape artists to illustrate depth in their sketches, shows the remarkable ability of a human brain to measure distance by sight.  This becomes more apparent when the operator of an automobile adapts course and speed to the constantly changing views of the road ahead.  Somehow, as his (or her) brain combines topographical features, lighting and other conditions affecting visibility, and the ever changing sight angles from the driver’s seat, the wheel-person not only keeps his vehicle in the proper lane, but regulates its speed.

At this point one must salute the grand machines we humans are.  Not only can we steer a vehicle through crowded streets at high-speeds, we can at the same time talk on the telephone, listen to a backseat driver, and scan the cute cabooses strolling nearby sidewalks.  And, somehow, except for the strolling cabooses, we seldom apply any conscious thought to these things.

Our lack of attention to the activities surrounding us while we’re on the road points out just how dangerous “grand machines” are, especially those who are twenty-plus years older than the vehicles they drive.  It seems the younger the automobile, the more “stuff” one must attend to just to get it moving.  With seatbelts, bifocals, automatic door locks, arthritis, automatic temperature controls, backup warning systems, and automatic garage door openers, one really is not connected to the car and the road until one is a couple blocks from home.

So, it may be that we are safer drivers in our vintage machines than we are in a more recent offering from Detroit (or wherever) simply because there are fewer controls to remember.  Of course I know that newer cars are much safer to be in should an accident happen; airbags alone can mean surviving a wreck and the only time my ’55 Ford has an airbag is when one of my uncles is aboard.  “Windbag” is a better description in that particular case. 

The point here is that as we age, we need more time before we can slip into that automatic mode that allows us to process the information streams arriving from eyes and ears.  We also need to process and consider experiences learned during previous outings.

That means you should take a second look at the width of that gate you’re planning to enter so, guys forget that cute caboose in the short skirt and you gals ignore the guy biking along in those skin-tight pants over in the left lane.

Keep your eyes on the road ahead or the next thing you “foreshorten” may be the vintage iron that uses up so much of that space in your garage.

A VENT WINDOW VIEW