So go the musings of firing, re-firing, near missing and finally connecting synapse when occupied with nostalgic activities. What struck me most profoundly about these images was the emotional weight they carried when coupled with their owners, and how the modes of transportation were a way of chronologically organizing my recollections.
For my mother, more than any other person I've known in my life, the car was a symbol of power. Mobility was essential to her in ways that I will probably never understand. Her quest for happiness and a better life, combined with my father's willingness to do whatever she asked of him, put our little family of five on the road many times. More often than not the journey was a full fledged move. The trips in between the moves were to visit various family members all over Texas with very few exceptions.
Before I graduated from high school, we lived in Ranger, Dallas, Brownfield, Borger, Brownwood, Waxahachie, San Antonio, Borger (again), Big Spring, Weslaco and Borger (once more). I've never been able to figure out the allure of Borger, and if you ever saw it you would wonder too. However, you can believe that I was no stranger to the art of passing time on the road counting the freight cars on long trains, telephone poles and oncoming cars with one headlight, reading long strings of Burma Shave signs, playing 'I Spy ' with my siblings and fighting for territory in a crowded back seat.
All of this was endured with two chain smoking parents, ever changing Texas weather and no air conditioning. Times being what they were, my mothers first requirement when packing for a trip was an iced down six-pack and a carton of Pall Malls. My Dad made sure the fishing poles and his bait and tackle box were somewhere in the mix. Seat belts were not a part of our health and safety plan. My calculation, considering the size of Texas is that we laid about a million miles of rubber on the state roads between 1947 and 1965.
There were three cars that stand out in my childhood experiences. One was the 1939 Chrysler (Plymouth?) that occupied my grandparents garage in Ranger, the second was my parents old visored grey '51 Chevy and the other was my Aunt Olive's Buick, I think a '55 or '56; a two toned affair with big vent holes along the side and a monster V8 engine. I loved my Aunt dearly and she, like my mother was very fond of packing up her children and her belongings in that car and driving like the wind to her current fantasy. Somehow the car is indelibly intertwined with her in my memory.
My folks traded in a 40's vintage car for the Chevy when I was about 9; that meant that the car was already 7 years old. By the time we got rid of it and bought a used '55 Chevy, I was 13 and the car was becoming a real embarrassment to me. The two grey monsters in my life that year were that Chevy and a grey hand-me-down coat that one of my classmates asked about in the following manner: "Is that real rat fur, or fake rat fur." Geeeez. Of course, I realize now that the car was really well taken care of and that my parents kept it because it was both reliable and paid off. The coat was in perfect condition, but suffered no further wear. I braved the cold with an icy smile many times that winter. At the time, sneaking out of the car before anyone saw me was a regular ritual and accidently leaving the coat in the back seat was tantamount to my social survival.
The only time I remember my grandparent's car being driven was in the summer of 1960 when I was 13. My parents, probably needing some space of their own, put me (The Leader and Protector), my 9 year old sister and my 4 year old brother on a Greyhound bus in Borger, Texas to travel to Ranger, Texas and stay with my grandmother for a visit. They gave me $2.00 to buy drinks for us and a box of 6 doughnuts. Being the leader, I refused to have anything to do with the doughnuts and made my little sister carry them. She is still angry about this. Borger to Ranger is 270 miles. The caveat about the two bucks is that I was supposed to give the change to my grandmother when we got to Ranger. I am smiling now. Change?
Arriving in Ranger, we were picked up by Grandmother and a friend in the friend's car. But my grandmother, seeing my immense maturity at age 13, started making other plans for the long unused, but well maintained Chrysler. So began our journeys up and down about a 30 mile stretch of Highway 66, visiting grandmothers church friends, doing sick visits, impromptu piano concerts and delivering finished sewing projects with yours truly at the wheel, floor shift, clutch and all. I got my drivers license a year later at age 14 and my Mother and Dad always thought I learned to drive at school. Since they paid for it, I never told them my grandmother had used me as a chauffeur that summer. My, my how the world has changed. The miracle is that I am here to see it.
Two other bus trips stick out in my mind. When I was almost 18 I married and left Borger for good. My husband was a Marine and was changing duty stations at the time, so he had to leave, pack up his gear in California and travel to Tennessee with the military to get to his new duty station. Getting to Millington, Tennessee for me meant getting on the dreaded Greyhound again, with the required box of 6 doughnuts and an increased allowance of $10.00. The trip was about 650 miles and included a whole night on the bus and a stopover at a deep South bus station where Civil Rights protests were in progress. This was scary stuff in 1965 for a girl that had never been out of Texas.
I was dressed up like an idiot in a beautiful white wool suit my mother made for herself but gave to me after betting with me that I wouldn't get up and sing some horrible song with the band in a nightclub in Amarillo a couple of weeks before my trip. I wanted the suit, so I did it. My outfit was complimented with a hat, gloves and gun metal high heels and matching purse, knowing that I was going to see my true love. My hair was done up in a French twist and sprayed to last with Aquanet. All this got me was a lot of unwanted attention from a creepy shoe salesman that was on the bus almost all the way to my destination. He was probably a child pornographer.
I never got off the bus for the entire trip and still had my $10.00 when my husband met me at the station on the other end, but I was one tired and thirsty girl in search of a clean bathroom. I bought a new pair of loafers with the $10 and had money left over for hamburgers and cokes for the two of us before we faced the Tennessee love nest.
In Millington, my husband had rented us a duplex about 5 miles from the base. This is a long way from civilization when you don't know anyone or have any transportation. So, I was pregnant with our first child and stuck in the country with a radio and the local newspaper to fill my days, but I was still deliriously happy and NOT in Borger. After all, we had $112.00 a month to live on and the rent was only $79. Life was good.
On one happy occasion, my husband came home with free passes on the local bus system to go in to Memphis. We had been saving to see 'Becket' starring Peter O'Toole. The big day arrived and we got on a completely filled bus headed for Memphis. I was very excited to be going somewhere. On second thought, anywhere would have been fine.
About halfway through the trip, I realized that it was miserably hot on the bus and that the air conditioning was not working as it should; a really bad combination of circumstances when pregnant. My next memory is of waking up on the bus floor after both throwing up and passing out with my poor embarrassed husband trying to take care of me while a sea of hankies and Kleenex were being offered by offended but empathetic fellow passengers. This is one of those select moments when staying passed out would have been a much better choice. You should have seen that bus clear at the first stop! We got to Memphis safely though, cleaned up in the theatre bathroom, enjoyed the movie and a walk along the Mississippi river before we returned to the isolated duplex/love nest.
I thought of many more car stories as I wrote these, so I've decided to continue on this thought path for a while. My first plane ride came at age 21, but I am saving airplanes and my hearse and ambulance experiences for another chapter.
Happy highways till then!
.JPG)
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