Happy Thanksgiving! Well, as I have done in the past, my ol' mind is always busy and creating short stories. Annnd, again, a cool survivor pic posted on Hemming's got the ol' gears a turning. I hope you folks enjoy it A THANKSGIVING MORNING’S DRIVE The wind blew cold and a swirl of powdered snow stung his cheeks. It was Thanksgiving morning, and he was just about done shoveling his driveway. The sky was the colour of cold steel. The snow had stopped falling, and his journey would begin soon. Inside his home, he had three pies and a basket filled with his secret recipe buttermilk biscuits ready. It was a thirty mile trek to his grandson’s home and a ride he enjoyed. He made it a point to drive his old wagon at least four times a year. But his Thanksgiving trek? Well, it was his favourite. Tucked away in his garage beside his brand new Ford Lightning F-150 was his 1933 Ford station wagon; the wagon he had purchased on a whim 50 years prior. He had been on a fishing trip and had a tire go while down deep in Poudre Canyon. He had ended up at a small garage/gas station. As the attendant dismounted, patched, and busied himself finishing his work, he had casually mentioned the wagon. He wished aloud that someone would buy the old car, a family heirloom of sorts. The young man’s aunt had been the sole owner of the car, and his uncle had gifted it to him upon her passing. Before he knew it, his curiosity got the best of him, the attendant was a $100 dollars richer, and there he had stood wondering how in the hell he was going to get two cars home. That was 1971. “50 years ago,” he muttered then chuckled to himself as he opened the garage door and gazed upon the wagon. The Ford’s original owner was named Gretta, and her name was on a leather key fob that looked as if it had been handmade when the old Ford was new. He had left it because it only felt right to do so. The Woody had been hand painted a light green over what was a burgundy body with black fenders. Cracked and with some patina that modern builders paid for, his wagon wore what was done decades ago. The ‘33 rode on its original 17” Kelsey Hayes spoked rims. A set of black wall tires kissed the pavement and set a feel for the road through the buggy sprung suspension. No computers or power assist anything had ever been equipped on the old Ford. It was just man and machine. The old man opened the garage door, raised the liftgate, and set in the basket full of biscuits before heading back inside the house to bring out the still warm pies one by one - pumpkin, Dutch apple, and marionberry pie. After carefully securing them in the back, he lowered the back glass, turned the handle, and made his way to the driver’s side. Climbing in, he settled into place, turned the key, and pushed the starter. The starter motor began the mechanical ballet of the ancient internal combustion V8 engine. And as it had done for decades, the old engine caught and fired to life. The single throat Detroit carburetor fed the cold engine, and as the temps rose, the old flathead smoothed out and he was ready for his journey. Easing the old Ford onto the snow covered streets; he drove slowly but a tinge of excitement burned in his chest. Driving a wooden bodied car takes one back in time. The body has rattles, and the hum of the drivetrain is felt everywhere inside. The engine emits its own aroma, but now it combined with the lacquered wood, naugahyde, and the pies and biscuits. The old man grinned as he rode along in his own wonderland. On this late November day, he drove along back roads, taking in the landscape and older homes that had been built around the time, some even earlier, as his old Ford. Gentle curls of smoke wafted from chimneys. A gust of wind rattled the windows and dusted the Woody with snow. Regardless, he was snug inside. The old heater kept him warm, and the snow melted on the windshield into a galaxy of water drops, which scattered like diamonds as he drove along. Soon he could see the long winding driveway of his grandson’s home. Built in 1908, it was an old homestead built by a Dutch family who had grown grains and hops that supplied a local bakery and brewery back in the early 20th century. The property included a large barn and some older out buildings, which his grandson had painstakingly restored and refurbished. His wife, a children’s book author, kept a writing studio in what once had been the Dutch family’s hen house. Together, they were happily raising the next generation in the familial legacy. The old man slowed the wagon and made the right turn into the drive. Heading toward where his grandson was outside working on his old Fordson tractor, he chuckled. The youngster was always tinkering; keeping busy. The young man turned his gaze to the old Woody as his Grandpa gently turned around and backed the car up near the front door. They locked matching green gray eyes and exchanged grins. Forty years separated the two men, but they shared a deep interest in vintage machinery. “Well, does it run as good as it looks, Grandpa?” The young man was wiping his hands off on a shop rag and made his way to give the older man a hand with his payload. “Still pulls a bit to the right, and I think the right rear is locking up a tad on braking, but still, more fun to drive than my Lightning.” He answered as he turned the ’33 off and exited. In the front window of the big Dutch farmhouse, his great grandchildren were watching with beautiful smiles. Behind him he heard more cars arriving. “Say Gramps, how do ya feel?” The old man turned, looked him deep in the eyes, and smiled. “Thankful.” - Mark Karol-Chik 10/16/2021 Wishing you and yours a VERY Happy Thanksgiving!
Great story. I could easily visualize everything you described. I am a writer with two novels in print, and I've written many short nonfiction pieces. I've been a Baptist minister for more years than most people have been alive and make use of storytelling in preaching. Not all preachers are storytellers, just the good ones. When my oldest daughter was about 12, I told her that something she said reminded me of a story. She rolled her eyes as only a 12 year old girl can and said, "Daddy, you're a preacher. Everything reminds you of a story."
Thanks everyone! And yes- December is approaching and I will share some more tales of the season including a certain red racer-
The Jalopy Journal
