Art & Inspiration The Friday Nite Read, Two

IN MY LIFE



Ninety miles per hour sure feels good on this concrete slab…smooth, too…even if the air isn’t nearly as clean as it once was. The surf pounds the rocks below, it’s music and the ocean smells great…the view from up on the bluffs is breath-taking. I see gulls reel and dip and glide the currents along the shore and the sun…a bright orange globe slowly sinking toward the ocean’s horizon…I’d forgotten how serene these days are, how very good it feels to stretch my legs on Sapphire days like this…I’d even forgotten what it was like to cruise up and down the hills on this highway…I’m very lucky to be here.



You can bet there were days I wasn’t sure…times I was certain I was going thru my last days…even to the point I didn’t think I’d last another trip around town…but now, here I am, flying along 101, the thick sea air lends me wings. I feel my new heart beating strongly, blood flowing and I’m in very good hands…I look better than ever….is that called vanity…or arrogance?



Vanity…I am not arrogant. I know my place. I’ve been around long enuff to know that one does not survive these days becuz of arrogance. Ha! Right now, my place is keeping up with this 4-wheeled low slung thing…“Corvette” spelled out across the deck lid. And ahead, sweeping alongside the Corvette, a slinky looking sports model…mmmmm, “Porsche” on the quarter…what a strange name. Maybe give them both a run…love to see the look in their eyes when they spot me in the rear view mirror, plastered on their butts!!! In the past, days like this happened to little teeny, green two-seater British sports cars…never had any trouble getting around them, always got a wave of the hands as I went roaring past.



Speaking of hands, it feels extraordinary to be in good hands again…I remember good hands quite a while back, as good as possible for the times…and yes, there were bad times. There were good times and there were better times. Perhaps ‘better hands’ is more apt today as these days will preclude all others. There’ve been quite a few hands over the years…some good, some not so good, and hands that didn’t have a clue…abandoned and left for certain death. One of those times was way back, years ago, around 1942…at least from what I know about years, realizing now that’s been sixty-some of those years ago. News of my death had been greatly exaggerated.



I fell into a coma around mid 1942…when gas rationing came around…lost track for almost five years…at least I think it was about that long. I recall hearing about a “war”…and heard a few other reasons…in and out of consciousness…then I think I’d hear “the war is over” many times while sequestered in my darkness…voices would come close but retreat, almost like they didn’t want me to regain my senses, yet all the time hoping someone would remove me from this place…I hadn’t had a bath in years…didn’t even know if I would ever breathe clean air again. Shucks, I didn’t even know what war was…but from what I heard, it wasn’t anything pleasant, I understood lots of local men went away…and never came home, including the son of the man that takes care of me. Maybe that’s why he won’t let me out.



Toward the end of those years, I recalled a couple of guys coming around, regularly, always asked how I was. I could hear them…their voices would get close, like they were coming toward me, but then their voices would trail off, walk away without getting to see me. The old man always seemed to get angry…thinking back, I’d assumed the old man wasn’t about to give up on his only son.



I did get out some time later, thanks to a young guy…came back home from being gone for almost four years. I found out he was a close buddy to the son of the old man that cares for me…he stopped to visit one day in late 1947…at least, the days were getting shorter and it was getting colder at nite. Mac was his name. He made the old man cry. I’d never heard the old man sob his heart out before, but Mac told him all about his son, Bobby, and how he’d given his life to save eight other guys and what a hero he was over there in the ‘war’…and now, a hero here in town, said they’re going to erect a statue of Bobby in the town square. It didn’t make the old man feel any better and I finally figured out he wouldn’t ever see his son again…and neither would I. Too bad…we had a great time when he was around here. The old man finally stopped sobbing long enuff to consent…and I got to meet Mac…I was told, between the old man’s tears I’d go home with Mac. I was surprised -- the old man had gotten a lot older than I remembered and was still in tears when I finally left his place. I felt sorry for him…and his son, but I was certainly glad I had another chance at life.



Mac was a decent enough guy…he told me he wasn’t going to stay in Dayton anymore…we were going to California…the sunshine state. On the way, I heard how many times he wished Bobby were still alive to see what this place called California had to offer every infantryman that was mustered out of the Army there. Thru his musings, I got to understand war took many lives, young lives…left families with huge holes in their hearts…and fathers & mothers wishing their lives would end. From what I heard, war is not something I’d want any part of.



Maybe that’s why those huge hangers were built in Dayton, at that old airfield…let me remember, there’s a recollection of time before 1942…hold on, hold on…about 1935 or ’36…I was just a youngster…used to run between west Dayton and Wright-Patterson AFB…they were building hangers up there. It was a three-hour drive on some scary roads back then…and we did it on bald tires cause new ones cost. $28.00 for a new set of tires…a lot of money way back then…I’d heard newer cars were priced around $750.00 dollars…so you can gauge the cost of tires from that…it’s no wonder everyone ran their tires until the tubes showed thru or wouldn’t hold air anymore. Winters in Ohio were cold…I don’t recall warm days, from October to May, cold wind pierced the canvas of the fold-down top…and the roads were nothing but frozen paths. In the spring, we’d get stuck and horses had to pull us out of the mud…how embarrassing. I thought life was good around there for those years…I guess it was…I didn’t know any other life at that time…until that war started and the local boys started leaving. Days seemed to drag on…I never got to have any more fun, for a long time, especially after the youngster signed up for the Army. Mac tells me now life is going to be much better in California.



Aaaahhh, let me tell you about Los Angeles…I didn’t know I was going to take that long a trip…took almost two weeks to get from Dayton to Los Angeles. Route 66 is some awesome piece of work…we weren’t in any hurry. I didn’t have any idea where Los Angeles was anyway…but once we got there things were looking good. I loved the beaches…and the gals, in swimsuits, laying around. Mac seemed to have a way with them…or maybe it was just that he was a silver-tongued devil…always got one or two to go riding with us…any more and he’d flip the rumble lid up. He could talk any of them into almost anything, especially redheads. We had fun for a while…sure enjoyed those southern California days and nites…that is, until he got into a scrape…heard it was a bad business decision. Never saw Mac again…wonder what ever happened to him?



Some time after I got booted out of Mac’s life, Smiley came around…I wasn’t in good health and he put me in the hospital…said they’d fixed me up…better than new…even felt that way when I got released. I hope they got everything right…hate to have to go back in for more operations. Smiley became a good pal…wanted me to enjoy my new-found freedom…and his. We primped and preened and cleaned and…well, he said for a car show. I remember that gathering – known as the Hot Rod Exposition. Smiley told me it was at the L.A. Armory, in the year of 1948…I was relegated to a corner…the lighting was bad and I didn’t feel very good with all those people around…especially guys in those outfits with the letters S.C.T.A embroidered on the back, really don’t what that meant but they fawned over me like I was something really special, poked at me and did strange things to me. I didn’t really like the show…it sort of reminded me of that dark place many years ago…and I was all alone there. Even though all kinds of people milled around in that big hall, not one of the guys in thatbunch had anything good to say about me. Smiley didn’t like that, I could tell…he swore he’d get even…didn’t have any idea what he meant by that…but was going to find out sooner than I anticipated.



Yeah. Flat out.



Feeling good.



Flying.



No. Feel great, sure didn’t this morning, puked my guts out after that early morning run from L.A.…they left me alone after we arrived, got to sit in the shade of that truck until I got my feeling back…it wasn’t anything serious that made me sick, guess I was just a little scared of what they promised.



A cool breeze rushed around the truck, off in the distance I see mountains…reflections of them shimmer on the “water”…they seem miles away. Hope they are…the run up the Grapevine was bad enuff and I don’t need to climb any more mountains today.



On the way they were talking, saying I wouldn’t have to “stretch my legs” to get over any more passes…good thing, too…breathing thin air isn’t the best thing for me, especially just getting out of a hospital. I heard them talking about Beasley and his just-off-the-showroom-floor new 1950 Cadillac…man, that thing took the hill with no effort, don’t know how…something about it having one of those new overhead valve V8’s. Guess that’s the latest thing…oh well, I’ll be OK…besides, a lot of my friends are here…good to see them, too…they all seem out of place here on this flat, barren area…nothing like the streets of L.A, or that “show” we were in…they call this place El Mirage…I see why…it looks like a mirage…mountains floating on air.



I got to float, too… late that afternoon. Exhausts sure do roar and carbs suck precious air…screaming along at more rpms than I’ve ever felt…or seen, for this long. Going so fast everything is a blur, dust flies off the tires … following the path isn’t easy…acceleration continueing…90 now…going for 100…feel good…reasonably smooth…I’m not worried…they told me it could be done. If they said it could, then I will. 110 coming up…breathing coming harder now but it’ll be OK…heading for that magical mark of 130 mph…or past…will I get there? There’s a new record, waiting…will I snag it?



I’m convinced that little hospital stay didn’t seem to affect me… it’s been a long time since I felt the road. But right now, this straight-away run feels good and it doesn’t get any better than this…the sky is filled with white wispy clouds floating across stark blue…dust kicks up by the wind blowing across the lake bed…whips into small whirlwinds. Smiley was right…he is showing all of them…we’ll get even just as he said.



I was tired after that first run…but ecstatic just the same…and on the second run we grabbed that record…we are in the history book. I even got something I didn’t have back in Dayton -- a nickname! They call me Doozey now.



Around the campfire that nite there was celebrating…loads of guys came by and congratulated us…each of them offering a toast to the new me…and Smiley, of course. There was a lot of beer put away that nite and guys getting crazy. I finally retired…it had been a long day. The next day, I got to rest in the shade…they told me the record we set stood…I was glad…it tired me out altho I‘d never tell Smiley. Worst part of the weekend was when a lakester T-boned a ’40 Ford coop crossing the course at the wrong time…the guy driving the lakester and a passenger in the ’40 were killed instantly. They took two other guys to a hospital in San Bernadino. Sure put a damper on the meet. We waited around for a while and watched. It got late, we ended up staying that nite and drove back to Culver City next morning…by the time we got home I was feeling poorly. Figured a rest would do me good.



Smiley cussed and yelled and threw things at me the next weekend…seems he wanted to take a trip to the beach, with his girlfriend but I just couldn’t muster enuff energy to even move, I was hurtin’. He said something about spending lots of money on me and what a screwed up way of paying him back. Sorry Smiley, can’t help it…hurts to move. I tried, I really did, but guess I passed out…don’t know how long I was out, but when I awoke I didn’t recognize the surroundings. I knew I wasn’t in Culver City anymore…and I could tell Smiley was long gone, must have really gotten mad at me.



Worse part about Smiley leaving…time has a way of simply stopping…I lose all sense of days and nites and places. I have no idea where I am or when it is. Couple times, while I was laid up, several guys came around to shoot the breeze with the building owners…a mechanical shop. Conversation always got around to war again, several of them mentioned some place called Korea and how they were glad to be home…looked forward to the 1954’s to be released in September. Later on, and I have no idea how much more time had passed, I heard men talking about places like Fremont and Half Moon Bay, something called drag racing and an organization called the National Hot Rod Association…this new-fangled racing consisted of two cars, side by side, going from a standing start, going as hard as they could for only a quarter of a mile and then quitting…it seemed a lot different than going flat out by yourself on a lake bed…wondered what drag racing was designed to prove…seemed strange to race two cars side by side, but what do I know? I’ve been out of circulation for a while.



One of the guys that came around showed an interest…I liked him…name was “Banjo”, he reminded me of young Bobby…of days so long ago and so far away. One of the guys that owned this place said they had big plans for me but I didn’t like what they said, what they wanted to do…I needed a transplant…didn’t know if I could go thru another, especially if they put me to sleep again…I just didn’t know if I’d wake up! I heard Banjo say that wasn’t a good idea…he had a better idea…an argument among the three guys ensued…I didn’t really like what any of them said…it always ends up being bad for me. Banjo called my name…put his arm around me… like a long lost pal. I hoped dearly Banjo would take care of me. I really liked him. He and I could have fun together…spend some time together. I must’ve passed out because of all the excitement…maybe it was trepidation - the fear of the unknown.



I awoke some time later, in darkness, knew right away I wasn’t at that dirty nasty mechanic’s shop anymore…that was OK, I didn’t like those guys. Had no idea where I was, what was going to happen now. Fear set in again…I was really afraid this time.



I didn’t feel very good most of the time…at least every time I regained consciousness…I hurt and wasn’t awake very long before I couldn’t endure any more and passed out …blurred images ran past me, the light became hazier and finally darkness overtook me. Voices came and went, none with regularity tho, dream states filled my days…and nites. Several times I thot I would be rescued but it didn’t happen and I fell deeper into a coma. Time passed, at least what I know about time…and what I’ve heard about the passage of time…strange stuff measured in days and months and years. At different times, when I came to, the first thing I’d think of was I’d been forgotten…I was scared…no one ever checked on me anymore…I’d just as well be dead. I wondered what happened to Banjo, where’d he go…and where am I?



I dreamed…days gone past…I missed them…glory days when I was younger - beach days, drive-in days, cruising the mountains. I loved the short trips around the area, seem to remember they called them reliability runs…yeah, reliability runs along the ocean… inland with friends…warm nites with girls on the beach, even those “winter” days, sitting on the sand, next to the ocean, hearing the crackle and pop of a blazing bonfire and listening to laughter. There’d been many strange dreams, and I wasn’t sure the one I was having was real -- Banjo opened the door. I am dreaming! Man, he’s gotten old…doesn’t look at all like he used to…it’s no wonder I feel so bad…he’s a lot older than me now. The light that blasted in thru the half-opened door was blinding, I couldn’t see anything at first…just dark figures…took a long time to get used to that glare. It wasn’t sunny, it was, just, well, hazy…and bright, all at the same time. Voices…excited voices…pulling off covers, patting my butt, checking my vitals. Am I…OK? This isn’t a dream? Are you removing me from this hole? Will I be allowed outside? I have so many questions, but no one answers…it’s like they don’t hear me. Am I still dreaming? I knew my body was getting old…if only it could end and I would wake up without all these aches and pains. The voices sound excited: “Good shape after all.” They talking about me? I heard one of them, “Not bad for close to forty years old.” The two men standing in the doorway asked about Banjo…wait, didn’t Banjo open the door? Another man answered: “Banjo was killed in Nam.” Nam? Another war? Where? How long ago? Why is there so much war? How long have I been unconcious? Rumplestiltskin…who’s that? And why compare me to him? I’m not sure I like that…from the sound of it, he’s much older than I. Banjo has been gone for twelve years now? Oh my, how long have I been in a coma? No wonder I’m feeling old and worn out.



I finally figured out, from their conversation, the guy holding the door was Banjo’s son. “When Dad got called up to Nam, I was just a youngster. I remember he’d taken on way too many projects over the years and simply couldn’t take care of them. It’s time to move my family to a new home and he can’t come along. My wife doesn’t like him anyway.”



Please! Oh yes. Please take me with you. I promise to be good and do my best to please you. I’ve been here far too long. I need company, conversation, wind in my face. I know I’m not the youngest around here, but I can be good for you guys. I promise. Please. PLEASE?



They tossed the covers back…closed the doors. Wait. Wait! I’m not going with them…what happened? Nooooo, I thot they wanted me, I could tell it in their voices. Ecstasy turned to dejection…excitement gave way to self pity…I’m getting to be just an old cynical piece of trash…am I destined to remain in this hole forever? Self pity turned to loathing…I slipped into a sleep…again.



I awakened, hearing noise, much commotion outside…took me a bit to snap out of my doldrums…seemed like I’d been asleep for quite a long time. Over time, I’d gotten pretty good at gauging those years. The door was opened, daylight poured in and Banjo’s son greeted me. “Time to go.” The guy that had visited quite a while ago was standing next to him…grinning from ear to ear…I learned his name was Norm, seemed like a nice enuff guy. They loaded me onto a long stretcher, being careful not to hurt anything else…these old bones are getting a bit creaky and I couldn’t move too fast…they helped me out of that hole. I was grateful.



Norm said he had big plans…and a transplant. I sure didn’t want to hear that so I didn’t dwell on it too long…I hoped it would go as well as past transplants but knew I was getting old and wasn’t sure if I was up to it. I consoled myself with the fact that Norm had promised me…heaven knows I surely do need some work to make me whole again…and I was beginning to stink to high heaven.



It took longer than Norm predicted…the transplant was put off several times while Norm and his friend Jack worked on my old bones. Words like “gasoline shortage” and “long lines at the pumps” and “stations close early these days” were tossed about…other words like “four cylinders” and “six cylinders” in smaller 1974 automobiles were used. What happened between 1967 and 1974…was I asleep that long? The words I hated to hear were spoken one evening: “Maybe we should hold off on this for a while.” And then, the one word I dreaded more than anything in this world: siesta.



It must have been close to nine years after they brought me to Norm’s place and he finally announced a return “to building a hot rod like it’s supposed to be.” In that same breath, he said we were supposed to head off to some city “back east”…seems a new organization had been started a few years ago…National Street Rod Association, I think it was called, they were holding meetings every year in Columbus, a town close to my home town of Dayton. I was excited. It had been along time since I traveled Ohio’s hiways.



But, alas, it took a few more years to get the majority of my bones, and my body readied. The transplant had been scheduled…and I was told “sounded real good.” I really didn’t want to hear that becuz I was already starting to feel good with what I had but still dreaded the prospects, and process of another transplant…I hope nothing goes wrong. They tossed the covers over me…said “Good nite.” It was all I could do to stay awake. Maybe if I take a short nap, I’ll miss out on the transplant.



I was awakened...slowly…almost like they were afraid I wouldn’t. The cover came off and we were in a huge auditorium…I got scared…it reminded me of that time way back in 1948 when we did that indoor show…and now I didn’t want to be here. Norm calmed me…how he knew I was nervous I’ll never know, but he’d learned things about me I’d forgotten. There were friends and cousins all around…I wasn’t aware I had so many relatives…and friends. The buzz was that this was the “Roadster Show,” whatever that was and it happened every January…could this be what that Hot Rod Exposition grew into? I learned the competition for the AMBR trophy was heavy cuz there was new player on the scene named Coddington, he seemed to set the pace as far as building street rods…a new term I’m not even familiar with. Everyone there pooh-poohed me for being too “traditional”…they looked down their noses at me…like I was something from another world. I’d like to think it was becuz they were simply jealous. I wasn’t there to compete for the show title…Norm told me “it was just for fun” and that made me feel better…he told me he couldn’t afford to make a run for that AMBR trophy anyway. I could tell by his voice that he was being truthful…those cars were just not his style…and I, for one, certainly appreciated that fact!



There was other talk at the show…I can only remember what was said, I’m not sure I understood what it was all about anyway, but the foreboding Berlin wall was coming down. That a thing called communism was dead, freedom had come to Germany…hmmmm, weren’t the Germans our opposition in that world war so many years ago? And what exactly is communism? It didn’t matter…Norm was introduced to several guys that were enthused about a new organization based in Alamo…they’d reserved the Merced County fairgrounds…strange name for them but GoodGuy’s was what they used for their new hot rod organization. Norm told me we were going up there for the Yuba City Rod Festival.



Days flew past, months too, in all probability, even years. It was back to running the hiways and something new called “freeways” around L.A. Guess I missed out on all the building…no matter, I was feeling like a youngster again. Los Angeles has grown considerably since I first got here, there’s four and five and six lane hiways where there didn’t used to be any, houses are everywhere, shopping malls on every corner…and foreign cars. What has happened? The majority of cars are Japanese…didn’t we defeat them in the war? Now we buy their cars? I must have missed something, somewhere. Where are all the hot rods I used to see running around on the streets? Where’s all the hot rod shops and speed shops? Gone? Even the drive-ins we used to hang out at are gone…got places called 7-11 now…and not one person in them speaks English anymore. Little four-wheeled econo-boxes now dominate the hiways and streets. I don’t like getting out on those freeways with them little things. Norm does take me to events where my friends are, but most times it’s only on weekends. I guess that’s OK, but doesn’t allow me much time to take in the sights.



I got to meet new friends at an event Norm took me to…an event billed as the 1990 Father’s Day Roadster Show & Swap Meet…what a gas that was! People everywhere…and lots of very distant cousins…I was in heaven again. Worse part of the day was late afternoon, I was saddened to learn I was going “back east”, and not just for a national event this time. I didn’t want to leave the sunny climes of California, but I didn’t have much choice. Norm introduced me to Frank and told me he was going to take care of me from now on…I said my goodbyes to Norm sadly and he said he’d miss me…a lot.



After a long trip, it was hot and stifling…I had a hard time breathing…I learned we were in Louisville, Kentucky…humidity killing me…and I learned we’re really not all that far from where I was born…this time the gathering of the faithful was called “The Nats.” This place is h-u-g-e…there are so many cars here, it’s unreal. Most everyone is talking about hot rods, but there’s also talk about some place called Kuwait…and someone named Saddam invading the country…for its oil…I finally figured out there was another war going on. Damn, why in hell do people have to fight and kill each other? It put a damper on an otherwise fine weekend.



Frank said we might take a few days after the Nats and go up to Detroit to visit Greenfield, the place where everything about Henry Ford has been stored…sounds like fun, maybe even see the place I was born. Being the fact that I was born in somewhere close there…I surely didn’t expect to be around this long…nor to be able to chase Corvettes up the highway like I did today …guess I’m not in all that bad a shape for 66. The rest of the summer flew by but I sure didn’t enjoy winter in New York state…I’d forgotten what snow and ice and cold was like…I never shivered so much as I did that first winter. I longed for California again…or the very least, some place warmer…where they don’t have winter. I got thru it, I don’t know how, but after that, the next few summers were fun…lots of two-lane hiways and huge trees, small towns and lots of rod runs and events…gotta tell you, easterners sure put on a different type of rod run than westerners…lots more driving, less parking in the park, sitting in a lounge chair. The only time I really felt good was winging down the road, breeze in my face…the worse part? Getting home and having to take a bath…there are bugs everywhere back there in the east…big ones…smelly ones, too!



I heard the phone ring after we’d gotten back home from the last trip…found out it was my friend, Norm, in California. After Frank hung up, he told me Norm wanted me back. Really? He wants me back…home…in California? Ya-HOOOOOOOO! I’m going home! When can we go? I am going home? Are you certain? I sure didn’t want to hear about spending another winter in this frozen place…let’s go now…NOW!! I couldn’t convince Frank to go right then, he told me there were a couple of other shows already scheduled we had to be at…one in Vermont of all places!



Several phone calls from Norm later, I learned there was one event late in the year that Frank had considered…a GoodGuy’s event in Phoenix, Arizona…we were going to meet Norm there. Is it warm there? I didn’t give a care that meeting there would give Frank a chance to replace me…I just didn’t really want to hear about any of that, I just wanted to see Norm again…and get back to Cali…



We almost didn’t get to go…my whole world almost came to an end. Every trip planned got canceled…the radio and that movie-type box called TV was full of news…we heard about something called The World Trade Center being destroyed…by “terrorists”, whatever they are. I learned they aren’t anything like us and think a U.S. lifestyle is destroying theirs…that’s just stupid. How is that possible? That “event” sure put a cold damper on everything and I was scared for a long time, being as close as I was to New York City…Frank was, too…and that’s all we heard about for weeks…bet someone is going to pay for what those terrorists did!



Even tho the days and weeks dragged on into winter, it wasn’t the end of the whole world. Life went on…got back to close to normal, people we met and talked with were more patriotic now. When spring rolled around, talk of getting even with whoever had done this didn’t prevent Frank and I from heading out to a few more events throughout the spring and summer. Then it came…the news was all over the radio and television in the garage…war…in some place called Afghanistan…I wondered if that was the only way people solved their problems? Some man called bin Ladenthinks the U.S. is a bad place, that the people that live here want to colonize the whole world and get rid of their beliefs…couldn’t be farther from the truth. I certainly don’t feel a bit sorry for those that had a hand in the Tower’s destruction…if that bin Laden guy had a hand in it…then you reap what you sow! The “war” didn’t last that long, at least the “enemy” was routed fairly quik, hostilities were ceased but then all we heard about was how long US troops had to be stationed there in order to prevent the Taliban from retaking the country…”Taliban,” huh? Sounds like a disease to me…and why would the Taliban want to repress their own people? Hell, just give them hot rods and long highways and let them be free to do their own thing!



I found out mid-summer Frank had decided against me going back to Cali…I was heartbroken, I wanted to see Norm again, enjoy the cool breezes off the ocean….and bikinis. Alas, Frank was a decent guy and took good care of me but I sure missed Norm and the California lifestyle I had grown accustomed to. The summer went by fast, fall came around and New England winter set in again.



Talk came around again about the United States going to war. Damn, haven’t we had enuff killing in this world? The television in Frank’s garage is always on and it became filled with pictures of guided missiles raining down on some city called Baghdad…explosions going off all over the city…seems that same man named Saddam, the very same man that invaded Kuwait years ago was about to get his ass kicked…out of a country named Iraq! Why is it that certain men want to control the everyday lives of innocent people? The stories on the news of all the people he’s murdered over the years is saddening…why can’t we all get along? His “mother of a war to end all wars” didn’t surface…seems his own army deserted him…sooner or later he’s going to get caught…and that’s a good thing…for the world. The bad thing? Too many young men die in another conflict…will we ever learn?



Frank took an unscheduled trip early that winter…left me alone for a few weeks…didn’t know what was going on. When he got back he told me he’d finally planned the trip to the event in Arid-zona…and the best part is, he bought a house in Phoenix…he told me it’s always warm there…looks like we are definitely going someplace warm for the winter…I can’t wait. Then we can head off to Cali and see some of my friends…run the coast highway again. It’ll be good to remove the top and to be able to stretch my legs…it’s definitely good these days, to be a roadster…to be the king. Yeah, I AM the King…it’s good to be King. Long live the roadster. Long live the 1932 Ford…long live ME!!!



Copyright 3-05 R. A. Jetter/Aden Rush





More stories like this are in my book “Bangin’ Gears & Bustin’ Heads,” available from my website - www.RAJetter.com at a bigger discount than Amazon. com or Barnes-Noble.com ...and I’ll even personally autograph it for you…the bookstores can’t get that done for you!



Called by many “The best hot rod stories of the sixties…” and Ryan Cochran (our beloved administrator) said it’s “best bathroom book available, the stories are just the right length!”

208 pages of Hi-Speed Chaos -- 26 Episodes of automobile lunacy, with running commentary about the innocence of the sixties and the naivete of growing up in the Midwest!

R-

 

One of your best stories Roger, IMHO. Very touching

THANKS for sharing it.

 

Wow!!! put me in mind of a track by Metallica,titled "one" and there are a few parallels with the track.
A fine and moving story Roger
john

 

WOW...I need to find a towel to dry my eye's.

great story, what a life, like I was there for part of it.

Keepem comming Roger.

 

Great story Roger!
I've always wondered what my 32 has gone thru over the years before it came to me. Wish there was some way to experience all the highs and lows of its life like you did in this story. I imagine it must be a similar story.

Excellent read.

 

Thanx guys...I appreciate it...I figured everyone would get a kick out of this story...does make you wish a car could talk, eh?

BTTT for the evening crew!

R-

 

BTTT for this great story...

R-

 

I enjoyed the hell outta this piece Roger. Good job. Larry

 

Thanx Larry...glad you did...R-

 

It's great, i didn't read the part about if cars could talk and i only realized what it was about after some thought.

 

Thank YOU BB&S...glad you enjoyed this one...

BTTT for the weekday crew!

R-

 

Thanks Roger. Anyone great one. Really enjoyed it. Like most I sure wish Big Olds could talk and fill me in on his life before Just Steve found him in that bog.

 

Interesting parallel with wars.

I now feel really bad that my A has been sitting in the
back shop with no motor since April.

I guess I need to go and have a heart to heart and let it
know it may soon go to a new home.

I have often wondered if my cars listen when I tell them things. "Nice run", "lets show that Mustang what a hot rod can do", "think she wants a ride " etc.? Sometimes "what the f$%@ " or "What do you want from ME "

 

Wow!

I missed this on Friday and just read it this morning.

GREAT story!

Dave

 

Many thanx to all...

Fltblk, I had to have a way to put "time" in the story...and everyone remembers wars...there was no unconcious " paralell" on my part.

R-

 

Wow, cool story.
When I first bought my little Morris bodyshell I used to sit inside it and try to imagine what sort of things it had seen, or been through, in its 70 years and 79,000 miles.

I marvelled at the original cloth wrapped wiring loom, wondering which wily old craftsman had laid it in there some seven decaeds ago. There was an inspection tag, still clipped in behind then dash, but the signature and name had long faded. Chalk marks, behind the ragged interior trio, denoting some inspection or other, hand written by some long dead assembly line worker?

It must have survived world war 11 somewhere in England, untouched by the bombings and carnage of the major cities.

How many wedding's, children, affairs, deaths, births had it been party to?
And had any famous people travelled in it?

Someone put it into storage some 20 years ago, and left it to rot nearly to death, half covered with some scabby tarp. It was finally rescued by some potential hot rodder, who then sold it on to me three years ago.

Two weeks ago it took its first drive on the public roads for many a year

Take your hot rod out today and hug it. You just don't know what it has been through.

 

I had a "Talk" with the Commander last night. (55 Stude.)

I still haven't broken the bad news to my A. Maybe after
the transplant.

I feel better now.

 

Morrisman, It's amazing your Morris made it thru the war...and I'll bet it's glad to be out on the road and out from under that smally tarp!

FltBlk, ya know, I think every hot rodder should talk to his (or her) car...at least pat 'em on the fender and tell them you appreciate all the fantastic rides they've given you....

Hmmmm, now that would make an interesting poll, wouldn't it? How many of you "actually talk to your cars?"

I have...and still do...

And Fltblk, I wouldn't put off telling the A he's going to a new home...mite take it out on the new owner! Besides, if you feel better now, wouldn't you like to make him feel the same?

R-