By the grace of God, you are here, for I had nothing to do with it, I just held your hand,” explained the doctor to my Dad recuperating from the horrible traffic accident. Perhaps out of the worst of times some good things happen. The years that followed the death of my sister and that terrible car wreck were not good ones. As I look back now those years were perhaps as rewarding as disappointing.

     I had known my Granddad to be a stern, no-nonsense man. Rarely had I seen him in a jovial mood. I had heard him be sharp with workers and to a young boy it perhaps seemed a little scary. The "gown-up" world to me seemed distant and young boys in the 1930's were told they should be seen and not heard.

     With my parents working long hours to pay many outstanding bills it was up to me, Grandma and Granddad to care for the cattle – cows milked – horses fed – pigs slopped on the old farm. I was twelve now, a man I thought! My Dad leased the farm out, gone to work in the city but kept the livestock. My chore, as soon as I got home from school was to go after the cows in the back pasture, (perhaps a hundred acres of trees, grass and a water tank) about a mile away. Each day I would make the mile walk along with my one eyed, bobbed tailed’ dog Pat to bring the cow’s home for milking. My Grandma and I would milk and feed them, put them away for the night until the next mornings milking.

 
      One afternoon, about to leave to go after the cows, my Granddad said, “Let’s drive back in the car and get them.” That was as good news as one could ask for in the summer heat of an old West Texas red dirt farm. I got in the car with him (a 1928 Ford Model “A”) and we drove to the first gate that led to the field. There were two gates, one entering the field and one at the other end to enter the pasture. They allowed entrance to the field crops for the farm machinery but kept the animals out.

     Granddad rolled the old Model “A” Ford up near the gate and I got out and struggled with the wire fence. My dad always built tight barbed wire fences, no sags, and they were hard to open. Struggling I finally opened it as my Granddad waited patiently in the car. He drove through. I struggled with the gate latch and finally succeeded in looping it over the post that held the gate in place. I turned toward the car. My Granddad was out of the car standing by it.

“You drive from here,” he told me. “It’s time you learned how.”

     At first it occurred to me – “no way I can do that?” Then I turned ecstatic! I had sat in the old car many times – acting out shifting the gear as though I were driving - watched him shift the gears as well as my Dad and my young mind told me that wouldn’t be any problem! At the ripe old age of 12 I knew I could accomplish this feat with ease! I climbed in the driver’s seat like an old pro. I was a short little guy and I had to pull myself forward with the steering wheel so I could reach the clutch and brake pedal. My mind had doubt now - but my ego allowed me ignore the thought! I managed to get the car in the first gear and promptly stalled it by letting the clutch out to quick.

“That’s alright,” my Granddad told me. “I did the same thing when I first drove a car,” he assured me.

     Embarrassed, I restarted and promptly stalled it again. He was patient - seeing that I was about to give up he urged me on. “Try it again”, he would say! Finally, I got the car rolling and into the second gear and perhaps up to ten five miles per hour.

     Years later, when learning to fly I couldn’t believe that my Granddad or the instructor sat calmly beside me as I abused two pieces of fine machinery. The flight instructor sitting in front of me, hands high holding the cross struts assuring me I still had control of the aircraft, even though I had bounced it three times pushing the plane back into the air when it should have been on the ground – my Granddad calmly beside me, his head rocking from the sharp jolts from the lack of coordination of the throttle and clutch.

     It took us thirty minutes to travel that mile, a mile I will never forget! We rolled along easily now confident I had mastered the art of driving in that long - short mile, we approached the second gate.

“Stop at the gate and I’ll open it,” he told me.

     I rolled right up to the gate, pushed the clutch in and braked to a beautiful stop. Granddad got out of the car to open the gate, satisfied with his accomplishment I’m sure. However, he too had trouble opening the latch on this second gate. While I was confidently holding the clutch down waiting for him to open the gate, my leg already tired from the many starts I had made began to tremble. It hadn’t occurred to me to put the car in neutral while I waited!

     Quickly, my short leg gave out from the pressure of the clutch spring. My foot slipped from the clutch. The car lurched forward into the unopened gate, barbed wire scratching against the metal of the fenders like someone scratching on glass, an eerie, horrible sound. The car took the gate out dragging strands of barbed wire with it’s protruding bumper and headlights..

     I was horrified, scared, in complete lack of control as I watched the car pass by my Granddad still holding onto the latch pole. Somehow, by the grace of God I managed to get the car stopped, stalling it again as I had done before. I was embarrassed beyond anything I had ever done in my young life. My self-acclaimed ego collapsed like a punctured balloon! I knew I’d just blown any chances of future driving lessons.

     Unsteadily, I climbed out of the car awaiting the scolding, the stern talk I knew I would receive, from the man who still stood there with his hands still outward in disbelieve. By the time I rounded the front of the car he was surveying the damage both to the gate and the car. I was shaking like a leaf and with tears of embarrassment welling up in my eyes I tried to help him unwind some of the barbed wire trapped around the bumper. However, I was of little help, still embarrassed, unable to say anything, I waited for the inevitable!

     The scolding and stern talk I expected never came. Slightly relieved I was now able to help him tie the wires back together, what was left of them! I still expected to hear the lecture begin!

“Harrumph,” “mmmm,” “Ha," “ummmm,” clearing his throat, “Ha” “Ha”, I heard again.

     I looked at him. He was trying to hold back the laughter. The smile on his face was none like I had ever seen. For the first time, I saw my Granddad totally different than I ever had before. He spoke gently.

“Hand me that piece over there,” or “Hold this while I tie it,” never once raising his voice.

     Here, in this old red dirt field of West Texas, I came to know my Granddad as he really was. The two of us together, each knowing what the other perhaps felt. One embarrassed, the other seemingly happy for the experience he had been a part of, trying desperately not to laugh out loud, acknowledging my feeling at the moment, and, I now know he recognizing the embarrassment I felt was the only punishment I needed.

     When we were through piecing the fence back together as best we could, we walked to the car. He moved to the passenger side and reached for the door handle.

“I don’t want to drive anymore,” I told him, as he climbed in and closed the door.

“Sure you do, you were doing fine,” he said.

     Cautiously, I climbed in the car, closed the door. I started the car, pushed in the clutch, put it in gear and moved forward like I had driven for years. The old car reacted quietly to my every gear change. Never would I make a start in that old car as smoothly as I did that one.

“No need to tell anyone about this,” he explained, still smiling as he settled down in the seat beside me.

    

     I certainly did not and I suppose he did not either for I was never asked about it from anyone including my Grandma. It was something special to me, having a secret between us that no one else knew. We never talked about it again. Somehow I seemed closer to him after that day. I suppose Dad wondered how his gate got mangled. I never heard him mention it.      My Granddad seemed to look forward to the afternoons we would go after the cattle in the back pasture now. I drove from then on. He coached me a little from time to time, enhancing my driving skills. He talked about how the land we were on was all trees and grass when he bought it, how long it took him to clear the land for farming, how hard it was. I’d never thought about the land being tree and grass ridden. I had only first seen it as it was in my time. I began to see it as he had now, lush green trees, young green grass in the fields. It all seemed pretty for the first time to me, if in fact there was anything pretty about a (red dirt) West Texas farm!

     One Saturday when everyone else had gone to Abilene for groceries and supplies he asked me if I would drive him to Buffalo Gap, a small village only about five or six miles away. I was eager to do it. I loved to drive the old car. I had never driven it on a paved road and never faster than perhaps ten miles per hour. He got dressed in his best suit and we climbed in the old car. I adjusted the pillow, which he had stolen from Grandma’s couch the day after the accident. It allowed me to reach the clutch and brake pedals easier now

     We drove off for my first experience on a paved road. It was easy now, the car steered better, made less noise and you could hear the tires crunch on the small gravel that covered the road. For the first time I had it in high gear.

“Speed it up to about thirty five,” he said confidently.

     I mashed on the accelerator and the old car surged forward, I watched the old horizontal speedometer climb to twenty, then thirty and to that magic thirty-five! The wind began to blow through the window, caressing my naked arm pushed out on the window sill like a seasoned driver, the tires singing on the pavement and it was almost like flying to me. I couldn’t believe I was driving this fast.

     Before I knew it I was going forty. It seemed as though if I pushed further on the accelerator we might just take off! He sat beside me calmly, looking at the countryside as we sped along the road at that tremendous speed! I knew then I was right where I wanted to be! Granddad kept his eye cautiously on me I know now, for occasionally he would prompt me.

     “There’s a narrow bridge ahead,” he said. “Better slow down a little in case another car is coming.” Then, “There’s a crossroad up ahead.” “Go slow in case you have to stop for another car,” he cautioned me.

     His words of wisdom and caution was like the gentle wind from the window. I listened and happily drove. I obeyed his every suggestion, stopping, starting again as easily as if I had been driving twenty years. The whole experience had been another exciting and inspiring day, certainly better than that first day.

     We stayed at his friend’s house for a couple of hours as they talked. I kept looking at the old car. I couldn’t wait to get back in it, start it, hear the engine puff to life and feel the car surge forward at my command. The thought of driving it exciting. I had fallen helplessly in love with that old car.

     After that day I was the official driver of a 1928 Model “A” Ford automobile. I drove my Granddad and Grandma everywhere they wanted to go. My Grandma never questioned the fact that I could drive; she just got in the back seat like it had always been that way. They talked casually about their friends as we passed by their houses on the way to wherever we were going. I felt good with them, really felt closer to them than my own Mother and Dad.

     My Granddad taught me how to service the old car, change the oil, check the radiator, clean sparkplugs, thing necessary to keep a Model "A" ready to go at a moments notice. Many times when we were not going any place particular, I passed time cleaning and sometimes lust sitting in the old car. The love affair with the old car - the pleasures of driving with my Granddad lasted for another year or so.
          That year my Granddad died. I was able to spend the last year with him, driving him, when he was able to his favorite fishing hole or one of his friends. I was devastated when he died. I was 14 years of age, a man, but I threw myself across my bed and cried like a baby. I would ever miss sitting by his side as he talked and I drove - stories I had never heard and would never forget.

     Grandma had never learned to drive, so now I was her official driver. She seemed to want to go more now, visit friends, go to Abilene for her own grocery shopping. I was by her side almost constantly now. Dad and Mom had both taken jobs back in the city again. I was happy again, seemingly back where I belonged. I began to excel in school and Grandma allowed me to take the car whenever I wanted to go. Thus, I became the only teenager with an automobile of his own.
 
     I would go for long drives by myself now. Always loving the feel of the wind blowing in the window, hearing the tires sing on the asphalt as I sped along. I felt free and satisfied in that old car. Never did I feel alone in it. There was always a sense of closeness while in it. I spent all my free time in that old car, by myself, or driving my Grandma somewhere she wanted to go. Happy, happy days of being a teenager, that old car and me.


     I had enjoyed employment in my senior year. At $16.25 per week, I had money to burn. I purchased the latest wardrobe of clothes, shoes, 78 rpm records and watches; spent money as though I had thousands. Don’t forget, gas was only thirteen cents per gallon, a good hamburger that would put a Big Mac® to shame cost five cents, movie tickets went for a mere twelve cents and double dip ice cream cone for ten cents. A young guy could really live it up on $16.25 a week and I took advantage of that.

     In that old car the time seemed to speed along. Just before my eighteenth birthday, I received a letter from the Navy. Inside was a Greyhound bus ticket and instructions to board it for a trip to Dallas Texas, where we were to be grouped with others and shipped to the Naval base in San Diego, California.

     The good times would be over for a couple years. On November 11, 1944, I parked the old car beside the house, took one last look at it and rode with my parents to the bus station. I was not ever to see it again. My father sold it to finally settle Granddad's estate. But the memories would always be there.

     Years later I would get a job with a company that required me to drive a company car for long periods. That was right down my alley. It was hours driving from one West Texas oilfield town to another. Roads were not always the best in that part of the country. As I drove the unfamiliar roads, wind blew through the window, caressing my naked arm resting on the window sill, the tires sang on the pavement. My mind at ease on the lonely road I remembered - “There’s a narrow bridge ahead.” “Better slow down a little in case another car is coming.” “There’s a crossroad up ahead.” “Go slow in case you have to stop for another car.”