The Buick

Until we decided we needed a used 1986 Ford Econoline custom van to haul our kids, their stuff and their friends, we drove a 1978 Buick Regal. It was one of the first autos with plush fabric seats. We were skeptical about the interior but the salesman said research indicated the upholstery would outlast the car.  He was right, too.

Besides the cushy interior, it had cruise control, a button inside the glove box to pop the trunk open, bucket seats, and a sunroof; all the amenities available in 1978. And it was fast too. We loved it.

One day we were in town and decided to run the Buick through the car wash. About half-way through the cycle, the sunroof sprung a leak. On my side of the car. While my husband quickly checked that it was indeed closed all the way, I scrambled to crawl over the console into the back seat. My gallant husband insisted that I stay where I was so the upholstery wouldn't get wet. 

What a guy. 

He wouldn't leave the car wash with the soap still on the car on, so water continued to drip around the seal. By the time the rinse cycle finished, I was thoroughly soaked, but the seat wasn't getting too much water on it.

We pulled out of the automated car wash and drove directly to the Buick dealership with both of us fuming, but I'm sure for different reasons. I was mad that I was wet and couldn't finish the errands we had come to town to do. My husband was ticked off that his pride and joy had malfunctioned. At the dealership we parked at the curb, and I jumped out and beat my husband to the door.

The salesman met me in the middle of the showroom floor. Before I could utter any of the complaints I had mentally rehearsed, he said, "I thought you were supposed to take your bra off for a wet t-shirt contest."

That remark released the pressure valve on the pent-up steam in my system. My husband was close enough behind me to hear the quip. He and several other employees, the owners and a couple of customers howled with laughter while I bit my lip and tried not to say any words that might make their way back to my grandmother. I threatened to kick the guy who suggested I go ahead and take it off, shirt too.

The fix was an easy one. If we hadn't been trapped inside the car wash, we probably would have figured it out. A drain tube from the sunroof had plugged.

The Regal figured in many notable occasions at our house. My son and one of his friends used it for their science fair experiment. If you attach a small propeller to the lead on a voltmeter, you can use said voltmeter as a wind speed indicator once it is calibrated. The boys took turns standing in the open sun roof holding the propeller while I drove various speeds and the other noted the voltage and speed. They received a blue ribbon for that project.

One summer we decided the farm work was caught up enough for us to take a weekend off and go to Wichita for our wedding anniversary. The car was still in great shape because we took good care of it. We packed an overnight bag and jumped in the Buick. We had driven about five miles, chatting about needing a break from round the clock farm work when my husband asked me a question.

"When's the last time you checked the oil on this car?"

I had a lot of jobs besides helping on the farm by driving the tractor, pulling tanks of fertilizer to the field, keeping the records, and driving the grain trucks during harvest time, such as growing a huge garden, canning the excess, raising children, sewing their clothes and ours. This was during the days when the Women's Libbers got in your face and demanded you join their movement. With all the responsibility I already had, my pat answer was always, "If I got any more liberated, I'd have to change the oil on the tractor." Looking under the hood whether it be a car, pickup truck or tractor was something the guys did.

So I said: "There'd have to be a first time before there could be a last time."

He braked to a stop and opened the hood. There was no oil on the dipstick. So, how long had it been since HE checked the oil?

If cell phones had been invented, he would have called his brother to bring a couple of quarts of motor oil. Instead, we drove back home with him complaining about how irresponsible I was while I indignantly pointed out that I had NEVER once been asked to check the oil on ANYTHING. It. Wasn't. My. Job.

Once home, he said not to drive the car until he got a chance to change the oil. He put on his work clothes and went back to the field in his pickup. I unpacked and sulked. I thought then and still do today that it was a clear cut case of Universal Rule # 1: The woman is always right. Enough said?

Why cuss when spitting works better?

I never did fall in love with horses.  The ornery Shetland pony we had when I was a kid probably had a lot to do with that. When I was interested in learning how to ride Dad didn't want me around his working horse.

Instead of telling you why I didn't like the phony, um, I meant pony, here are a couple of things I remember about horses from when I was a kid.

Dad had a roping horse he was real proud of. One of the exercises he did to get the horse accustomed to having a steer on the end of a rope was to pull a railroad tie around the corral. Of all the things my brother and I did with our dad, this one stands out as being all around fun.

He screwed a large eye bolt into the end of the railroad tie and tied one end of his rope to it and hitched the other end around the saddle horn.  After he got the horse, whose name I have forgotten, somewhat used to the strange pressure on the saddle horn he let us come in the corral. Our assignment was to add varying amounts of weight to the railroad tie while it was being dragged around the pen.

As you might imagine, most of the stuff we did with Dad resulted in big trouble with Mom at the state of our clothes. He pretended innocence but I'm sure he had a plan when he told us to stand on the tie. It wasn't moving so it was easy. Just stand there, right? He gave his horse a nudge and it took off. The tie went right out from under our feet.

Then he pretended to be mad but gave us another chance. This time we held hands for balance and told him we were ready. We ended up in the dirt anyway.

The game was actually fun when he and the horse got the tie to sliding along. We would run along beside it, jump on and ride until it hit a bump or a little snag. We never did master staying on when he made the left-hand turn past the cow shed into the south corral.

That's my non-horse-lover fun with horses story.

This is a story Dad told me about what a great animal handler his grandfather was.

Dad said he was in early high school and had been riding his horse through some tall cane feed. That stuff is really juicy and his horse slipped and went down. Dad, fortunately, was thrown clear and hopped back to his feet. The trouble began when he couldn't get his horse back on its feet.

It didn't appear to be injured but it wouldn't stand up. Dad pulled on the reins to no avail. He hollered and cussed with equal results. His horse was embarrassed and also as stubborn as a mule.

From the dining room window at the house his grandfather, Bailey, had seen what happened. Taking his time, he walked out to the patch of feed. By then, my dad was in a lather while his horse just laid on the ground. He had been riding for years and had never come across or heard of an animal behaving in such a manner.

His calm, methodical granddad knelt at the horse's head and patiently worked up a mouthful of saliva. He leaned closer and spat directly into the horse's nostril. The horse surged to its feet. Yes, spitting works better than cussing every time.

Wake UP!

"Get up. Breakfast is ready."

"Are you dressed yet?"

"Wash your face."

"Are you up yet?"

"You're going to miss the school bus!"

The bedrooms in the house where I grew up were all downstairs. So was the bathroom, furnace, clothes dryer and chest deep freeze. The basement stayed cool in the summer. In the winter a gas stove radiated a modest amount of heat. The cement floor directly in front of it was warm and toasty. That is where my brother or I stayed if we were waiting for our turn in the bathroom.

In the mornings when we didn't want to get out of bed our mother would yell instructions, warnings and eventually threats down the stairs from the kitchen. If we lollygagged too long, our dad would assume the 'getting the kids out of bed' duties. He didn't employ threats of dire consequences if we weren't clothed and sitting at the breakfast table in three seconds. He developed a quiet, effective method of persuasion.

Remember that deep freeze I mentioned earlier?

A package of frozen hamburger or tube of frozen orange juice concentrate applied to the bottom of warm feet will result in said sleepy children leaping out of bed and changing from pajamas to school clothes in record time. After the first time, all it took was the sound of the squeaky hinges on the freezer door being raised to persuade us it was time to get ready for school.

The Power of Prayer

It's a wonder I was ever born. It's a miracle my parents ever met. Both of my grandmothers contracted fatal diseases at the tender age of three. Today, antibiotics probably would mitigate the emergency, but this happened over one hundred years ago.

My maternal grandmother came down with diphtheria. The disease causes a thick mucous build-up on the back of the throat which can't be expelled by coughing. It sounds gross, but I've heard that the coating will develop a pseudomembrane much like the skin on cold gravy. It can block the airways resulting in death. The doctor came to the house and showed her mother how to use a hollow goose quill to suck the nasty mucous out of her sick daughter's throat. Beyond that, according to the doctor, it was in the hands of God. My Grammy said she found a quiet place, got on her knees, and prayed.

My other grandmother told me she didn't know what she had, but after picking up peaches in an orchard and eating them, she became very ill. I think she had typhoid fever. Before the illness, she had thick, wildly curling hair. Her mother could scarcely get a comb through it. When the child developed a high fever and fell into a coma, her father summoned his sister Laura. In an era when most folks attended church and read the Bible, Laura was known as being an extremely religious lady. At the little girl's bedside, Aunt Laura 'laid on hands' and prayed. 

Obviously, both little girls recovered from the dreadful illnesses. Our family believes God had something to do with it. The high fever caused my paternal grandmother to lose all her hair. The unruly curls grew back as a gentle wave. Also, her new "do" featured a white streak above her forehead. I've looked up the phenomena. The condition, a lack of melanin in the effected area, is called poliosis. I don't see any evidence of the poliosis in old pictures of her, but perhaps it wasn't noticeable in b&w photography.

So, thanks be to God, the lives of two little girls were spared.