Some Idiosyncratic Cars I Have Known

Yesterday I opened up the glove box of my car to look for something that, sadly, was not there. What was there, however, was the beginnings of a mouse nest that some enterprising creature had started using a handful of shredded Kleenex and a couple of pages of a small notebook. I cleared out this detritus and rearranged the contents to be less inviting from a housing standpoint. But this triggered memories of long-dead vehicles that had, at one time or another, enlivened my life.

Like the Chevy Nova that had lived out at the house for 20 years, seldom used except by generations of vermin that used it for both condo and outhouse. You did not want to be standing behind the car when it was started up for the first time after it had been idle for a while. It would start hard and with a deafening clearing of its throat, so to speak, expelling a gob of automotive phlegm composed of feces, fluff, and mortal remains.

Then there was the Volkswagen that belonged to my friend Pamela. The way you would start this machine is first you would insert the key and turn it as if you were hoping to start the car. Then you would vigorously crank the windshield wiper knob until the engine caught. This was a noisy process during which the car would shiver and jump for a while. Once during the warm-up phase, while I was sitting in the passenger seat with a good grip on the door handle, there was another noise, barely audible above the ambient splutter. Pamela got a sort of “Oh, darn, not again.” look on her face and got out of the car, went around behind and picked up the rear bumper that had fallen off during the ructions. By the time she got it reseated the car had settled down and we went on our way.

And how could I forget my grandmother's final car. My grandmother worshiped all things French. She was fulsome in her praise of Voltaire, La Creuset, Charles de Gaulle, Camembert, Christan Dior, the Impressionists, and so forth. So it was no surprise when she came home with a Citroën. The feature that made the greatest impression on her was a hydraulic lift that would cause the chassis to rise a few inches for some undisclosed purpose. She would demonstrate this miracle for anybody who might drift into the aura of this extraordinary engineering achievement.

What she did with this car was wander around the neighborhood on short errands of one sort or another. Sometimes she would pick up her friends to go to the book club, say, or an art gallery. When this happened in the winter there were frequent complaints about the heater which my grandmother would rebuff by assurances that this was a very fine heater which just took a while to warm up. Her friends learned to wear earmuffs after thanksgiving. Then came the day, some years into its life, when her son borrowed it for a trip that was long and cold enough to take the measure of this Gallic accessory. When he arrived at his destination, teeth chattering and ears nearly frostbit, he took it into a garage where it was revealed that the thing did not even have a heater.

Some years after this I myself had the chance to drive this fine machine when I was visiting my grandmother at her summer house on Cape Cod. My plan was to drive down to visit a friend about a half an hour away down the Mid-Cape Highway which, in those distant times, fell far short of the flawless pavement which later drew tourists at Mach speed from points south to Provincetown. It took some serious wheedling to get her permission, along with detailed instructions on driving techniques, identification of equipment, such as the clutch and gearshift, and of course the all-important hydraulic lift, and finally I drove away leaving my grandmother wringing her hands on the porch.

It was an uneventful drive down jouncing over and through the potholes, frost heaves, cracks, and slumps of the Mid-Cape Highway of the sixties. By the time I started back it was dark. It took me a while to figure out how to turn on the headlights since the cabin light didn't reach to the area of interest, but I got it in the end and set off. All of the light controls were on one appendage to the steering column: headlights, cabin lights, turn signals. I had barely cleared my friend's driveway before I discovered that the lighting appendage was perilously loose in its moorings and every slight perturbation caused it to change it's settings from off to on, high beam to low beam, left to right, even the cabin light flicked on and/or off from time to time.. And so I made my way up the Mid-Cape Highway flashing and sparkling like the Tree from Christmas Past, the kaleidoscope changing at every jounce, driving sometimes by the light of the left turn signal alone, sometimes by all available beacons. I can only guess what the oncoming traffic thought. Some pulled over, and who could blame them?

I couldn't see the point of mentioning this to my grandmother, as she would have had to think of some reason why this was a brilliant engineering accomplishment, but my uncle understood.

Republicans: An Update

So far this winter has been a depressing disappointment. No snow worth mentioning, not warm enough to mitigate the fuel bills, no ice fishing, too much mud, and the television line-up is a desert wasteland. But happily, in the midst of this dreary diorama, the spotlight flashes on to reveal … a dancing troup of Republicans with whistles and drums and merry tunes.

Praise the Lord and pass the wine!

It was sad indeed when Michele and Herman and Jon and Rick stepped out of the ring. These talented entertainers had so much more to give us. The portly Mr. Christie never did live up to expectations, and where was Sarah? I fear that the Republican National Committee sent a delegation up to Wasilla to lock her in her basement for the duration. But never mind; we still have the Other Rick, Ron, Newt and of course Mitt.

Who could fail to enjoy the lively pranks of these able performers presented for the delectation of the nation, along with the high-spirited support of bystanders, raising questions about such important national concerns as What's the deal with secret Mormon underwear? This has become such a frequently recurring theme that I finally looked it up, thinking How much information can there be on Mormon underwear? As it happens, there is a great deal: many websites, several Youtube videos, and, no doubt, many books. Since my curiosity was generously satisfied by these other sources, I left Amazon unmolested.

It turns out Mormon underwear looks a lot like bathing suits fashionable in 1900. It covers the wearer from neck to knee, and is decorated with cabalistic symbols that presumably protect the wearer from sinners and werewolves and such. The gents' model has a strange looking sort of codpiece which in some way allows the gent to urinate I imagine. The ladies' model has emblems on each nipple for some secret purpose.

All things being equal, I generally have no interest in what other people's undergarments or superstitions might be, but since I saw this bizarre, secret get-up with its hex signs and rules and symbols, I can't stop myself from mentally peeling Mr. Romney, while he is unctuously explaining why he deserves to be grotesquely overpaid and undertaxed, right down to his sacred neck-to-knees codpiece, while the Angel Moroni and his Associate Angels Estupido and Saltimbanquo hover piously nearby.

Which is not to say that this is a one-ring circus. Ably enlivening the second ring is the redoubtable Newt and his lovely third wife Callista. Who can doubt the sincerity of Mr. Gingrich's recent conversion to Catholicism, having rejected the false doctrines of the Lutherans and Baptists, or the sincerity of his outrage at the unseemly mention of his second wife's spiteful slanders about his polite request that she give him carte blanche to pursue and copulate with whatever interns, supplicants, or other chippies he might lure into his stationery cupboard up on the Hill.

Then over here in the third ring is the Other Rick whose surname evokes sanctimony, sanction, sanatorium, and santería, a devout sect that encourages trances and the disembowelment of chickens, not to mention the the new meaning suggested by imaginative members of the gay community of whom Our Rick vigorous disapproves.

Not so conspicuous or flamboyant as his opponents, he nonetheless stands firm in his belief that schools should teach only science as it was understood 2000 years ago by illiterate fishermen. Also that religious toleration should be extended to all Christians, and that torture is a valid tool in the hands of Law Enforcement, presumably because it saves time and consequently money, especially when the accused has been provided with a detailed account of his crimes beforehand.

Finally, there in the back of the tent, is Ron, the only remaining Baptist, unless you count Newt. The fact that he is a medical doctor is reasonably strong evidence that he is or was intelligent. Sadly, he also manifests the characteristic shared with many of his colleagues that he is, if not God himself, then at least close enough to make life and death decisions for us lesser beings. Even God himself doesn't insist that life begins at conception. But don't let all this give you the idea that he has a high regard for human life. After all, he was one of those proud patriots who approved of the military sneaking into a foreign country and assassinating an old man watching television in the bosom of his family. His long-term plan for national security is to bring home all those troops who have been mowing down goatherds and rice farmers for so many years and instead send out roving hit squads to murder people identified by somebody as terrorists.

So there are the choices. Faites vos jeux. And may God have mercy on our souls.

Negotiation

Freddie! How nice to hear your voice. We haven't heard from you in so long, I was starting to worry. Will you be coming for a visit soon?

A job? Oh, that is good news.

You’re going to join the circus?

Ah… What an interesting career choice.

Well, of course I can see that a boring desk job can’t compare with the thrill of the Big Top, in spite of the money. Young Arthur Timmins seemed well pleased with the $50,000 he made his first year with that real estate place, but then he lacks your artistic sense. And money isn’t everything, is it?

Hello? Ah, I thought we’d lost the connection. So what will you be doing? The animals? I guess you’ll mostly be cleaning up after the elephants and bears and such. Funny, you were never too happy cleaning up after Sparky.

So, when do you leave? So soon? Too bad. We’ll miss you when we go up to the lake to open up the cabin. Boy, it seems like those trout just get bigger every year. But I guess there are some kind of fish down there in Florida - must be with all those bugs. I guess you’ll have lots of time off to go fishing and camping working for such a happy-go-lucky place. Who could understand fun better than a circus?

Oh, yes, I can see that getting ready for the upcoming season would be a lot of work - I guess they must be paying you pretty well for working all those long hours. And of course when I was your age I can remember how important independence was. Beholden to none. Yes, very liberating.

We were thinking of getting a new car this summer and giving you the old one instead of trading it in, but we wouldn't want you to feel beholden to us especially now when you're tasting that first heady sip of liberty. Besides, you’ve clearly thought things through so carefully, I’m sure you’ve already lined up half a dozen different ways of getting around. I guess circuses have lots of trucks, huh?

Are you there? Gosh, this must be a really bad line.

By the way, have you talked with old Clarence? You know, the old gentleman who’s always down at Bucky’s garage? Yeah, no teeth. Well, he can’t help it that he smells. Anyway, he might be able to give you some tips - he used to work in a circus out in the midwest someplace.

Your college fund? Yes, there’s still enough in it for your final year. But now, of course, you won’t be needing it. Free spirits don’t need college funds, do they? Well, we’ve always wanted a camper. With the trade-in on the car and what’s left in that fund, we can get a pretty nice Winnebago. And I can use your old room for a sewing room.

Oh, you have time to come see us this weekend. That would be lovely. Your dad will be so pleased to see you and hear about your plans.

We can talk more then.

Fog

One of our projects down on the ice was to make a runway on an ice surface near the South Pole Station so that aircraft on wheels could bring personnel and supplies instead of the much less efficient ski-equipped C-130s that had been used forever. The site that had been chosen was a bare patch up next to Mount Howe, the southernmost piece of terra firma on the planet, located about 200 miles from the pole.

Preciosita was the homeliest little bulldozer that had ever clanked through the streets of McMurdo Station. I think she was a relic from WWII that had been abandoned here during the International Geophysical Year. She was squat and olive drab and rattled in every joint, but she was just what we needed, after a few minor modifications. I had taken her out to the Pegasus site for a test run and now it was time to get her to Williams Field, about 10 miles distant across the Ross Ice Shelf, in preparation for final transport by C 130 to the next chapter in her long life. It was a beautiful mid-summer day, clear sky and as warm as it gets in those parts. I started out in high spirits, following the pink-flagged road and scanning the flat white expanse for penguins that occasionally wandered out this way.

The way you can tell a road on the ice shelf from just any other part of the ice shelf is that it is marked at about 50-foot intervals with bright pink flags. The early crews come down at the start of the season and mark all roads in this way and for the rest of the season the road crews come through and groom and maintain them. As long as you can see a pink flag, you are not lost.

Preciosita was not a racing machine. I would judge that she might aspire to 10 mph, tops, if hard pressed, but that this would probably result in loss or destruction of small parts that would significantly impair her usefulness, so we made slow progress across the glittering snow. I could have walked faster. I sang half remembered songs and whistled snatches of Sibelius. I timed the passing flags. I played with my mittens. I leaned over backwards to look at the receding flags upside down. I propped my feet up on what passed for a dashboard and noticed that the horizon was looking a bit blurry. I stared at this while Preciosita growled implacably through the snow.

By and by, it became absolutely clear that this was not my imagination. The horizon was gone. I couldn’t say that Williams Field was gone because I couldn’t see it yet anyway, and when I swiveled around to look for the trailer at Pegasus I could barely make it out, a black speck on the featureless snow.

Soon I had to button up my parka and gratefully put on my turtle fur neck warmer. The line of pink flags I was following no longer vanished in a sharp point but rather faded to dingy pink and was swallowed. They said weather comes on fast here and they were right. Soon I could only see 5 flags. Then four. Then three, two, one. I knew up ahead somewhere this road stopped and I had to turn left onto another flagged road. I started wondering what would happen if I shot across the intersection and got disconnected from the flags. Now I started looking for the next flag as soon as I was abreast of the last. It was a second or two before I could make it out in the fog. I developed a strategy. I would count to three as soon as I passed a flag and if I couldn’t see the next one by then I would immediately stop and reconnoiter on foot until I found the next one.

Preciosita growled on. One-two-three-flag! One-two-three-flag! I soon felt as if I had been doing this forever. It was very quiet here in my cloud. Even Preciosita’s bellowing was muted. One-two-three-flag! I had my mittens on and tucked into my sleeves. The hood of my parka cinched so tight I could hardly see through the fur. Not that there was much to see except the next flag.

One-two-three-no flag! I squealed to a stop, hoping this was my left turn. I thought I could see the next flag indisctinctly off to the left, but got off anyway to look. My knees were shaky partly because of the cold and partly from having been hunched in the same position for so long. It was a pleasure to walk. I stopped every two steps or so to make sure I could still see Preciosita, inspite of her earsplitting racket. Yup, flag confirmed.

I got back aboard, heaved her around to the left and continued. One-two-three-flag! One-two-three-flag! Pretty close to Williams Field now. The next maneuver was a right turn. Soon now. One-two-three-flag! And there was the next one off on the right. I pulled her around and lined up on the home stretch. One-two-three-flag! Then I started thinking about what was up ahead. There was the power pole, for example, that provided electricity for all of Williams Field, including navigation lights, crew quarters, maintenance and supply, radios and God knows what else. I slowed down. And there were always vans and trucks parked anywhere. And who knew where they had put the last C-130 that had gotten through? And pilots and mechanics groping through the fog. I had to go to the bathroom. My eyes were gritty from staring at whiteness and indistinct flags. I oozed noisily and interminably forward.

Finally, the power pole! I had found and not run into the power pole! I slowed down some more and found and did not run into the communications trailer. I crept between a couple of maintenance trailers in the general direction of the freight pallets, which I did not run into either. The first spot I found which did not appear to be a runway or a main thoroughfare, I came to a full stop and turned off Preciosita. I stumbled off her gratefully and gave her a little pat of thanks. I groped my way toward the galley with happy visions of a toilet and great quantities of warm food steaming in my head, the hum and clatter of Williams Field muffled and distant.

I didn’t see any penguins that day.