To Bee or not To Bee

  The ceremony was brief and now we were on our way to the dealership. Our buddy could barely contain his enthusiasm.

“Faster man.  I see it.  It’s parked over there.”  He pointed and we turned into the dealership.  We stopped in front of the brand new shiny car he had singled out.

“She’s a beauty, eh boys?”

    He was out of the door with a slam.  He was caressing the smooth finish as we lined up in front of the newest addition to the Dodge fleet.  His eyes were devoted to the sleek metal as he leaned on the driver’s side.

“Here she is.  My Super Bee.  What do you think, boys?”  He looked at us expecting an explosion of admiration.  This had been his topic of conversation since learning that he would be graduating with his second lieutenant bars to be provided at the graduation ceremony.  This car was his present to himself for becoming an officer in this man’s air force.  It was our duty to give him the adulation he so expected.

  “Wow!” I said.  “That’s a beaut.  How much is it going to set you back?”

  He frowned in my direction as words of honey dripped from everyone else. 

  “Got yourself a honey of a car there,” said one touching the super bee emblem on the side. 

  “What’ll she do?”  asked another.

  “Open the hood.”  Those were the words he had been waiting for.

  He reached under the dash and pulled a lever and with a sharp snap the hood jumped an inch.  One of the guys reached under the hood to release it.

  “Hey!  That’s my hood.  Step back.”  His newly gained authority given to him by the USAF exploded into the air as if we were standing at attention on the flight deck on base.  We all took a step back obeying without thought.

  He disengaged the lock under the hood lifting it lightly in his hand to reveal a huge V-8 gas guzzling engine.  He beamed, his hand waving in a flourish to exhibit the massive thing. 

  “Eat your heart out boys.” 

  “Whoa Nellie.  That’s a hell of an engine.  What’ll she do?”

“Zero to sixty in six point three seconds. And check the interior.  Bucket seats and four on the floor,” he said, the pride bursting from his face.  “She’s a dream and all mine.”  It was love, pure and simple.

  The salesman walked up with the key in hand.

  “Well, my boy, are you ready to drive this beauty home?”  He offered the keys.  “She’s all yours.”

  Our friend took the keys, his eyes almost disbelieving his fortune.  He looked at us as his right hand sprang to the brim of his hat in a precise salute.

  “I guess this is it boys.  Make yourselves proud.  Serve our country well.”  Our indoctrination was evident in his last words.  He settled into the driver’s side and cranked the car.  The roar that filled our hearts with envy.  The salesman looked on as he slammed it into first. 

  His final words slipped by us. “So long boys! Yee haw!” The engine roared.  The rear tires spewed rock and sand until he hit the highway with a squeal lasting 10 seconds leaving a layer of rubber on the road and a blue haze in the air.  We waved to the vanishing streak.

  “Time to go fellas.  We have to clear out of the barracks by 2.”

  Our journey back to the base was filled with talk of the future and our new assignments.  None of us were headed to Viet Nam which was the primary worry of us all.  We arrived in front of the barracks long before two.  After packing my gear and cinching up my duffle I headed into the hall and the wall phone. 

  “Croucher, you need a ride to the airport?”

  “Yes, I do but I have to call home first.”

  My dad answered.

  “Hey, dad.  I’m heading to the airport now.  Should get in around eight.”

  “How was the ceremony, son?  We would have liked to have been there.”

  “Yeah, I know but I told you it wasn’t worth the drive.  It only lasted about an hour and wasn’t anything special.  They presented us with our certificates and looie bars.  Then we tossed our hats in the air after which we spent half an hour trying to find the right hat.  It wasn’t anything special.  I’m sure looking forward to being home again.”  I had been in San Antonio since September and it was almost June.  Six weeks of basic and I earned a stripe.  Then I had been held over in what was called OT Hold.  I was saddled with a job while there until the class started in the new year.  It was a twelve week course that gave us a bronze bar to place on our collars.  Now, all that was all behind me.  My new status as a Weapons Controller, whatever that was, loomed ahead.  I pictured myself marching rifle in hand guarding some cache of weapons on base, but what did I know.

  “I have a surprise for you son.”

  “Is it that TR-3?”  I had worked the summer prior to entering service, saving all my salary which amounted to $300.  I’d left it with my dad to use as a down payment on a car.  I had had my eyes on a Triumph TR-3 and asked him to check into it while I was going through basic.  I’d had no idea I would be going to Officer’s Training School at the time.  That chance had come through my dad’s sending letters to L. Mendel Rivers over several months.

  That was something he had kept from me.  He had written letter after letter to our state’s representative who was the chairman of the House Armed Services Committee. His letters must have given the Congressman pause because my career in the service was certainly altered by Congressman Rivers’ intervention.  I remember it distinctly brought to my attention while in basic training.

  “Airman Croucher at ease,” said my flight officer.  I had been summoned to his office and stood at ease in front of his desk.  “You have a very influential friend I see.”

  “Sir?’

  “Seems Congressman L. Mendel Rivers has taken quite an interest in you, son.”

  “I’m sorry sir but I don’t…”

  “Quiet.  I have a letter here that says you want to go to OTS?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Do you have what it takes to complete the training to become an officer?”

  “Yes Sir.”

He looked at my paperwork in front of him.  “I see you are a naturalized citizen.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You became naturalized last year.  Why did you wait so long?”

  “I never thought about it sir until I was told I could not go to OTS unless I was an American citizen.  That prompted my decision, sir.”

  “You seem to have a good record here in basic.  Since you have such good friends in Washington I’m going to recommend you be allowed into OTS.  The only problem is the next couple of classes are full.  We won’t be able to fit you in until next year sometime.  Are you willing to wait here on base until such time as there’s an opening?”  He looked me directly in the eye.

 “Yes sir.  I am.”

 ‘Since Congressman Rivers seems to think it’s a good idea that you be an officer in the Air Force who am I to say different.  You need to keep your nose clean and excel in basic and I’ll make the recommendation.  I expect you to make both the Congressman and me proud.  Do you understand me?”

  “Yes sir.  I understand fully.”

  “All right, then.  I don’t want to hear from you or the congressman again.  Is that understood?”

  “Completely, sir.’

  “Dismissed, Airman.”

  “Sir!’ I said coming to attention with a smart salute.  He waved a salute back at me.  I pivoted in an about face.  In my enthusiasm I circled around to face the captain again.   He looked at me, shaking his head, and dismissed me with his hand.  I attempted the movement again with success and marched out of his office.  I wanted to click my heels after I closed the door but controlled that desire until I left the building.

   It had been a long wait but all that was past and I was boarding a plane to Charleston.  I smoked my long cigar on the plane while looking out the window.  I was an officer and proudly wore my uniform of blue.  My second lieutenant bars shone on the collar of my form fitted blue blouse pleated front and back.  We had all gone to the uniform shop in San Antonio to buy our uniforms for after OTS.  Since we were all in the best shape we would ever be we spent an exorbitant amount on the tailored uniforms which fit our trim physiques to a tee.  I was a newly graduated officer proud to be wearing blue.  It was an honor I thought as I watched the Charleston airport grow larger outside my window.  The bump and squeal of tires was a wonderful feeling as I unbuckled my seat belt.  Home and Myra were the two most important thoughts in my head.

  My parents and my girl were there to meet me.  The reunion was filled with hugs, tears and smiles.  It was good to be home.

  “Do you have much luggage, son?”  dad asked. 

  “Only the one bag,” I pointed it out as it approached. 

  He grabbed it waving me off and we walked to the car.

  “I am so glad to be home,” I said taking my girl’s hand.  ‘So good to see you all.”

  The ride home was filled with talk about the last nine months.  I was so busy talking about myself and my experiences that I didn’t realize we were nearly at the house.

  “Close your eyes, son,” said dad.  “I told you I have a surprise for you.”

  “Oh yeah.  My TR-3,” I said with a smile.

  I closed my eyes as we turned onto our street keeping them closed until we stopped in the driveway.

  “You can open them now,” said dad.

  Before me in the driveway was a brand new MGB painted British Racing Green with a black convertible top.  My mouth dropped and my eyes sparkled.  I was speechless.

  “It isn’t a TR-3 but I thought it would do you.  Got a really good deal on it.  Had to use the money you left as a down payment and the  monthly payments aren’t too bad.  I think you will approve.”  He looked at me a big smile on his face which mirrored mine. 

  “Like it? I couldn’t be happier!  Thank you so much.”

  I looked at my girl and she looked at me. 

  “Want to go for a ride?”  I asked.  She said yes.  Dad tossed me the keys. 

“We won’t be long,” I said.  The car cranked easily.  I pushed in the clutch, shoved the gear into reverse and we drove off into long ago memory.

  

It's a saint Looie, bud

"Another day," I said throwing my cap across the room. It was a large one, that room. Across one wooden panelled wall we had boards straddling concrete blocks. The bottom shelves harbored books but those waist high held our pride and joy. A stereo hi-fi with two inches of LP albums suspended above the turntable on the spindle. Our collection of platters was huge with pop music and jazz. The music played from the moment we arrived at the apartment until bedtime arrived in a drunken haze. "Yeah. The school just brought in the next batch of WC students. Got some doozies this time." Ed was an instructor at the Weapons Controller School on this Air Base in the Florida panhandle. Sun and surf awaited the off duty personell every day. His days usually lasted eight hours like any other job. Mine, as a graduate of those classes, was with an elite squadron and lasted as long as my mission. Each day I would check the mission schedule on the board as I walked to the community room and coffee. My name was usually beside one of them. "Hey, Croucher. See you got an early one." It was one of my fellow officers apprising me of my time behind the scope. "Yeah. Makes for a good day when they are early." He nodded while offering the coffee just made. "Where's your cup?" "On my peg. Thanks," I said as he poured some into my brown stained cup. "After it's over I'll be heading to the O club. I didn't see your name up so wanna join me for lunch." "I would but I hear the beach calling me. After I finish this I'm heading out. Maybe tomorrow." He raised his cup then drank it down. "Lucky stiff. Meetin' somebody?" The sand was always crowded with beach bunnies looking to hook up with an officer from the base. There was never a dearth of tanned bodies stuffed into tiny bikinis. It was always a pleasure to soak those lovelies into these peepers on sunny days. I especially loved the white bikinis which enhanced those trim tanned bodies. But I digress. "You could skip the O club and meet me out there. Your mission should be over by 10," said my fellow ogler. "Naah. Not today. Gotta pick up some stuff." It was my day to get groceries which was hardly a reason not to head for the sand. But we were low on Bud and that was more necessary. My mission was scheduled for eight so I wandered into the dark room and selected my scope. It was on the third the dais. Unaccustomed to the dark I tripped but caught myself. "Hey everyone! It's Clumsy Carp! How you doin' Croucher. You really gotta get used to walking in the dark." It was one of the captains enjoying his moment over a looey. "Yessir, Captain. I'll have to work on that." "I have you scheduled for a two on one tomorrow. You might need to brush up on your tactics. It's going to be graded." "Two on one? Are you sure, sir? I could use more practice with one on one I think." "Nonsense. You've shown marked improvement. I want to see how your quick wit handles the extra challenge." "Yes sir," I said thinking he was daft because I was nowhere near ready for that. I knew now I'd be up all night. Not only would I have to study but I'd need to lubricate my nerves with that Bud. I sat down and placed the earphones on. There was chatter on the line and I broke in to check with my pilot. The number one job in the Air Force is the pilot and his mission. The number two position? We were told it was the Weapons Controller. That was me, a new trainee, sitting in front of a round screen with a sweep of light making its way around the circle. Once every thirty seconds or so it completed its travel leaving behind blips of light which was evidence of a plane in the area my scope covered. "Stand by," came the command. "Your pilot is late... again." "Roger that. How's my voice?" "Coming in five by." "Roger." "OK. Your air jockey is climbing into his plane now." "Understood." After a few minutes my pilot checked in. "Read you five by five. Contact me when you reach angels five." I sat drumming my fingers against the desk as I waited. Ten minutes passed. Outside I could hear the roar of an engine passing over the building diminish as he climbed to altitude. "Angels five," came the scratchy voice. "Coming in three by. Switching to channel four." "Roger that. On four." "Coming in five square. Turn to a heading of ninety-eight and climb to angels seven. Bogey approaching angels five from two seven oh." "Looking." "Ten miles at two five oh." "No joy." "Eight miles. Two four oh." "I have joy. In pursuit." I guided him toward his target. "Locked. And away." "It's a hit. Return to base." "That's a roger." "Good hunting." I turned him over to ground control and lifted my earphones. Dropping them in front of the scope I left the dais. But not without tripping once more. "Clumsy Carp," I heard behind me. A chuckle followed. "OK you guys. I'm off. See you tomorrow." "Hey, Croucher, we need a fourth over here." "You know I don't play cards guys. If I did you'd regret it." "Tomorrow, buddy. I hear you got a two on one." "Yeah, not looking forward to that." "You'll do fine." "Uh huh," I mumbled heading out the door. The blue sky greeted me with warmth and the kiss of the sun. My MG was sitting where I left it. I took down the top which was a chore with that old machine but I didn't want to miss a chance to ride with the wind rushing through my brown locks. I stored the top in the trunk and jumped in. It cranked and I roared off. The beach sounded good, especially on a beautiful day like this one. Then, again, they were all beautiful days in this paradise. What a lucky duck to be assigned here right out of OTC. I couldn't have gotten a better assignment. I changed my mind about the beach and got out my list as I parked in front of the BX. "Good morning, Major," I said saluting the gold clover in passing. A lazy return fell from his cap as he mosied on by. It was a less strict protocol here than OTC in San Antonio for which I was glad. The BX was crowded as I walked in and grabbed a cart. I folded my cap into my belt and wheeled the cart to the beer section. I piled four cases into the cart. On the way to checkout I grabbed a few bags of chips. The girl smiled as I loaded the Budweiser onto the conveyer belt. "Party tonight?" she asked. "If you want it to be." I smiled and she grinned back. "Maybe another time?" "Always antoher time, honey." I paid and used the cart to take the beer to the car. I stacked the cases into the seat. I headed toward the apartment and away from the base and the beach. My spot was open below the apartment which was on the second floor. Picking up two cases I ran up the stairs then back down to grab the other two. With chips piled atop the beer I ran up the stairs a second time. I removed the cans from the cases and stacked them in the fridge behind the cold ones. When I finished I grabbed the church key and popped one of the cold ones open. "Care for one?" I asked my roomate. "Yeah, pop one for me. Gotta finish this wall." "Here, stack this one," I said tossing him my empty. I reached in for my second. He took the can and added glue to the bottom. The wall on the right as we entered the apartment was "wallpapered" with Budweiser cans. We'd started making this wall about three days before. It stood a quarter of the way to the ceiling. We were proud of our sculpture. "Most of them are St Looie Bud, too." My room mate was a connoiseur of Bud. His palette could distinguish one from another. There were four cities that had plants to produce this beer. He could tell which city produced the one we sipped from cans. His decision was that St Louis Bud was the primo brew. He always checked the can before buying to insure he had the best. I had forgotten to check that day. "You bought an inferior beer here, buddy. It is not St Looie." He had opened the fridge and inspected one of the warm cans. I checked the can in my hand. Since it was cold he had purchased it the day before and sure enough it was a St Looie. "Scheiss! I forgot to look. Your Bud taste buds are too refined for me. I hope one day to be just as discriminating but for now I will down one of these inferior beers and you can add this to the wall," I said tossing the empty his way. And so went the night until the wall of cans reached the ceiling. Well, actually it didn't reach the ceiling because the floor was uneven and the cans became top heavy leaning until they crashed onto the dining table. It was midnight when this happened and it brought a knocking on the door. "(hic) Yesth," I said swinging the door open. There were two fuzzy people standing before me. "Are you guys alright? Were heard a crash." "UH huh. Would you ladies care to enter our abode?" I stammered out. "No thanks, Rick. I was just worried someone was hurt. Maybe another day when you are sober." I squinted in her direction. "Mary? Is that you? Do you have a twin sister?" I was pawing the air in front of me. "Uh, no. I think you might have had a little too much to drink." "Never hap'n cap'n." "Well, I think so since I'm the only person standing here and you see two of me." "All the more beauty to behold, my dear," I said it with a flourish bending at the waist and promptly falling half out the door. She helped me up. "You should really go to bed, Rick." "Lead the way, my lovely lady." "I don't think so. Not tonight. Ed help him to his room." Ed was bent double laughing. Seeing his room mate on the floor half in and half out the door was entertainment for him. "And miss out on this?" "Don't you guys have to be at work in the morning?" "Yeah, we'll make it. Not to worry." He grabbed me and pushed me toward my room. "Go to bed, Croucher." With that I stumbled into my room listening to our neighbor telling Ed to turn the music down or off. Seems she and her roomies couldn't get to sleep either. Something about the vibrations in the wall from the hi-fi. I chuckled as I fell into the bed and into a near coma.

That's it?

Heckfire! I ran out of dogfood last night. As I tipped the 30 pound bag of dry kibble to allow thae last few pieces along with the crumble dust Robin was looking up at me with expectant eys and her tail wagging. I winced as the last dry morsel clinked into her bowl. It was only half the amount usually lining that bowl. Her bright expectant eyes brought on a wave of guilt because I was supposed to go to the store yesterday but just lay about since it was inclimate weather beyond the door. When I put her bowl on the floor she zoomed over and sniffed then looked at me. I detected a tinge of sadness in those deep brown eyes. Accusatory? No, she's too loving a dog to see me in a bad light. It may have been a simple trip within of the guilty kind since I was the lazy layabout. "You could stand to lose some weight, girl," I said while munching a cookie and loosening my belt another notch. The season just past added a few pounds to this breadbasket I toted around lately. She wagged her tail and bent over her bowl commencing the crunching of her supper offering. Nakita accepted her dish with a wary look. She sniffed it, turned away and lay across the room her eyes locked on that plate with what could be interpreted as disbelief. Each nght, no matter what is placed before her, brings on the look of concern in those small expressive eyes. If she were human I would swear she was considering the offering as worth her effort to eat compared to the pounds it may place upon her sizable frame. She will stare for a while. Then with what appears to be a shrug will haul herself up and lumber over to the dish and methodically take portions into her mouth and munch crunch with deliberation through the dry food bits. Meawhile Robin having finished her portion would begin her "I need to go out" dance. Round and round with expectant eyes latched onto mine she will bounce to the door and back nervously looking through the glass door then back at me. Her nervous energy thrums through the air until I open that door and she is gone, a puff of smoke where she had been standing. Her barks alert the world she is out and determined to add to the soil in the back yard. Nakita when she hears Robin's announcement to the outside world begins to fidget while munching. When I return to the back door to check if Robin wants back in Nakita is shoving me to the side, ears high and alert, to bolt through the opening. Robin usually comes right in and Nakita regally prances out into the grass surveying her domain. Normally a bark deep within emerges from her throat to ward off any unsuspecting trespassers. Standing solidly she will turn her head one hundred and eighty degrees. The deliberation of her movement could almost be a ceremony of announcement to an unwary world that she is here and had best not be interrupted. Satisfied that she is alone she then dispatches her business and prances back to the door. I always know she is there because she throws her body against it with a majestic slam heard in three counties. It's a ritual and I failed to provide the proper portion to give it meaning. No matter that both dishes have to be covered for the night due to half their portion remaining, I still harbour guilt due to the accusatory looks I imagine coming from their beautiful brown eyes.

Parties? We don't need no stinking parties!

I've been trying to think of a New Year's day that stands out. The morre I think the less I remember. I figure it's because I was drunk through so many of the High school and colege and military days that the memories were obliterated. I don't remember anything from the childhood years either, I guess, because nothing big was made of it by my folks. And after my son was born it was just another day for an early night because he was an early riser. Right after his first year on this planet I remember flying to Clinton, NJ, to spend a week with my sister-in-law. We were practically the only passengers aboard when the plane left Charleston International Airport---hahahahahahahaha.. sorry, that always cracks me up, an international airport that sends all planes going international to Atlanta or Charlotte as a stop point. I don't even remember the time we spent in NJ because most of that period has been blocked out as well, not from alcohol abuse but simply as a means of escaping time. So I have no cute memories of the New Year being rung in. I have no wild drunken parties to regale. New Year's was just another day with no distinguishing characteristics. It was always the countdown to my birthday 45 days beyond. I would love to have some memory of one but it's just giving me a headache to rummage through the wet acreage of my brain. So I'll just say, here's another entry meaningless as it may be.

Brightly plumed tweeters

Frying pan induced brightly feathered tweeters orbited my noggin. "So pretty," I said. "Next time don't drink so much," came a retort from the orbital beyond. As my eyes focussed I saw her standing above me arms crossed. In her right fist was the pan ready for seconds. "Get up off the floor or I'll give you a reason to be there." "Sounds like a threat," I said between tweets. "No. It's a fact. Next time you'll see stars." The time was right to rise and get ready for the day. "How long was I out?" "It's the scond of January. You do the math." Her look and tone sent me scurrying. The beginning of another year of blissful married life. Oh, what would it bring. It was the perennial question at this time of year. So many times I had asked myself that same thing. Each year the answer never brought surprise. Maybe this year would be better. Maybe it was time for a change. Always the same thoughts, year after year. Being married was never what I had imagined, but I had never had a very active imagination. Wonder how that fire can be stoked?

Over easy or scrambled?

"Happy New Year!" "Oh please. Not so loud." I was struggling to hold my cannon ball head up in both hands. Sitting in front of me was a glass of water effervescing my Alka-Seltzer into my hangover potion. "What's up? You party too much last night?" A chuckle followed. I shaded my eyes from the light trying to focus on a look of anger which went south into a grimace of pain as the back door slammed. "Dog needed in." Again a chuckle. "I know you think this head of mine is funny." Wincing at the refrigerator door's slam I went on. "Could you please not make so much noise?" "I'm trying to be as quiet as possible," came the answer accompanied by the cracking of eggs and sizzle of the pan as the contents of said eggs hit the grease. I clamped my hands over my ears and closed my eyes as a groan escaped my dry lips. "How about a cup of coffee?" "Thanks. It might help. Do we have any V-8? "Check the fridge. I think there might be some at the back of the top shelf." She was tilting the frying pan and whipping bubbling grease over the whiteing eggs. The crackle and sizzle accompanying the clack clack of spatula against fry pan. Again I winced as I stood to check on the V-8. Click, sounded the door. Clatter went the condiments in the door. Scrape went the milk bottles along the grating as I pushed them aside to find the juice. I reached in and pulled it forward sending the milk bottle from the back of my hand to the floor with a crash and splash that reverberated in my head. The pain generated was excruciating. My free hand gripped my head as I tried to squeeze that pain away. "You're going to have to clean up that mess right now." I heard the command through waves of blistering pain. "Any idea where the aspirin are?" I stumbled to the counter and ripped a handful of paper towels from the roll. The tearing of the paper bounced around in the swimming pain I used to call my head. "Watch out you don't cut yourself on the glass." She slipped the spatual under the eggs to remove them. The sliding metal against metal became fingernails on blackboard magnified a thousand times. I froze in my kneeling position to calm my frayed nerves. "Oh man. How much did I drink last night?" "I stopped counting but you drank the last of Clyde's booze." "I did what?" "Yeah, you mixed the last of his bottle in that dribble of grapefruit juice." "Is he mad?" "No. He looked at you like he was proud. Even said, 'That's my nef.'" That put a smile on my face. "So why am I up so early? How come I'm not sleeping it off?" "Sleep? You wanted to head out to party." "Huh?" "Yeah, we had to hide your keys." "Uh, thanks, I guess." "Oh, you're welcome. It was the least we could do since you totalled your car." "What?" "Yeah, it was a miracle that you don't have a scratch on you. Of course you did leave the scene of the accident." "Where was that?" "Neighbor's house. You can see it if you look out the window there. Just don't let the neighbor see you. He was NOT happy to say the least." I meandered to the door nursing my Alka-Seltzer. Furtively I glanced through the window. "I don't see it." "You idiot. you think we would let you drive? You could barely walk." "Why would you tell me such a thing?" "Only because you deserve it." "Why? Did I do something to tick you off?" "If you want to call pinching every girl's ass something. Yes!" "Oh." "You had a real problem keeping your hands to yourself." "Any repercussions?" "There is that shiner." I felt my way along the wall to the medicine cabinet in the loo. Staring back from the mirror was a face with eyes black and purple. It explained why my vision was a little cloudy as well. "I guess the girls weren't too happy about the pinched bottoms?" I said as I settled back into my chair. "No. They didn't mind at all. Matter a fact they were smiling and giggling at your little gropings." "The the husbands?" "Nope. This frying pan." She said Happy New Year. I watched her swing the pan. I heard the clunk and all went black.

A Ford man

“I heard it again on the way home, dear,” my dad would say as he closed the door.

“What’s that, darling?” my mother would ask knowing the answer.

“That ping I told you about the other day,” he would answer.

“Isn’t it something you can fix?” came the routine question.

“Well, I can’t quite place the sound with an engine part,” would be the rejoinder.

Every other October with the ads for the new model cars showing up in magazines and on radio my dad would get what we called “The Fever.”

“See the USA in your Chevrolet!” Diana Shore would sing on a Sunday evening during her show.  Pictures of the new models would appear with families riding down the highway smiles beaming from windswept faces. 

“Those Chevies just don’t have the style of the new Fords,” my dad would say just loud enough to be heard.

“Yeah!” I’d shout enthusiastically.  “The new Fords look really great!”

Dad would look at me and smile. 

“Maybe we should take a ride this weekend to see the new models,” Dad would offer.

“You mean it?”

‘Yes, I mean it.  Would that be alright with you, dear?” my dad would ask mom.

“You know you don’t have to ask.”   She’d smile because she knew.

The Ford in the driveway was two years old.  It hardly had a nick in the paint nor rattle in the engine because my dad was one of the best backyard mechanics around.  He’d bought an old Buick when he needed transportation to find a job.  It cost him $200.  The engine was in need of some work and the price was high at the time but he handed over the money.  It was black and had seen a lot of miles.  The paint was scratched all over except those places that were red with rust.  When he drove up into the yard I was there running to meet him.  At the end of the drive I jumped onto the running board as he coasted toward the porch. 

“You should be more careful, son.  The car was still moving.”

“Yes sir.  I will next time.”

He opened the door and the first place he went was to the front of the car to lift the hood, or bonnet as he called it.  He bent over the fender and began wiggling wires and tightening screws.  The engine wasn’t so big.  Climbing up on the fender I looked in and saw the ground beneath surrounding it.  It was attached to a fan in front and a long pole stretched beneath all the way to the axle.  The top was flat and thin with wires poking out and joining at a black cap which dad was manhandling.  He popped the clips off the sides and lifted the wired cap up to show a shining part beneath.

“I’ll have to do some work on this before it will be good enough to rely on.”  His face was drawn up into a frown which meant he was concentrating.  He replaced the distributor cap.  He walked around the door, reached in and turned the key.  He placed his foot on the starter and mashed it.  The motor coughed into action and vibrated on its mounts.  The fan whooshed air into my face and I fell backward.

“Are you alright, son?” my dad asked looking around the door frame.

“Yes sir,” I said and climbed back onto the fender.

“Come around here, son.  I want you to step on the gas feed while I look at the engine run.”  He motioned me into the seat.  I sat on the edge and stretched my right leg toward the accelerator.  Holding onto the steering wheel I slid down off the seat and made contact with the foot feed.  Mashing it I was thrilled to hear the engine roar.

“Not so hard, son,” he shouted above the engine.

I took my weight off my foot.  The engine popped and crackled to a lower decibel.

Dad touched this and that not noticing that my mom had come out and was standing beside him.

“How does it look?” she asked.

Bang!  Dad’s head met the bonnet abruptly.  He moved out from under rubbing the spot on his noggin.

“Wish you wouldn’t do that, dear” he said.  “It’s going to need some work but I think it will answer.”  He continued to rub his head but a smile creased his face and his eyes lit up with the challenge ahead.

He spent several days under that hood.  My contribution was holding the flashlight to provide illumination around the work area in the dark spaces under the hood.  It became my job through the many years he fixed the engines we needed to travel.  When he was finished there was no clang, crackle or pop.  That engine purred.  The ride was smooth, or as smooth a ride as the shock absorbers of the day could provide.  Dad kept that car in tiptop condition until the first fever hit.  The weekly tinkering had grown tiring I reckon, plus his job had given him enough money to consider buying a newer model.  When he took this one in the man who test drove it to suggest a trade in amount was surprised at how well this old model was running.

“Who did you get to work on this old jalopy?”  He asked my dad.

“I work on it. Why do you ask?”

“Well, Mr. Croucher, I’d be willing to offer you a job.  I’ve never driven an old car like this with such a smooth engine in my life.  If you can do this well with this old rattle trap I’d love to get you into my bay to work on our newer models.’

“I already have a job, thank you,” was dad’s answer.

“Are you sure you won’t consider it?”

“I’ll think on it but, as I said, I already have a job.”

“Well, you think about my offer.  As to this trade in, I’ll give you $300 towards your new car.”

The deal was concluded and we drove home in a new car.  Dad decided to stay with the job he had.  I guess he enjoyed fixing the engines but to make it his job would take that enjoyment away.  I don’t really know.

Anyway, back to the nearer present.  Dad came in from work shaking his head.

“What’s wrong, darling?” my mother said.

“It’s that car.  There’s a racket in the engine I can’t identify.  The universal joint is going too, I’ll wager.  I think maybe we better trade it in before it breaks down and I can’t fix it.”

Mom would smile.  “If you think it’s best.’

“Yes, I don’t want to start throwing money down the drain.  How about we go this weekend?”

This visit would be the one.  We’d be driving home in a brand new Ford.  We all knew it.

As he planned on Saturday afternoon we drove downtown to Paul Motor Company the local Ford dealer at the time.

We pulled up front and I jumped out to race inside.  The new models were always inside the building behind glass windows that reached to the sidewalk.  For me there were the new plastic models that sat beneath glass at the counter in front.  I would always go to admire the scale model replicas provided for child collectors like me.

“Hello, Al!” shouted the salesman.  “You know that mechanic’s job offer is still open for you.”  His smile was broad and friendly.

“I’m still thinking about it,” dad would say.  It was a good five or six years now that he had been thinking about it.  “Right now I’d like to look at the new models.”

“OK, Al.  We have the newest models right over here.  They just came in this week.  And look at those lines.  They are lower and longer than they have ever been.  And look at the color choices.  Yes sir, Al, these are the best models we have ever stocked.  We’re proud of what we have this year.  The man who drives this brand new futuristic Ford is a proud man.  I drive that black and white two door parked right over there and a smoother ride I haven’t had since driving that old Buick you brought in back in ’51.”

“Can I sit in it?”  dad was opening the door and sliding in.

“You most certainly can.  Feel that seat and grip that wheel.  Speedometer reads 100, not that you will ever need to drive that fast but it’s nice to know the power is there.  Two-hundred and fifty horses under that hood.  You will love this car.  I do.”

“How about a test drive?”  Dad asked.

“Why certainly.  Would you care to give me your keys and let my man drive yours to give a trade-in value?” 

“I think that would be fair.”  Dad handed him the keys which he took to a mechanic in back.  He came out with a new set of keys in hand.

“Come with me, Al.  I’ve got a beauty out back we can take for a spin.  You are going to love this car.  I’m telling you it is the best Ford ever.”

Dad went with the salesman out the back.  Mom and I stayed in the showroom and waited while they took the new car for a spin.  I ran back over to the model cars trying to figure which one I wanted this year.  I’d know when dad came back.

About twenty minutes later they walked back through the door.  Dad’s smile was a dead giveaway.  We were going home in a brand new Ford.

 Dad smiled at me and nodded at mom as he and the salesman went into the small room to haggle over the price.  Wrangling over price was another part of the whole deal that brought some pleasure to dad.  Their voices went from high to low to higher while the price sparring went on.  The fellow driving our car returned writing on a pad.  He stopped at the office door.  It became quiet.  The driver tossed the keys into the little office and walked away.  The spin for the best price began again. 

In about thirty minutes dad walked out with a long contract and the new set of keys in his hand and a broad grin across his face.

“Honey, you had better go check the glove box to see if there is anything we should take back home with us.  Rickey, come over here. Joe here has something for you.”

Mom went to the car at the curb to retrieve our personal items while I walked over to the display case.

“Well, son,” said the salesman, “which one would you like to have?”

“Do you have one like dad bought?”

“As a matter of fact we do,” he said reaching into the display case.  He pulled out a brand new model Ford that replicated the one we would be driving home in.  “Here you go,” he said.

I took it in my hands.  Inside the seats and dash were perfect.  The finish was bright shiny and without blemish.  The undercarriage was molded to look just like the underside of the real thing.  It was a perfect model to be added to the others I had received each year the fever took hold of dad.

They shook hands.  He reminded dad that that job was open for him anytime he decided to start.  Dad once more politely refused the offer.

“I’m serious, Al.  These cars you bring in to trade are usually as good as the ones you drive out brand new.  I know you are the only mechanic who touches them.  You are wasting your time at any other job.  You were born to be an ace mechanic.  We really want you.”

Dad just said thanks every year and walked to his brand new car to drive home.  Those days were always special.