Father Far and Away: Part II

May, 1975. Dad, Mom, and my little brother Jim (age 7) had driven twelve hours south to pick my brother and I up after my first year of college (Dave was a junior, but did not have a car.). We hadn't been home since Christmas Break.

It was great to see the folks; it was great to see my little brother who had become my little buddy when our siblings had gone off to college without us. Now I, too, was away for most of the year, but we had three wonderful months waiting on the other end of a long, winding haul up I-75 to Michigan.

We carried our things from the dorm to the back of our Ford Country Squire. [Dad had sold the VW bus in 1966.]

Dave began loading his things in the folded down rear of the long station wagon, but Dad soon pulled the items out and re-packed them.

My brother stood back with a shrug, swallowing the urge to explain why he had packed the items as he had. He was only two years older than I but much closer to the rites of manhood, much more eager to take the lead, much more confident that he could pack a car without Dad's help. All this was in that subtle shrug my father did not see.

I was nineteen, but as the fourth-born child I was all too willing to stand back and let Dad do such things. After years of pitching tents, clearing land, building a barn, digging the well, and building our family home, I had learned both how to work and how to step back when Dad was in "I'd rather do it myself" mode.

This was a happy scene, but Dad's smile momentarily faded as his eyes assessed the mass, density, and breakability of each box and duffle bag we handed him until it was all as snug as a chick in an eggshell. Flipping up the tailgate with a thud, he raised the electric window with the twist of a key. His smile returned. Mom kissed us "hello" as if for the first time as we climbed into the car, and we were off. The plan was to drive all afternoon and evening with no stops except to grab some burgers and change drivers as needed.

In the five years prior to this trip, Dad and Mom had enrolled four children into college. Dad had purchased this 1964 Ford from his brother Bob a few years before. It had been a good car, one of three in the family fleet of old cars, each with well over 100,000 miles on them. My father's motto with cars was, "Use 'em up; wear 'em out; make 'em do; or do without." It was his intention to drive each of our cars until the wheels fell off. In some families that is just an expression, but I’m here to tell you that on that day in May, about halfway home in the late afternoon, on northbound I-75 just west of Berea, Kentucky.... the right rear wheel of our Country Squire station wagon literally fell off and began tumbling violently around in the well just behind my seat.

Fortunately we were in the right lane, the slow lane, the gas-saving lane, so the vehicle veered itself onto the shoulder of the interstate and Dad brought the lame thing to a halt. We were about to spend our first night in a motel.

To Be Continued...