Papa bought our first car,
an El-Car, in 1917.
This was the old style "touring car". Open
air. It was olive green with a 1/4 inch stripe of brilliant red around
the top of the body part. It had a split windshield. The large narrow wooden
spoke wheels were a soft yellow.
When ever it rained, Papa hurridly buttoned black
leather curtains (stored under the back seat) from the tops of the doors
to the roof. Inside, we were damp but never wet.
The doors were thin and opened up like cupboard
doors. One step to the running board, one high step to the car floor and
there we were perched.
Mama would gladly have ridded behind "Doll" and
"Charlie", our gentle team of matched chestnuts, but they don't live forever.
She was scared to death of "The Machine". Coal oil
she knew. It lit our lamps. But gasoline!!!!
However, on Saturdays, armed with rags and a bucket
of soapy water, she polished it.
If ride in "The Machine", she must, it would at
least be a clean one.
She would sit in the back seat, eyes closed, praying
that we at least wouldn't fall into the ditch.
Whenever we came to an intersection or she saw some
car coming, she would call to Papa, "Blow that whistle". (as if he were
blind).
The El-Car was capable of 30 miles per hour, but
out of deference to Mama's fear we never exceeded twenty.
We met perhaps five other cars on the dirt road
on a one and a half hour drive.
When "The Machine", brought us safely home with
limbs intact, I know she said a prayer of thanks.
That was Mama.
This story was given to me by a lady I was a caregiver
for. Her older sister had written it about her mother. I imagine a lot
of the older folks felt the same way about the automobile.
