It's been a while since the last chapter.
A lot of things have been happening and I've been busy.
But, I've decided to add my January chapter in its entirety.
The title is The Most Reliable Bugger
As always, your comments are welcome and needed.
The Most Reliable Bugger
“Geezus Christ its cold!” exclaimed my dad. “I wonder if the Olds’ll start!”
It was the day after Christmas and the weather had become colder and colder. That morning, the thermometer read eleven below zero.
Just like his dad, my grandpa and his brother, my Uncle Paul, my dad was a self-professed Oldsmobile guy. We had the 1956 two tone green one that my grandpa had given us and the older, black ’55 Olds. With their single headlights in each front fender and extensive chrome grillwork they reminded me of two overgrown frowning bugs.
Dad had other opinions of them.
“Most reliable cars ever made,” he would tell me, nodding towards them with a wink.
I never questioned him, even when he made statements wondering about their ability to start in cold weather.
He once told me that Packards were the best cars ever made. I guess that was why we had the given up for dead, turquoise colored 1952 Packard hibernating in the side yard between our house and the lilac bushes. It hadn’t run in a while, but maybe when you have a “best car ever made”, you’re reluctant to part with it.
Scotty’s dad, Ray, on the other hand was a Ford guy. They had an old 1956 turquoise and cream colored Ford pickup truck and, a much newer yellow and black “T’Bird” convertible.
Ray, with a grin, used to say we had two old Olds.
I thought it was rather clever sounding. But, when I informed my dad of this funny play on words, he just frowned and bit down on his Pall Mall cigarette.
To him it must have been an “insult” to his Oldsmobiles, his running stock, even the one that was equipped with one of the day’s (1956 that is) latest “time-saving” technology..
The newer ’56 had a photoelectric device that Oldsmobile referred to as the “Autronic Eye”. I had puzzled over the word “Autronic”. It wasn’t found in the dictionary, even the big one down at Geneva’s public library.
But one day I figured it out. Aha! I snapped my fingers. It’s a combination of “Automatic” and “Electronic”; “Autronic”! Gee, those guys at Oldsmoblile sure were smart fellows!
It was a strange, futuristic rocket ship shaped device that sat on the driver’s side of the dash near the little vent window. Its purpose was to automatically dim the headlights from high beams to low beams whenever an oncoming vehicle’s headlights were caught by its “Eye”.
My dad often would skeptically refer to it as the “Moronic Eye” and, in more heated moments as that “Gotdammed Eye”. Other times, though, he just muttered and yelled at it with a choice curse word or two.
Even though he didn’t use a lot of curse words as part of his daily vocabulary and he wasn’t as imaginative or varied as his brother, my Uncle Paul, the “Eye” tormented him enough that he could become almost animated, repeating the same words only in different adjective use.
“Gotdammit, you Gotdam thing. Gotdammedsonofabitch. Gotdammed Eye!”
The Autronic Eye was oblivious to my dad’s anger and swearing; it seemed to have a mind of its own. I guess 1956 “time-saving devices” like the “Eye” were still in their infancy. Maybe the “bugs” just weren’t worked out of it.
The “Eye” just wasn’t that accurate.
It had the annoying habit of inadvertently dimming the headlights at the most unexpected times. It might catch sight of a street lamp or some other non-automotive light that came into its field of vision and decide the headlights needed to go to low beams.
Dad hated it of course, saying he preferred the metal foot switch. He would say as much to my mom or one of us kids but never to an “outsider”, especially someone like Scotty’s dad.
“What the hell? Geezus Christ, I could do a better job of it!” he would cuss when it dimmed the lights.
But, as I recall, the footswitch on the floor of the ’55 wasn't a favorite of his either. It could sometimes get stuck from rust or ice. Then it would reap his wrath as well.
It seemed that cars and their individual peculiarities gave my dad stress, not to the point of apoplexy, but just enough to warrant a reason to use a good swear word or two.
One summer evening when Dad was driving the ’55, the headlights suddenly dimmed. “Jiminy Christmas, that gotdammed eye!” he exclaimed, thinking it was the “gotdammed “Moronic Eye”.
But, then he realized he was driving the non “Eye”equipped Oldsmobile.
“Now what the hell? Gotdammit!”
Stopping the car, there was a “clunk!” and then crash! The sound of breaking glass accompanying it.
Dad and I got out to investigate. The left headlight had fallen out of the rusty fender.
More swear words followed. “Gotdammit!” he exclaimed, kicking the broken headlight to the side of the road. “Gotdammed rusty Olds”.
But now, we were in the dead of winter. Cold weather starting was important.
I knew that at least their radiators were winter ready. I had helped.
Before the first frost, in late September, the old man would prepare as he always did for the upcoming winter and its onslaught.
“John, get an Army blanket and crawl under the Olds,” he would command. “I want you to drain the radiator,” pronouncing radiator with a short “A” rather than the more correct long “A” vernacular.
Since we didn't have a driveway, the family autos (the running ones that is) were on the street in front of our house. The lack of a driveway meant that all work was done on the street. This suited my dad’s purposes just fine, especially when it came to radiator draining.
I knew the drill: First, spread an old army blanket under the vehicle in question, making sure it was far enough back of the radiator’s drain spigot. Lie on it, and then turn the spigot's handle open.
As it poured out upon the street and ran to the curb, then down towards the street drain, the coolant made a colorful show. When the flow ebbed to a sporadic dripping, I would turn the spigot closed. It was an easy job. My dad had shown me numerous times how it was done.
“Which one?” I asked smartly.
“The old Olds,” he said, forgetting he was almost parroting Scotty’s dad. “Then do the other. I picked up some ethylene glycol antifreeze from down at Wille’s.
“Wille’s” was Wilbur Wille’s BF Goodrich auto repair and supply shop at the corner of Second and State Streets in downtown Geneva. A place that knew the old man well; he was a frequent visitor.
In his quest to keep his rolling stock in working order, Dad would stop in at Wille’s for some automotive advice and often, a “deal”; some type of free or reduced priced automotive related item.
“Got a deal down at Wille’s,” the old man would tell my mom as he strolled in, confident as a cock of the walk.
Mom would just roll her eyes and murmur, “hmm”.
The “deals” he got were car wax and chrome cleaners and other stuff that seemed to be old, dried up or even used stuff. I wondered if the ethylene glycol (anti-freeze) was one of those “deals”.
As for ethylene glycol, it was of particular importance. During his stint in the Army, Dad had learnt from the motor pool guys that “ethylene glycol coolant” was their antifreeze of choice.
“John,” he would advise, lighting up a Pall Mall, “never use that alcohol based antifreeze. It’ll bugger up the radiator sure as hell.” The words came out as smoothly as the smoke from his cigarette.
I would nod appreciatively, reflecting at the same time that, I rode a bike; it didn’t have, let alone, need, a radiator.
However, I did catch that word “bugger”. Hmm. Now there was something to add to my list of useful words! I was not sure if it was a swear word; I hadn’t heard it from any other adults, or kids and I was not very sure of its meaning, but it sure sounded pretty neat.
Along with this automotive knowledge gained from the Army’s motor pool, he had also secured a good supply of the Army’s blankets. During the cold weather months, all of us had one of the dark olive colored woolen blankets on our beds. The excess was kept in the mothball laden army foot lockers that my dad also secured before being discharged. They were stacked in the basement next to the furnace’s oil tank.
When automotive work was performed, the old man always seemed to need a cigarette as an added aid. If he had trouble starting a car, he would pop open the hood, pull off the air cleaner, light his smoke and then go to work on the carburetor while I or one of the older kids turned the ignition key.
Once he even used a bit of ether spray. It was one of Wille’s “deals”. That was how I learned that ether was flammable.
“Turn the key John,” he ordered. Dutifully, I turned the key. Dad sprayed a bit ether into the carburetor’s throat while hand pumping its linkage.
No start. I let up on the key. He had instructed me not to “grind’ on the key.
“Gotdammit! Turn the gotdammed key again! Quit buggerin’ around!”
Buggerin’ around? Another way to use the word. How about that!
Whirr, whirr whirr. The car’s engine spun over and over.
More spray down the carb.
Nothing.
I could almost see the cuss words floating like a vapor out from under the hood.
Dad looked up at me, held up his palm to stop. Then, he sprayed some more into the stubborn thing. Biting down on his lit cigarette, he waved his arm to me with a circular motion. turn the key.
As he gazed into carb’s throat, muttering, “What the hell, gotdammit,” it blew.
The black '55 Olds had a bad habit of backfiring, even when we were just driving through town. Sometimes it sounded like a gunshot, other times, a cannon. At least that's what I imagined the sound those weapons made. Sometimes when it backfired, the noise made passersby jump. Dad thought it was funny.
It decided to do it then.
With a loud bang, the thing backfired. An orange flame like a jet’s exhaust blew straight up and out of the carburetor as the engine roared to life. With catlike reflexes, my dad luckily escaped the carburetor’s blowtorch flame, banging his head on the hood as he jerked his head from the angry thing.
“Geezus Christ, turn that bugger off,” he roared, eyes as big as silver dollars.
My eyes were even bigger, “is it gonna blow up?” my voice quavered; Gee whiz! I had almost roasted the old man!
“Oh, hell no. I was just a good clean-out. It ain’t nuthin to get excited about,” he said fearlessly. “I just didn’t want ya’s drivin off with the Olds,” he explained logically. But I noticed, his face was pale and he had bitten through his lit smoke.
The ether spray was dutifully discarded.
But this morning it was really cold. I sighed. I knew their radiators were full of the cold weather juice. But would they start?
I did not relish sitting in the cold Oldsmobile turning the key while my dad swore at the thing’s dead engine.
Sure enough; he was already planning for my help if needed.
“John, I wantcha to come out to help me start the Olds if I has problems”.
I watched as the old man trudged out to his car, the black Oldsmobile, cigarette in mouth, a black watchman’s cap on his head, and his hands clad in brown jersey gloves.
Whirr, whirr, whirr.
I watched and listened as he endeavored to start the stubborn thing. I could almost hear him inside the car, “gotdammit, gotdammed Olds,” he would be cussing.
But then, just as the Shell tow truck with the jump starting generator was driving by, a cloud of white smoke magically appeared from its tail pipe. It started!
Ronnie the driver, stopped. ‘Havin troubles wit da Olds?” his grin was a chesire cat’s grin. My dad said he was too smart for his own britches. “Betcha it needs a tuneup!”
“Hell no!” exclaimed the old man, waving Ronnie off with the back of his hand.
Ronnie frowned, rolled up his window and drove off.
I breathed a sigh of relief. No braving the elements for me, I could go back to my chemistry set, forgetting, that I too, would be out in the frigid weather delivering papers.
The old man came in triumphant, crowing, “Most reliable car ever made!”
I nodded, my mom just looked over murmuring; she was busy preparing pancakes for my brother Jeff,
“Uh huh.”
I suppose she had heard other, more expletive defining terms regarding the Olds. Little brother Jeff, on the other hand smiled brightly. His blonde hair still wet from a bath was translucent, making his head appear bald. To him, the old man was always right and besides, there were pancakes being made.
Later that afternoon, the News Depot delivery truck came by dropping off my route’s newspapers. It was time to start delivering papers.
As I wiped the Christmas day snow from my bike’s seat, I shivered. It was buggerin’ cold! I mumbled to myself.
And man o manisheverts it was cold! it was buggerin' cold!
Later, when the TV newsman Fahey Flynn asked his weatherman, “How cold was it today PJ?”
PJ Hoff replied, saying that the high temperature for the day was eight degrees, the low, eleven below zero.
As I rode along, finishing my paper route, darkness was settling in. I flexed my fingers and toes; all but my thumbs were numb. Even my ears felt like they were burning through my stocking cap. I was so chilled that when Scotty came over that evening to ask if I wanted to see his slot car Christmas present, I politely declined. I was not going outside again. At least for that day!
But the next day, it warmed up. Scotty came by, his face red from the cold. “Hey John! Let’s go over to my place and play Eskimos,” he suggested. The hearty soul that he was, seemed to thrive in the cold. Much of the Christmas vacation, he spent playing outside, building an igloo under the maple tree in his front yard.
“Well, okay. But later maybe we could race slot cars when we get cold,” I proposed.
“Sure!” Scotty’s grin filled his rosy face.
One of his Christmas presents was a full blown slot car racing track with a dragster that raced against a replica Jaguar. The track took up half of his bedroom.
I was in awe of the amount of presents that he received. No socks and underwear for him. At least he never showed me them if he did get them. It must have seemed to him that all kids got such a large assortment of gifts: toy model airplanes to build, a baseball mitt, board games; all of that on top of the slot car racing track. I was justifiably envious.
As I was leaving late Friday afternoon, after having spent much of the day playing Eskimo and racing slot cars, Scotty’s dad drove up in his blue Geneva squad car.
“Hiya John, you stayin for dinner?” he grinned, his square jaw jutting out.
Friday night dinners at Scotty’s house were often “breakfast for dinner” type of affairs. Sometimes they would have waffles or pancakes and breakfast sausages and other times, bacon, eggs and toast.
One breakfast a day was enough for me. Besides, they often poured syrup on their breakfast sausage. To me, it was like pouring Kool-Aid on Wheaties, Ugh!
“Uh, no sir. I gotta go do my paper route.”
“Oh yeah. That’s right. You’re a paperboy now. Aren’tcha?”
Sometimes it seemed I could prattle on when I was asked about my paper route. “Yep. I gotta new basket from Nick’s and I deliver the News, American, Beacon.....”. Before I could finish reciting my workload, method of transport and maybe even my arrangement with Nick, Scotty’s dad interrupted me.
“Wow!” He had heard it numerous times before.
I quickly put on my cold weather gear, I noticed Scotty’s dad appeared suitably impressed.
“You’re deliverin’ them papers up and down Richards Street on yer bike?”
“Yep, and some of the sidestreets and even Anderson Boulevard. But not so many on Union and Center or even Stevens Street”
My face went red thinking about old man Hansen on Stevens Street and his front door window. Did he know about that? I held my breath.
Nothing was mentioned.
He nodded, thoughtfully, rubbing his chin and then went on, “I s’pose yer mom is taking you ‘round during these cold days. You know in the Olds?”
I shook my head, “nope, I’m riding my bike.” Then I added a bit uncertainly, biting my lip while puffing out my chest, “My fingers get a little numb, that’s all.”
I don’t think he really believed me as he wrinkled his brow as he listened, “Well then, stay warm. It’s durn cold out there!” Grinning, he patted my shoulder and winked as I left, closing the kitchen door behind me, repeating, “Stay warm!”
I pulled on my stocking cap and stepped out the door, into the freezing air.
Walking home, I mumbled, “Geezus Christ, its buggerin’ cold!”
Ray’s question about my Mom driving me on my route had me wondering; should I ask Mom if she would do that, drive me around in her car? Willie and Jerry’s mom even delivered the papers for them!
But then I remembered how she had remarked about a paper route being hard work, especially in the winter. Maybe that would disappoint her that I didn’t listen to her advice.
I shook my head. Nope, nope, nope, I better not. Then, I upbraided myself: Gee whiz John, what are you, a big baby?
After all, I was gonna be eleven years old pretty soon. I was in the fifth grade. Heck! Next year would be my last year in grade school!
And so, I went on, delivering my papers through the month of January. Some days were just plain cold, but others were absolutely frigid with temperatures below zero.
The first week, after Christmas vacation, it warmed up. And though it had snowed Sunday and Monday, on Tuesday, the eighth, my birthday, the temperature was in the forties. But then it snowed that Thursday, Friday and Saturday.
As we watched the Channel Five weather, that night, the TV weatherman, Harry Volkman described how a high pressure system was following the snowstorms with very cold air. The high started somewhere in Canada and slid down over the Chicago area bringing its cold, subzero temperatures.
By Sunday morning, the temperature was eight below and rose only to a cold ten above zero the next day.
It was too cold to play Eskimos. Scotty and I raced cars on his slot car track, the cold was forgotten temporarily.
But Monday morning came. The temperature was eleven below. I delivered my papers in frigid five degree temperatures while riding and half dragging my bike through the snow clogged streets. My fingers and toes were numb. They ached as they thawed out later that evening.
But Tuesday, the fifteenth, was even worse; eighteen below zero! The milk that the Johansen Dairy milkman delivered was frozen, its contents pushing the little wax lid out of the bottle.
For breakfast, my little brother and sister, Jojo and Jeff , made ice milk adding cinnamon sugar to the frozen milk that they poured into their cereal bowls. Thye cereal itself omitted.
My dad gazed out the window, puffing on his Pall Mall, cursing the weather.
“Geezuz Christ”. Then, he stopped and stared, gazing icily at his growing nemesis, Ronnie and the Shell tow truck driving by.
Just like the milkman, Ronnie and his Shell tow truck were making stop after stop, jump starting cars. You could hear its rear mounted generator echoing in the cold silence. Its sound was of an ominous power lawn mower.
As we walked to school, we stopped and watched in fascination as Ronnie, cigarette in mouth, pulled up next to the dead vehicle. He hopped out of the truck wearing heavily insulated, brown workman’s clothing, the name Shell Oil Co emblazoned in yellow upon his jacket. As he popped the car’s hood and attached the long cables to start the stalled thing, he would say a few choice words of advice to the owner about tune-ups and car care. All with an ever present sardonic grin
We didn’t watch for too long, it was too cold.
I’m not sure what he charged for starting frozen cars and dead batteries, but I guess for the people who used his services, it was well worth it. His advice was another thing.
My dad, on the other hand, would have nothing of it. He considered calling the Shell tow truck for a jump, an insult to his automobile acumen. And, he made darn sure he wouldn’t have to call them. From oil dipstick heaters to even a heating pad, he had all sorts of devices plugged into the long extension cords that he strung out to the Oldsmobiles in the street. He was certain that they would keep the freezing autos warm and ready to start.
No sir, that Shell truck was not going to be needed by him! And, he sure didn’t want to hear any smart aleck suggestions from Ronnie the driver.
But, this string of continuous below zero mornings had him feeling uneasy. I could tell as he watched Harry Volkman’s weather forecast, groaning as Harry explained that yet another high pressure system was sliding south as if on parade.
Even PJ Hoff, the Channel Two weatherman was proclaiming a string of record cold. My dad was beside himself.
"Gotdammit!,” was all he could muster as he had Jeff switch the television channel from one weatherman to another.
Each one was ominously predicting below zero temperatures.
******
I began to dawdle about delivering my papers. I grumbled to myself about just warming up from the walk home from school and now I had to go deliver these dumb papers. I began to dread the ride that seemed so easy only a few months earlier.
I wondered if this was what the arctic explorers went through, numb hands and feet, no hope of ever being warm. Their bodies later found frozen in the snow.
Then I remembered the movie where a cowboy was freezing in a blizzard. He shot a buffalo, slit it open and crawled inside its body to stay warm. They found him later, frozen inside the buffalo with only his head sticking out! I shuddered thinking about the gruesome sight.
By the time I was half way done, my ears, fingers and toes were numb, even my the heels of my feet were numb. I cursed the weather, my paper route and anything else in the vicinity. I cursed out loud. Who cares? There was no one else outside but me, braving the wind, pulling my dumb bike through the buggerin’ snow drifts.
“Gotdammit!” I shouted.
A car’s headlights appeared.
I looked over my shoulder. A police car! It was one of Geneva’s blue Chevy police cars!
Wild thoughts filled my head.
Had someone heard me?
Did they call the cops?
******
“This is the police. Can I help you ma’am?” “Yes officer, There is some kid out in our neighborhood swearing up a storm. Please arrest him for using bad words.”
“What? The hell you say! Where is he?”
“Why he’s on Richards Street officer! He’s that same kid who broke Old Man Hansen’s window last month!”
“Why that little urchin! Okay ma’am, you stay inside. He might be dangerous! We’ve had trouble like this before! But we’ll catch him and throw the book at him!”
******
“Hi Johnny, I betcha you’re freezin’. Wanna hop inside my car and warm up?”
It was Ray, Scotty’s dad. Did he hear me swearing? Did someone call the police on me?
“Uh, yessir. It is cold. Thanks,” I entered the car uncertain as to what might happen next.
“You know, it’s below zero already. I was thinkin’ about you and yer paper route today. I thought I’d drive by to see how yer doin’.”
“Well, I’m half way done and it’s buggerin’ cold out!”
Ooh, I winced as I let out the word.
Not in front of an adult, John, you dumb pig!
My faced glowed a deep red.
Scotty’s dad looked at me in astonishment, his eyes wide, eyebrows raised. Then he snorted, chuckling and grinning as he agreed, “yep, it is buggerin’ cold out there!
By the way, Johnny, do you know what “buggerin’” means?”
“Uh, it’s like sayin’ it’s really, really cold?” I asked.
“Well, I suppose that’s one way of thinkin’. Tell you what, just don’t use that word around girls or ladies, like your ma.”
He thought for a minute and then added, “and probably your Pa too. Okay?”
“Okay!”
So, as I warmed up in the car, Ray offered me half of his Milky Way candy bar, We talked about the Geneva basketball team. How it was winning all those games. How their coach was always sick.
Scotty’s dad told me how Scotty had a lazy eye and that he had to be held back a grade because of his poor eyesight.
He even talked about his days in the Marines, playing for the Marine football team. I was enthralled.
We talked about my old man’s Oldsmobiles.
“Those things startin’ I see,” he commented.
“Yep. Dad’s got stuff to keep them warm,” I explained.
He nodded. He already knew. He had been over to see the electrical methods my dad was using.
After about fifteen minutes, Ray suggested that I hurry and finish my route.
I nodded and stepped back out into the ice blast. My fingers had thawed somewhat.
Not knowing what else to say, I waved and yelled, “Thanks!”
Ray grinned and drove off.
******
If he encountered a starting problem needing two people, Dad would have me sit in the car and, as usual turn the key while he fiddled with the carburetor.
I watched as white puffs of his breath separated themselves from the smoke in his mouth. There were no new swear words emanating from my his mouth, just variations of the same in various degrees of volume. I did hear a sonsofbuggeringotdammit once. But I decided it sounded too silly to be even used as a swear word even if I was a kid.
By the third week of January, every day seemed to have below zero temperatures. Everyone grumbled and cursed, even my mom got in on the act, complaining with a few dammits!
On Monday, the temperature hit seventeen below zero, the next day, it was two below. But, on Wednesday, it reached eighteen below! Not again!
“Geezus Christ! Gotdammed cold weather!”
Dad bundled up and went out to start the cars, hoping, I presumed, that his array of electric cords had kept the frozen things semi frigid in this extreme cold. They would start for sure, just like last time.
I watched as he walked down the walk. Suddenly, he stopped and picked up the extension cord, examining one end and then the other. He gazed back at the house and then sadly at the two frozen Oldsmobiles. Then up and down the street.
Unplugged!
The extension cords were unplugged!
I could see his breath puffing out, probably with a few gotdammits and sonsabitches carried away in the white air.
Dad walked over to my mom’s car, opened the door and sat down. As he turned its key, I could hear the engine of her green two tone ’56 Olds slowly turning over. Suddenly, it roared, white smoke shot out of its tailpipe as it churned to life, chugging away.
Placing a brick on its accelerator, my dad got out, a big frozen grin on his face. I could almost hear him thinking, “most reliable car ever made”.
But, then he sat down in his black ’55, he turned the key.
Nothing.
No start.
No sound at all.
A dead battery.
The hood was opened immediately. He peered into the compartment.
Looking back to the house, he saw me at the window. With a wave, he motioned for me to come out.
I sighed and nodded my head. Quickly, I donned my winter gear and came out.
“John, I wantchas to turn the key when I tell ya to.”
“Okay”. I knew this drill.
I sat in the driver’s seat and awaited his command.
He banged a few things under the hood and then whirled his hand in the circular motion in which I was familiar.
Whirr, whirr, whirr, whirr, whirr. The battery had some life!
I ground on the key, not noticing his hands waving to stop. It was only when I heard him exclaiming, “Geezus Christ! Gotdammit! Stop buggerin’ the thing!” did I stop.
“John, you wait here, in the Olds, we’re gonna jump 'er,” he explained.
Jump? Man, I had only done that once. The old man had almost electrocuted himself with that decrepit set of jumper cables, another one of those “deals” that he had purchased at Wille’s.
That time, when he attempted the “jump”, I had witnessed a long electrical spark being emitted from the hinge of its hood.
Dad pulled my mom’s Oldsmoblile up to the front of the black ’56, set the emergency brake, applied the brick to the accelerator and hopped out. Then he retrieved the keys from the ignition of the ‘55.
“Cable’s in the trunk,” he grunted.
As he rattled and rummaged through the trunk, I wondered if I would be electrocuted in this ‘jumpstarting” process. I had already received a shock from Scotty’s slot car racing track when I slipped and sprawled upon it, my tongue touching the metal contact point on the track.
That was a neck jerking jolt. Would this be worse? Would my fingers have to be pried from the ignition key? Would I just melt on the spot?
I pondered the gory details.
The old man walked by, gleefully waving the cables, a lit cigarette in mouth. I watched as he first connected one end to the dead battery, then to the running vehicle.
“Okay, John. Turn ‘er over,” he shouted waving his hand in the circular motion.
Whirr, whirr, whirr. I watched him intently for the stop motion. The engine turned over faster and faster.
Nothing. No start.
He scratched his head and thought.
Just then, Ronnie pulled up in the Shell tow truck.
“Whatcha doin there’ Big John?”
The ever present smart grin on his face was apparent immediately.
Some of the men in town referred to my dad as Big John. Ronnie was one of them.
“Havin a lttle trouble wit da Olds,” the old man acted nonchalant about it.
“Prolly needs a tuneup!”
The old man was insulted, “Oh hell no, it’s just someone’s gone and unplugged its dipstick heater.”
Then he looked suspiciously at Ronnie.
“Weren’t me!” Ronnie was even more insulted then the old man.
As I watched the exchange between the two, I began to shiver. Gee whiz, hurry up, you guys!
“Tell ya what Johnny old boy, I’ll help ya start her. You jump in and turn the key and I’ll man the cables! We’ll get ‘er goin’,” he said confidently. “No charge!”
A “deal”! The old man couldn’t resist.
He looked at Ronnie with some misgiving, “Okay, but you be careful with her,” he instructed.
Ronnie frowned and waved him off.
I jumped out of the car and stood back, my curiosity overcoming my shivering.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, Dad looked at Ronnie and nodded.
“Okay Big John, turn ‘er over,” Ronnie waved his hand just like the old man did.
Whirr, whirr, whirr.
No start.
“Just a minute Johnny!” Ronnie ran over to the Shell truck, rummaged around and then returned with a can.
I recognized the container.
Ether!
Holy cow!
I moved farther away. I had no intention of being roasted alive.
“Hey Ronnie, I don’t like usin’ that stuff!” Dad shouted over the calliope that was the Shell tow truck, its running generator and the roar of my mom's car with the brick on its accelerator.
Ronnie grinned even wider and waved him off.
Then he gave the can a few short spurts.
“Okay, give ‘er a whirl,’ he motioned with his hand.
Whirr, whirr, whirr.
Nothing.
“Jusssst a minute,” More spray.
“Okay,” hand whirling in the now compulsory circular motion.
Whirr, whirr, whirr.
Nothing.
“What the hell, you sonofabitch you,” Ronnie cursed the car.
More spray and some pumps on the carburetor linkage.
“Okay, again” hand whirled.
Ronnie glanced over at me with questioning look; my fingers were in my ears.
Whirr, whir, whirr, BOOM!
There was a loud boom, a flash of flame, a big puff of smoke and then the roar of the engine.
She started!
I gaped at the scene. I had never been outside the car when it had happened.
“Sonofabitch!” I exclaimed. Luckily, no one heard me over the noise.
Ronnie’s sardonic grin was gone just as fast as the smoke and flame appeared.
I stared at his “Shell Oil Co” badge. It was badly blackened.
There was a distinct smell of burnt hair filling my nose. Ronnie's hair was singed.
His eyes were as big as saucers.
“Gotdammit John! What the hell kinda veehickul you got runnin’ here? Son of a bitch if it didn’t almost roast me alive.” Ronnie sounded each word out slowly, trembling as he did.
The old man hopped out of the Olds, almost dancing a bit, tears in his eyes, grinning ear to ear and coughing cigarette smoke out his mouth.
“I told ya I didn’t wanna use that stuff, Ronnie!” He could hardly get the words out in between his guffaws.
“Geezus Christ Almighty! What the hell is this thing, a jet engine?”
“Ronnie, there’s no need for that type of language ‘round my kids,” the old man admonished, nodding towards me.
“Oh, yeah, sorry about thems words, Johnny,” Ronnie looked over at me ruefully rubbing his singed hair.
I shrugged my shoulders, “Okay”.
Even though I had heard variations of the same words from my dad and my Uncle Paul, I still appreciated the old man sticking up for me.
That was the last time Ronnie stopped by to offer the old man help with his car.
That suited my dad just fine.
“Serve’s him right,’ he sniffed, as Ronnie drove off. Ronnie drove away, his grin was already back in place. “Think’s he’s a smart bugger anyhow.”
Although I initially suspected that Earl or DJ had crept over to unplug the things, it was never determined how they became unplugged. Probably the old man tripped on them the night before and inadvertently disconnected them. One thing is for sure, it didn’t happen again. The old man checked them every night.
As for the brutal temperatures and my paper route, they continued into the first part of February and I continued to deliver papers.
******
Over that course of time, until the cold eased, Scotty’s dad would nonchalantly pull up at the same spot just about every late afternoon as I did my paper route, offering me a seat in the warm police car, half a candy bar and a chat.
I don't remember ever telling Scotty or my mom and dad about his gesture. It just seemed the right thing to do.
But, I wondered back then if he ever did that for the other paperboys in town.
I guess I’ll never know.
******
As for the old Oldmobiles, they continued to start through that cold winter. The ’55 gained some notoriety for its pistol and cannon sounding backfire. My folks kept them a few more years. After all, they were “The Most Reliable Cars Ever Made”.