Monday Memoirs: On the road and asleep in a window well in the early 1950s

My next column, in news stands this Thursday (it’s free - take two copies), refers to an upcoming motorcycle trip to Halifax during which I’ll fulfill the last promise I made to my father - after he passed away in 2003.

I’ll be steering and he’ll be in a saddlebag in the form of cremated remains.

(Don’t feel spooked. He’s a completely harmless old soul.)

Planning for the last trip we’ll make together reminded me of some of my earliest memories of times on the road together.

After he rescued me from a tractor headed toward the Burgessville Creek he attempted to familiarize me with some of the other important controls in a vehicle - other than brightly coloured starter buttons - by sitting me on his lap and teaching me how to steer the family car, a roomy black Ford Model A.

During a Sunday drive in the same car Mother saw smoke coming from under her feet, hollered at dad to pull over and my mother, two older sisters and I were soon standing in a roadside ditch while dad worked feverishly to extinguish a small engine fire.

It was the most exciting adventure of my life up to that point. The tractor incident fell to a distant number two.

Our next car, a 1941 Buick the size of a school bus had enough room for three children to play any number of games while travelling, including tag (no seat-belts in those days), and when I felt tired I climbed into the wide back window well and hummed strange melodies in tune with the hum of the tires.

(I do the same thing today while motorcycling and in a later post will share a brilliant song inspired by a stretch of road north of Lake Superior.)

While returning home from a ride in the country I curled up in my usual spot and was told, by Mother, to get back down to the seat.

“If we have to stop quickly you’ll fly right through the windshield,” she exclaimed.


[Picture this model in black and you've bot the idea!]

As worried and protective mothers sometimes do, she likely added that I’d impale myself on the hood ornament or land in the ditch or high in a tree or over the fence. I can’t recall.

However, I do remember the tone of what my dad said.

Something like, he’s okay back there. He’s not going to get hurt. We’re not going to hit anything.

So I stayed where I was and hummed a few bars of my latest song.

[Visit Four Mugs and a Crock for family stories and much more.]