My three brothers, my sister, and I grew up on a 67acre farm in a simple, white-framed, farmhouse. As our family grew, the house was “added on to” twice. The house featured one small bathroom. A second bathroom was planned for the second addition but was never finished until after the five of us moved on. Among our mother’s many fine attributes, she was a woman of extraordinary patience.
Our first three cars were pickup trucks. Our father saw that a truck lasted ten years. One of his familiar quotes was, “Oil is the life of an engine.” He purchased new GMC’s in 1948, 1958, and 1968. The ’48 model always seemed a bit sluggish to me. It featured a 4-in-the -floor, including a “granny low” gear. I declare that truck could have pulled big oak stumps out of the ground if the chain didn’t break. It was forest-green in color with a matching green, wooden, stock rack. In the lowest gear, it roared as it lurched forward. I called it the “green monster”. The ’58 featured a 3-speed-on-the-column, was leaner, quicker, but less powerful than the ’48. It was red with a matching bed. By the time the ’68 came along, my brother Tom was headed to the University of Tennessee. The ’68 featured a white cab and an orange stock rack. It was much lighter than its predecessor and geared so high it couldn’t pull a fat tick off a dog’s ear.
My father purchased our first car in the fall of 1961. He waited until the new models (’62’s) came out to cash in on a discount. Speaking of cash, that’s what he paid Jim Reed Chevrolet for it. It was a “plain Jane” 1961 Chevrolet Parkwood station wagon. It came with a manual transmission and without air conditioning. I don’t recall it having a radio. Upon my mother’s insistence, my father installed plastic seat covers. In the hottest part of the summer, if you sweated enough, you could find yourself sticking to the car seat. If you wanted cooler air, you manually rolled the window down.
All three of the trucks I knew along with the station wagon could be started with a key, which reminds me of a trip I took recently.
I picked up a rental car at National Car Rental at a distant airport. The young man behind the counter in handing me the “keys,” named the make and model and said, “you will like this one!” In order not to cast disparagement on the car company, the make and model will remain nameless.
I was not surprised to find it was a “keyless” model as most cars and trucks are of that variety these days. I was surprised when I had difficulty finding the gear shifter. Finally, there it was, a small black and silver device about the size of a plastic TicTac box, attached to the steering column. On the flat side were four letters, D, N, P, and R. D, N, and R were on a vertical line. The P was beside the N. I figured out what they stood for.
I don’t mind pushing buttons. I do it all the time. Elevators have buttons to push as do microwaves, cellphones, vending machines and the like. And I don’t expect a microwave to have an ignition key and a gear shifter. But these are cars and trucks for crying out loud. Chrysler Corporation tried pushbutton gears years ago, and it didn’t turn out so well.
After becoming accustomed to all the latest technology on the car, I settled into a comfortable routine of driving. On the second day I had not driven 10 miles when a steaming cup of coffee appeared on the instrument panel with a message which read, “Would you like to take a break?”
Before I could catch myself, I answered out loud, in an annoying voice, “No, I would not like to take a break!”
My next thought was, “I am talking to this car!”
When I returned home, I was relieved to climb inside my 2002 Toyota Tacoma pickup. In the floor I found a clutch petal, a break petal, and an accelerator (We used to call it a “foot feed.”) In the consol I found my trusted 5-speed gear shifter. I started it with an ignition key.
Neither I nor my truck said a word all the way home.
Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall
