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Make yourself at home. Put your feet up. Grab your favorite beverage and prepare to enjoy the reads.
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Showing posts with label Studebaker. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Studebaker. Show all posts

Friday

Cry Daddy

I started to cry while driving. I had no idea why. It wasn't just that sense of tears starting to spring that you can hold back with a tightening of the throat. No, this came from somewhere deep. Like a volcano wanting to break loose. Tears unbidden. Tears with plans of their own.

I knew I had to get off the road, avoid being a danger to others. I can drive while crying. I've done it before. Haven't we all? It wasn't even a matter of understanding why I felt so sad.

I pulled over right there and then. Not wanting to break down completely, looking around for tissues, I noticed in the rear view mirror, the sheriff.

Oh, %^*&!

Would I get a traffic ticket for having pulled over without a reason? I would soon find out. It was just beginning to sprinkle, when the officer came to my rider side door. I opened it so he could lean in.

He took one look at me, I noticed in his eyes a flicker of recognition. He knew instinctively this wasn't a stalled car problem. Maybe he was thinking, a crying woman, Oh %^*&!".

But he said with concern, "Are you all right, Ma'am?"

I didn't know what to say. (I just started crying for no reason, officer, over nothing?) No, I didn't say that. I lied. Okay, maybe not a full lie, a little white lie. I told him my father died last year... a bit of overwhelming grief struck me while driving... I thought it would be safer to pull over, calm down.

He said some comforting words, I forget what.
And to get me out of danger he followed me to the next exit.

Maybe it is true after all. Maybe I am missing my Father. He was 90 when he died five years ago. He was my best supporter, and loved to listen to me read anything I might have written. A letter, a poem, a story, a family memoir, one of my opinionated pieces or a story about my cats. He would have liked to know a caring cop had stopped to help his daughter. He would have understood how tears and sadness come from nowhere, with no known reason. He would have understood my white lie.

Tuesday

A Boy's Memory of Cars

I once spent a day as my father (James Deane) reminisced about his boyhood memories of automobiles owned by his parents. So, we made a list. Where possible, I have inserted a picture of the named vehicle. This first picture on the left is a family photo. The boy is George Hanes Jr., a cousin. His nickname was Buster. 

Dad lived in Kinzua, Pennsylvania during the years mentioned below, He said the following:

At age five, the first car I remember was my family’s 1919 Model T Touring car. Mother was always the driver because of my Father's amputation. We bought new cars frequently.

At age 6, we had a 1919 Overland, made by Willys."

This next photograph is the Overland. From left to right, are George Hanes Sr. James Deane, his brother Oliver (Buddy), his father Frank and mother Mary. She is pregnant with her next baby, Roger Carl Deane. 


"By the time I was age 7 we had a 1920 Oakland, not to be confused with the Overland. The Oaklands were manufactured in Pontiac, Michigan. The following year we had a 1923 Oakland. After this they became the Pontiac Motor Company.

At age 9  we had our first Studebaker. It was a 1923 “Phaeton” and had pull down isinglass curtains, sort of like window shades, but made of Mica. These were in the ceiling and attached at the door, and helped cut down on the wind or kept the weather out. The following year we had a 1925 Studebaker, “Dictator” sedan. I wish they still made Studebakers. They're one of my favorite cars.

When I was eleven we got 1927 Hupmobile, sedan. It was made by the Hupp Motor Car Company from Detroit. We didn't have to pay a dime for it. There was a contest. Whoever sold the most subscriptions to the Warren Times Mirror would win. My mother knew a lot of people and was very well liked. She also was wrote articles for the newspaper occasionally. She sold the most subscriptions, and won the Hupmobile. Unfortunately, we could only keep the car for three months. There were financial problems and it had to be sold.

At age 12  we had a 1928 Studebaker, “President” sedan. We kept it until it was junk. Maybe that's why I like Studebakers.
We also had a 1927 Ford which was originally Grandpa George Frank Dean's car.

Monday

Blizzard Moving

The blizzard had blinded us for so many miles, I felt, that night, as though I were in a dark frozen dream. We were all exhausted from the stress and strain of moving. Everyone in the family had helped load furniture and boxes onto the borrowed farm truck and our old run-down Studebaker.

My face was raw and chapped from sticking it out the window. This way I could yell at my mother when she drove too close to the edge of the raod. No heater, no defrost. I propped my numb feet on a box of pots and pans that rattled loudly whenever we hit a pothole. Each time the noise jolted me into alert wakefulness.

It was impossible to judge the conditions of these narrow country roads. Not daring to stop anywhere, we just kept going. My mother sat hunched, with fingers tightly clutched, over the steering wheel, peering vainly through the frosted windshield. She stuck her head out the window as often as I did to make sure she didn’t drive into a ditch.

Roger sat upright between us on the front seat drowsing lightly. At the age of eight he was no longer little enough to curl up to sleep. His long legs were splayed over the driveshaft-hump on the floor. Wendy, still a little butterball at six and a half was asleep on the floor, between the pots and pans and the bump. Her face rested on Roger’s knees. They reminded me of two played out puppies curled together, oblivious to the cold.

When we finally arrived at our new house, I wasn’t disappointed. My excitement grew when I saw, what appeared to me, a mansion rising out of the wild countryside. Adrenaline pumped my curiosity to explore. The snow had stopped blowing. It was just lightly floating down in clumps.

“We made it!” my mother breathed triumphantly. I could clearly see relief erasing the tension from her face.

“Hurray!” the kids yelled.

“I thought you guys were asleep.” I moaned.

“They should be!” admonished my mother. Then, turning to me, she said, “Take them upstairs and get them to bed. And...” she added, “you, go to bed, yourself.”

“Aww, Mom!” I whined. “Can’t I just look around a little bit, first?”

“It’s past midnight; please do what I asked.” She grabbed up the noise making box to haul off to the kitchen. “Besides, if you have so much energy, you can stay up and help unload!”

I didn’t need a second warning. “Okay, I’ll go to bed.” I conceded. “Come on, you two, let’s go find someplace to sleep.”

“I can put my own self to bed.” Roger muttered.

Entering a large hall leading to the staircase, the three of us “oohed and aahhed” at the beautiful woodwork of stairs and banister.

“This is rich people’s house’” my awestricken little sister cooed.

“Yeah.” Echoed Roger as we climbed the two flights to the next floor. We wanted so badly to explore our new home, but exhaustion overtook us. My father and old brother had leaned the mattresses against the wall, and had already left to go get another load. Roger claimed the room the mattresses were in and pushed the first one to the floor, grabbed a blanket from the box nearby. Wendy and I struggled with another mattress yanking, pulling, pushing and sliding it down the large hall to another room. Little did we know how cold that room would be. We slept in our winter coats with a blanket pulled tightly around us,

I laid awake staring at the bare windows as the frost turned to ice. It wasn't until the next day when my father pointed out that the radiator was turned off. If only we had known!