By Steve Crain
Pa cuts the ignition of his 1939 earth-green-colored 4-door Ford as we near the downhill paved road that leads to his and Ma’s driveway, located three-quarters of a mile away in rural upper-Greenville County, S.C.
He’s doing it, again, after our usual Saturday afternoon visit to Ralph Fowler’s general store in the early 1950s. He’s seeing if he and I, his 6-year-old grandson, can coast the rest of the way home.
Pa, my paternal grandfather, grins as we glide silently past Ed and Martha Phillips’ house.
But the road levels out, and we only creep along at about three miles per hour as we near the long, red-dirt, sloping driveway that leads to his and Ma’s white frame farmhouse that sits down near the creek.
We inch forward, spending the last bit of motion left in the rubber tires of our silent chariot.
Will we make it? Sometimes Pa has to crank the old car to get a last bit of go-juice and enter the driveway.
But, today, it seems Pa has judged well. The Ford almost stops dead, but Pa turns his wheels to the right, and I feel rubber leave pavement and meet red dirt.
We did it! We pick up speed and hit ruts washed out by summer’s heavy rains.
Pa steadies the steering wheel as red dust billows behind us. He keeps to the middle of the scraped road. He mows down small weeds that have grown up between tire track paths.
Pa let’s us roll pretty fast, but he’s in control and doesn’t want to hit a ditch, especially on the right side of the drive. That’s where gully-washers have chiseled out deep holes that hold water for a long time after rains go away.
We fly on Henry Ford wings as dust boils behind us and we zoom into Pa’s front yard.
Ma, a tall, lean worrier, stands near the driveway, as we whip near her and make a circle around a huge oak tree.
We roll to a stop, and Ma hollers to us, “Coming in on a wing and a prayer! Coming in on a wing and a prayer!”
Pa smiles. And I smile, too.
1 comments:
This had me smiling from start to finish. Thanks.
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