Saturday, March 28, 2015

On A Magic Carpet Ride


To this day, there’s absolutely no explanation for my infatuation with classic Ford Mustangs. I know nothing about cars. I never did. But I can tell you when I first took notice of the Mustang, I fell head-over-heels in love-for a car. My parents were always trading cars. Because of their friendship with an Oldsmobile dealer, brands like Cutlass, Toronado, and the Ninety-Eight took turns sitting in our driveway. My father also had a thing for Lincoln Continentals. He was a funeral director so those cars were always black-always spotless and always off limits to those of us just itching to drive something-anything. Once in awhile during the summer he’d come home for lunch in a funeral van sort-of-thing. It too was black. He’d let us take it out beyond the hayfield while he ate. My cousins and I had lots of fun going over the wooden planks that spanned the creek. Then stepping on the pedal, we’d fly up the gravel road and across the open space to the woods. We never told my father how fast we had the old thing going. Looking back, I’m sure he knew.
A yellow GTO was my older brother’s choice. It went great with his red hair and crew cut. At least the girls thought so. At one point, he owned a little TR3 which he let me take for a test drive into town. With this my first experience maneuvering a stick shift, I ended up in someone’s front yard. I didn’t say anything but I’m certain my brother knew something had happened by the look on my face when I came screeching into the driveway jerking all the way.
While this was the era of muscle cars-everything from the Camaro to the Thunderbird to the Barracuda and Todd and Buzz  zooming along Route 66 in their Corvette convertible, not one of those hot cars made me feel the same way as when my eyes came upon the 1964 Mustang with bucket seats and a stick shift in between. I became obsessed with this car. The Mustang had it all or what I should say, what that vehicle had hit a chord somewhere. The way those seats sat-the shape-oh I loved the shape-the sleek front and how the back end was short, leading to those tucked-in rear lights-the way it’d move along the highway following a beat of its own and making a statement of freedom, coolness, and watch out world, here I come sort of thing all contributed to this overwhelming awestruck feeling. My father’s cars were ok but nothing too exciting. My brother’s cars-well they were his. But the Mustang was unique-from its galloping horse logo to its distinct design and I claimed it as mine.
I was hired right out of college. Once I got my feet on the ground, I asked my father to go with me to a Ford dealership. What might have been one of the easiest car sales ever occurred minutes upon opening their door. I didn’t need the pitch. I didn’t have to hear the spin. Once everything was in order, I was heading down my version of Route 66 in an all new, cherry red 1968 Mustang with black bucket seats and a stick shift in between. If ever there was a love story written between a car and its owner it was written that day. If ever freedom was experienced and exhilaration on high it happened that day as a cherry red Mustang took me along the asphalt-around curves and up hills on a magic carpet ride with my hair flying and tunes playing. 

Thursday, March 19, 2015

Palace with a Chimney Stack

Most of us will live in more than one house as we grow up and move along through our lives. Each will hold its own memories. To me, of all the places I've called home, the house on the lane holds the most endearing memories. It was just a regular neighborhood home-with an upstairs, a closed-in porch where I'd play cards with my imaginary friends and win every time, a flagstone walkway my father and grandfather cemented in place, a cellar where you'd have to enter from the outside, a huge yard with lilac bushes and a rock garden, a kitchen with a counter where my goldfish sat, a front stairway that seemed so steep, a double living room, registers in the floor, and that chimney stack in the parlor that I thought was the most amazing contraption ever. Of course I was little. And when you're little everything seems amazing. The summer before I entered the fourth grade we moved to the country. Still to this day, a part of me remains in that house on the lane.

Maybe that's because that house was where on a Christmas morning I found what is still my most favorite Christmas present ever waiting for me when I came down those steep stairs-a pine desk my grandfather made complete with a stool and a single drawer with a pad of paper and a #2 yellow pencil inside. Or maybe that's because my bedroom was possibly the best bedroom in the world-at least to me it seemed as if that was the case. After all, it had a slanted ceiling and you'd have to walk down two steps to get inside. The room was huge-taking up the whole back of the house. It even had a stairway down to the kitchen. It was like my own apartment and I didn't even realize it. But then when you're little you don't realize how things change-and maybe that's a good thing!

Wednesday, March 4, 2015

White Shoe Polish in a Bottle



My mother was a Registered Nurse. Eventually she became the Charge Nurse in the ER on the Night shift. That shift worked well for my parents. My father would be home with my brother and me while my mother worked. Back then nurses wore immaculate, white uniforms-white nylons with a seam up the back and immaculate, white duty shoes. Their caps were white-starched white. My mother's cap had a black ribbon-like material across the front signifying she was a registered nurse. Even though I was very young, I sensed the pride she took in her uniform. I remember her nylons hanging on a hanger over the tub after soaking in the sink and her cap just starched spread out flat across the counter. Most of all I remember her polishing her duty shoes with a white liquid shoe polish in a bottle. She'd sit at the kitchen table in her slip with her hair up in bobby pins-shake the stuff-and then proceed to polish the shoes with a foam brush attached to the inside of the cap. She was very careful with the polish. Each application was meticulously applied.
But the duty shoes weren't the only shoes polished with the white liquid. Back then babies-like the one in the picture who happens to be me being held by my mother-wore white shoes that tied up the front. It was a big deal when a baby was old enough for his/her first pair of white shoes. That meant a trip to a real shoe store where a real person would try to measure the child's foot if he could uncurl the little toes curled up in a ball. Once the child outgrew the first pair of shoes, often the shoes were bronzed on a plague for all to see. When I was a little older I'd take a bottle of white stuff and polish my dolls' shoes. One time I not only polished doll shoes but went on to highlight some dolls' hair until being stopped by a nurse needing to polish her duty shoes. That was the one and only time my dolls went to my beauty parlor. I had to close it down.