On the road again…

By KEN WELBORN

Record Publisher

Sometimes, in spite of all that is high and holy, I feel like one of those characters in a silent movie where one thing after another happens, and the poor fool doesn’t catch on as to what is going on until he is a total mess.

Flash back to this past Monday.

It had been a very pleasant day.  In addition to my regular Monday visit by John Deason, Tom Ogburn dropped by.  We talked for some time about the various people we remembered and the proverbial good-old-days. 

Then the storm came. 

Not just any storm, but a Wizard of Oz storm, a storm of Biblical proportions, and I had to go out in it.  It has been a while since I drove my Packard, but, through the prodding of my wife and the guys at the BP on Ninth and D streets, a new battery arrived and the old straight-eight has been purring for a while now.  However, things have been so dry for so long, I had literally forgotten about some of the limitations of the old black Packard--its head-turning hood ornament not withstanding.

I had driven it Monday morning, and all was well—if a bit warm.  I had occasion to give a ride to Alisha Blackburn, daughter of Cynthia Linville who works for The Record.  I had turned the window vent to the inside so it would stir a little breeze on Alisha, and, by the time I headed out into the storm on Monday afternoon, I had long since forgotten leaving that vent window open.

With both arms full of papers, I ran out the back door and jumped into the Packard.  Thinking only of getting to my appointed meeting, I hurriedly pushed the starter button and was soon backing into the alley to head out.  I was down on the CBD Loop before I realized how hard it was still raining, and I turned on my windshield wipers.

One of the forgotten limitations was the wipers.  The Packard uses the old vacuum-type, where they just wipe up a storm while the motor is idling, but are slow as cold molasses when the engine is engaged and actually is pulling the car up the road.  That seems sort of backwards, but that’s the way it is. 

Soon, that was the least of my problems.

I was huffing and puffing so hard from running to the car, that before I knew it, the windows began to fog up.  I couldn’t see a thing. 

That brings us to the next limitation, which is that 1950 model cars have less than stellar defrosting systems.  I found myself scrambling to find something, anything, to wipe the fog off my windows.  Mercifully, I found an old copy of The Record on the floorboard and began to clean them.  As I wiped back and forth, all the while dealing with blindly changing lanes and gears, I noticed my hands were black.

Then I saw that my knees and shorts both had huge black streaks on them.  I couldn’t believe what was happening.  I was black all over, but had no idea where it was coming from.  Somehow, I finally made it to the Shell Dollar Mart at the top of Second Street Hill and went inside.  The lady at the front counter looked at me and smiled as she said, “Do you know your face is all black.”

Well, no, I didn’t, but when I went into the bathroom to clean up, it was apparent that my nose had been itching or something, because my lip looked like Hitler’s and my cheeks ands forehead were streaked like Arnold Schwarzenegger in the movie Commando.

I basically took a shower at the Shell station and got all cleaned up.  At least I had the foresight to park the Packard under the awning, so I could figure out what was going on.  I bought a roll of paper towels and climbed into the car to go to work.

The mystery was soon solved, as my hands were again black in no time—apparently, the Bakelite-type material on my steering wheel is so old that moisture causes it to rub off on whatever touches it—and this time it was me.

I made it to my Rotary Club meeting, but my clothes looked a fright, and my feet and butt were wet. 

The upshot of all of this is that I am currently looking for a really cool old steering wheel cover—preferably leather.  And I now refer to my beautiful black 1950 Packard as my “…fair weather friend.”