Turn About Is Fair Play

…continued from previous post

Dear Boo and Bubble,

When it came my turn to learn to drive, your great uncle Bryant insisted that he go along.  Granddaddy Schaefer thought it was only fair what with how I had rolled around in the back seat of Mamaw Mary’s Beetle laughing so hard.

Like Bryant, we started out at the Stone Manufacturing parking lot…..and like Bryant, I bucked up and down the tarmac until we all were in danger of getting a permanent case of the hiccups.  Finally I got the hang of it and was able to smoothly navigate the gears of the Beetle to keep the car going then bring it to a stop without the engine cutting off.  For his part, Bryant was very subdued in the back seat.  He hardly cracked a smile, much less exude the type of uncontrollable laughter that plagued him during his lesson.

I felt very confident and pleased with myself.

“That was very good, Bethie,” Granddaddy said to me. 

“Thanks,” I responded.  “It was actually pretty easy once I figured it out.  So…..do you want me to drive home?”

“Not just yet.”

This sort of confused me.  What was left to be learned?

“I want you to drive up State Park Road to Paris Mountain,” Granddaddy instructed.  “Once we get there, I’ll tell you what to do.”

I cranked up the Beetle and pulled out of the parking lot onto State Park Road, carefully gliding the stick shift through the gears until we gained about 45 miles per hour in third.  Bryant sat quietly looking out the rear window.  I turned left onto Paris Mountain Road and we chugged up the incline for about a mile.

“Turn to the right up here,” Granddaddy directed.

I did as I was told.

“Take a left at this dead end and then another left at the first road.”

These instructions were a little confusing because all that we would do is turn off of Paris Mountain Road only to return to it about a quarter-mile up.  But, I figured Granddaddy knew what he was doing.  I looked at Bryant in the rear-view mirror.  A hint of a knowing smile began to cross his lips.

I made the final turn to the left and faced about a 45-degree upward slope that ended at a STOP sign at the top.

“Okay,” Granddaddy began.  “Pull up to that stop sign and when you see that it’s clear, turn back right onto Paris Mountain Road.”

I drove the Beetle up to the STOP sign, put my right foot on the brake and pressed the clutch with my left, shifting the gear back to first.  I looked right and then left.

“It’s clear,” Granddaddy confirmed.  “Go.”

I transferred my right foot to the gas pedal and slowly released the clutch…..at which point the Beetle began to roll back down the hill…..all the way down to the bottom. 

Bryant could no longer contain his stoic fakery.  He burst into laughter.  I blushed so hard it’s a wonder I’m not still red from it.

“Allright,” Granddaddy said.  “Go back up to the sign and try it again.”

I detected some amusement from him as well.

I thrust the car up to the intersection and stopped.  Once again, I tried to get the gas to catch up with the gear but to no avail and we rolled back down.  The perspiration under my armpits became quite prominent.  Bryant basically convulsed in the back seat.

After the fifth attempt, Granddaddy relented. 

“Let me show you a little trick on how to do this until you get the balance between the clutch and the gas just right.” 

He pulled up the emergency brake which held the Beetle in place while I pressed on the gas and released the clutch.

“Do you feel it catching,” he asked. 

I nodded “yes.”

“Now, hold that position and release the brake.”

Miraculously, the car didn’t careen back down the hill.  I successfully pulled out onto Paris Mountain Road.  Bryant stopped laughing…..not so much because we were moving again, but more because he just couldn’t laugh anymore.

When I look back, it becomes quite obvious that the two of them cooked this whole scenario up – not to help me learn how to start a stick shift on a hill, but as payback for my behavior in the Stone Manufacturing parking lot.

Yes, boys, turn about is fair play.  Or, in this case, payback was hell!

Bucking Bronco

Dear Boo and Bubble,

I was watching TV the other day and a Subaru commercial came on where the father is trying to teach his two sons how to drive a stick shift.  As the car starts and halts and balks down the street while one of the neophyte drivers tries to master the art of the clutch, my mind raced back to the time when great granddaddy Schaefer dared first to instruct great uncle Bryant and then me in that very same endeavor.

At the time in SC, anyone of the age of 14 could take the written test for a Learner’s Permit.  This allowed you to actually drive a car as long as a fully licensed driver was with you.  But first, you had to learn to drive and that was best done somewhere other than on the roads.

Bryant passed his permit exam and excitedly anticipated getting behind the wheel of Mamaw Mary’s Volkswagen Beetle for his first lesson.  I was eager to tag along and, for some reason, Granddaddy Schaefer allowed it.  On a Sunday afternoon, we drove out to what used to be the Stone Manufacturing plant off of Poinsett Highway in Greenville and pulled into the parking lot.  Since it was Sunday, only a skeleton crew worked in the plant which meant the lot was a wide-open tarmac of asphalt and painted lines – the perfect spot for learning to drive.

I sat in the back of the Beetle as Granddaddy and Bryant switched places up front.  My serious, somber, soulful big brother slid into the driver’s seat as granddaddy began.  He showed Bryant the various positions on the gear shift and explained their progression.

“Now, Bryant, the clutch pedal is the key to this car.  You must have it pushed in to start the engine.  The car won’t go unless you release the clutch as you press on the gas pedal.  You’ll start out in first gear.  Once the car gets going fast enough, the clutch can be out all the way.  But, when you shift to second, third and fourth gears, you have to put the clutch back in.  And, when you come to a stop, you have to put it in as well or the engine will cut off.  Understand?”

Bryant sat there, frozen, his hands just off the steering wheel as if scared to touch it – like it might burn him if he did.

“I think so.”

“Well, it sounds complicated, but it’s sort of like riding a bicycle.  Once you get the hang of it, you’ll never forget.  So, let’s just do this.”

 Bryant pushed in the clutch and turned on the ignition.   

“Okay,” Granddaddy cajoled, “Push on the gas and let the clutch out slowly.”

Bryant pushed on the gas.  The car emitted a roar like that of a jet, all the while staying totally stopped.

“Let the clutch out, son.”

Which Bryant did – so fast that the Beetle lurched forward with a couple of violent leaps and then cut off.  The force was such that it threw me to the floor in the back.  I started laughing.  Not a good thing.  A crimson tide ran up the back of Uncle Bryant’s neck that signaled his total chagrin that I had been invited to come along.

“Beth, stop that,” Granddaddy warned.

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay,” he turned his attention back to the task at hand.  “That was fine for the first time.  You just have to not push so hard on the gas and not be so fast with the clutch.  Let’s try it again.”

Bryant started the car again.  It roared once more as he pressed on the gas.  He lifted the clutch.  The Beetle began to move forward slowly and then started bucking and bucking and bucking down the parking lot like it had just been let out of the gate at a rodeo.  After about the fifth buck, the car belched a huge sigh and stopped. 

I broke out into uncontrollable giggles from the back seat.  I could only imagine what we must have looked like to the cars passing by on Poinsett Highway.

“We’re not leaving here until you’ve figured it out, son,” Granddaddy reassured Bryant and then turned to look at me.  “So, take your time.  And, as soon as you get it – YOU’LL be the one driving us home.”

Well………………THAT was a sobering thought.  Sure snapped me back!  My life was now at stake.  I figured I better get on the support team.

Bryant practiced and practiced for another hour or so until he finally got the hang of it, smoothly starting the Beetle in first gear and moving it through the rest and bringing it to a stop without the engine cutting off.  He drove us home safely and felt a great sense of accomplishment.

But, he never forgot my laughter at his expense.  And, believe me, he got his revenge.

….to be continued.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

Continued from previous post…

Dear Boo and Bubble,

My…it’s been a while since I wrote last.  Captain and I have been moving around, but we’re finally home now.  Let’s see where were we?  Ah, yes, the 1958 Chevrolet Impala convertible.

To your great uncle Bryant’s and my surprise, Granddaddy Schaefer ended up buying the car even after the fiasco of the test drive.  It was beautiful and he had always harbored a desire to own a convertible.  We came barreling into the driveway at 3 Lakecrest, top down, honking the horn and yelling our heads off.  Mamaw and great uncle Gene ran out of the house to see about the ruckus.  Nothing would do but we drive back up to Paris Mountain (with a full tank of gas this time) and traverse its entirety from the intersection at State Park Road to the other end at Highway 25 above Travelers Rest.

The Impala became our signature “rite of passage” car.  We drove it to Friday night football games.  Uncle Bryant was the only one with a driver’s license, but that didn’t stop me and our gang of close friends from clandestinely tooling around the back roads of Paris and Piney Mountains.  I remember driving the convertible with my best buddy, Anna Dunson, in the passenger seat down a road on Piney Mountain that soon became a dirt road that soon became a gravel pit.  The farther we went, the worse it got, the shock absorbers crunching and grinding with every boulder we crossed.  Luckily for us, the road picked back up again at the bottom of the mountain.  This was WAY before cell phones and I have no idea what we would have done if we actually had become stuck!  (By the way, you are the first ones I’ve ever told about this!)

Putting the top up and down was truly a cumbersome process.  The cover seemed to have hundreds of snaps to do an undo every time.  Finally, we just left the top down and parked it in the garage in the basement, only taking it out on sunny days.  The shine started wearing off the apple for Granddaddy Schaefer as he began to realize that the car was totally impractical.  

The final straw came one weekend when my ballet troupe had been invited to perform in Hartsville, SC.  I begged Mamaw to drive some of the dancers in the convertible and she agreed.  We met at the dance studio and put three girls in the back seat.  I sat up front with her.  The weather was gorgeous, bright sunshine and a warm breeze.  With great glee, we started out of Greenville, top down and the radio blaring.

Just east of Columbia, rain clouds formed and Mamaw thought it prudent to pull into a gas station and put up the top.  Her inclination proved true as within minutes of closing the latches and resuming our trip, a torrential downpour descended upon us. 

I would love to tell you that having the top up on the Impala made a difference, but I can’t.  Water came through it like a sieve – to the extent that we had to put up umbrellas inside the car.  On top of that, the windshield wipers decided to stop working.  I had to roll down my window and manually drag them back and forth so Mamaw could see where she was going.  By the time we arrived in Hartsville, all of us were so wet we looked like we had been hosed down.

The car couldn’t dry out and we had to ride home in a soggy, mildewed mess.  Talk about literally raining on someone’s parade!

Granddaddy took the Impala back to Sitton Buick the next week and traded it for something more mundane.  I can only imagine his emotions as he drove off the lot leaving the car of his dreams behind…..sort of like breaking up with your first love because no matter how beautiful, they just aren’t good for you!