California, Fourth Trip

This one was a road trip.  Mom, Dad, kids in the car-- you may be familiar with the drill.  The vehicle was a '41 Chrysler Royal club coupe, a car with but two doors but adequate seating for six.  Remember, no seat belts, no kiddie seats and, which became an issue eventually, no air conditioning.

"Are we there yet?"

Actually, no.  It was a long trip from Colorado Springs to Ventura, US 85-87 to Route 66, on to Southern California.

A few memories:

I remember somewhat the anticipation of seeing the Petrified Forest and the disappointment I felt, but did not express, when upon passing through all I saw was a bunch of rocks-- no trees.  What kind of forest is that?

I seem to recall jogging south from Flagstaff and driving through Oak Creek Canyon and being duly impressed with the town of Jerome, clinging as it was to the mountainside, clothes flapping on the lines which were on pulleys so the laundry could be reeled in.  I mean, there were no yards.

 The drive from Needles to Barstow was hot (remember, no AC) and interminable.  Oh, not really interminable. I think it was in Barstow that I saw my first date palm.  Quite impressive.

I will make no attempt to retrace the visits to the grandparents, the uncles and aunts, cousins, and so on around Ventura, San Fernando, Riverside and points thither and yon.

An amusing recollection from the return trip is this.  My mother, who was in her late thirties at the time, had never driven an automobile.  Somewhere in the desert in New Mexico, the parents, probably mostly Dad, decided that Mama should learn to drive, and here was the ideal spot for that!  Dad pulled over and the parents exchanged seats.  Mom actually got the car into the driving lane and headed down the road.  She may have driven as much as fifteen or twenty miles, Dad instructing her the full time, you understand, and soon my little mother was a nervous wreck, pulled over to the side of the road, stopped the car and got out, walked around to the other side the vehicle.  So far as I know Mother never got behind the wheel of a car again in her life.

I thought I had posted an article some years back describing the most memorable part of this journey, but no, apparently I did not, for I cannot find it.  That will require another post.

Fourth Trip to California

The '41 Chrysler #T

Shelly suggested that I might present a story about the Chrysler I mentioned a week ago.

My father made his 1936 Ford tudor last throughout the war years.  But he very nearly ran the wheels off it, and thus by 1946 he was feeling the need for a better vehicle.  I am sure he would have liked a new car, but since Detroit had made no cars since early 1942, now that production was beginning again, everybody wanted a new car.  There were waiting lists at all dealerships which had the names of those who thought they could afford to buy new.

Someone of his acquaintance had a 1941 Chrysler Royal Club Coupe. It carried six passengers comfortably.  Father bought the car.  I think I am correct in recalling that he paid $1500 for it, or it may have been that he paid $1300, then had to spend another $200 for repairs.  According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, that is equivalent to $18,176 in today's money.  Dad's salary that year was one hundred dollars per month, and thus he spent his income for a year and a quarter on this set of wheels.

The car was a beauty.  The picture shows the correct color, although it was not two-tone, but rather all green as the lower body.  This was the first car I ever drove.  I still remember cutting a corner too short on a right turn, running over the curb with the rear wheel.  Dad, in his calm voice, observed, "You cut the hind leg off on that one."  Good times.  My father was an excellent teacher, economy of words his style.  And that is a good thing, for I do not remember ever being "yelled at" while behind the wheel and he beside me.  He taught me how to parallel park in one lesson on a street in downtown Boulder, Colorado.  By following his instructions, which I still follow to this day, I parked it correctly on the first pass.  Still can do.

This was to be the story of the '41 Chrysler, and look.  I have already made it about me.

It was, I think, in summer 1949 and Mother and Father were on their way to Pueblo for a church meeting.  I was working, so my knowledge of the incident is second-hand, as I got it from Dad.  They were almost to their destination when they came to the intersection of highway 85, on which they were traveling, with highway 50.  The stop sign made it clear that it was Dad's responsibility to allow right-of-way to the cross traffic.  He started to slow, gauging his speed and the distance, applied the brake to stop, but instead of stopping, the car skidded right in front of the car coming from his left.  This event is referred to as a collision.

According to the parent, the newly-laid pea gravel on the surface of the tarmac served the function of marbles beneath his tires, and the rest was his responsibility for failure to yield.  The car was in the shop for quite some time, and hence the borrowed '39 Nash became a part of our daily routines.

Finally, though, the Chrysler returned home, and Dad was never happy with it from that day on.  First of all, though it had a new paint job, the color was not quite right.  It was green, yes, but it seemed to have a sort of aqua tint.  But that was not the prime reason for discontent.  No.  The problem was, that in spite of all the subsequent efforts by the mechanics, the car ran down the road crooked.  Oh, it stayed in its lane, but its rear wheels ever after tracked to the right of the front wheels.  It looked, how can I put it?  It looked like a cattywampus old hound running down the road.

It was not long before the car was traded away.  Dad got his first-ever new car, a 1950 Ford Custom fordor.  This car became my first car in 1955.  I traded it in 1958 after it had traversed more than 123,000 miles.