Dad’s Model-T and Other Stuff #T

My father often sat at his little Royal portable typewriter and pecked out short stories, memories from an earlier day, or lines of verse to describe a recent life event, often stream-of-consciousness revelations of the way his mind worked, Sometimes. 

I am blessed in that I fell heir to a number of his papers and these random tidbits appear here and there throughout. This snippet covers about two-thirds sheet of standard typing paper, single spaced, elite type. There are about a dozen minor corrections in his hand, blue ink.

My business life venture had to include a Model T Ford automobile. Not much to look at, but I was interested in its possibilities as a race car. It had been remodeled with about anything that would fit wherever, after it was twisted, bent, and bound together with a bit of baling wire, if necessary, and it was generally necessary in those days to have a spool of that kind of mending material for emergencies experienced along the road when far from help of any kind. I do believe that the Ford was brought into existence by Henry Ford as a powerful stimulant to the creative powers of the lower middle class people who were unable to pay for road service when caught far from home. The directions to successful traveling included an odd type of jack & handle, and a small patching kit with which to mend an inner tube. Of course the handle could be used for other purposes after patching inner tubes on hot days. Distance travelers often patched as many as ten or twelve tires in a day. Oh, yes, I almost forgot, a pump of sorts that could be used for inflating the tire. After all that perspiration loss and energy waste the handle could be used to beat the devil out of the car itself, or at least that was the thought. I saw a deep dent lengthwise on a car’s front fender. The driver’s wife explained when the driver was too embarrassed to do so. She said, “It wouldn’t run, so Lester gave it a beating.” Because those were depression days in the 30s, that old car wore its scars with pride for many years. One fender was patched up with a ball peen hammer, pushed back into an acceptable position, and wore this sign: “It’s quilted.”

Temper tantrums were observed by some as noted, but how times have changed. Too many times the driver with auto trouble takes a swig out of a bottle, does a little exercise with blasphemous words then beats the devil out of his wife, scares the little kids nearly to death, then leaves them all until his guilty soul lets him crawl back to his family without an apology. Happy change when the two-footed demon is safely incarcerated. I do think that all society owes itself an apology for the nice places they have for these fellows to sober up in (drunk or just ungoverned tempers).

Part of my business life with my running away from our home of ten children.