By 1974 the news on the telly scared the snot out of us little ones. Tricky Dick #37's visage sweating drops the size of butterbeans filled the whole screen as he neared utter political self-destruction. Then there was still much talk about the war in Vietnam. But the main stress for the grown-ups, stresses that trickled down to us was the high prices and short supply of gasergene.

We, that is to say my people and their antecedents, had never owned a brand new automobile. The newest was always said to be at least four years old. You know, trade-ins at the end of a usurious bank note. In that era we got hand-me-downs from Pa's boss, mister Bowden. Mister B. always bought new cars and would offer them to Pa just about the time that they needed such inconsequential and inexpensive replacements such as tires, brakes, alternator & battery.

There was a '58 pickup that the local "special" handicapped vocational school had resprayed in the ugliest green that would have made pond scum proud. We sure loved that truck but the most that it would "comfortably" haul in the cab was four. If you wonder at exactly why comfortably is bracketed, well times were hard and our primary source of proteins were beans and peas and hen fruit hence "comfortably" being a relative term in winter when the windows were up. So there were times when me and "the beast", (my middle sister) were glad that we were delegated to the truck bed. Cold rain & sleet & snow being preferable to the noxious atmosphere exuded by the grown-ups and older siblings.

The only problem back there other than climactic exposure and the danger of being flung-out in an accident were the holes in the floor of the truck bed. That particular model's bed had as much wood as metal and the wood was punky after a decade and a half of sitting under those pecan trees. So there was me and "the beast" rolling around in the back clinging to one another as we endeavoured to avoid dropping down onto the treacherous rotating drive shaft. For some reason that was never clearly explained, Ma was compelled out of necessity to ride in the back once or twice. This precipitated the purchase of the '66 panel truck.

This one was as green as the '58 but it was of a kinder shade if you know what I mean. This kept me and the beast and the grocery sacks dry but there was absolutely no air circulating back there and we ate almost as many limas and black-eyes as our parents and older siblings. So you can imagine the quality of the hot close atmosphere.

Both the '58 and the '66 had manual transmissions. Seeing an ugly green panel van with the hood up on the roadside or an even uglier green pickup excited no surprise to other motorists. There was seldom a trip that the gear linkage betwixt the steering column and the transmission did not hang-up. The fix was quick and simple but you had to pull over and raise to hood to accomplish it. That led to the next pony in the corral.

The '63 & 1/2 Rambler was not a large car but we all were able to fit. My place due to my smaller size was lying port & starboard on the back dashboard shelf forward of the rear window. Kid you not ! That was my general quarters/battle station, pretending I was mister scott, the chief engineer of the starship enterprise. My peeps heard "captain, the dilithium crystals are deteriorating !" so often that I was gagged with a handkerchief most every trip to town. If the handkerchief was not handy and I had been eating limas & crowders whilst in the mood for my "tom jones" or "robert plant" impersonations then into the car's trunk I went. The sacks of groceries took my place on the rear dash. I was never exactly claustrophobic but then again I never learned to like the rubbery smell of the spare tire or the fumes of the leakey exhaust either.

I'm no mechanic by any metric but that '63 & 1/2 Rambler had an odd transmission that Ma never quite mastered. It had no clutch pedal but then it wasn't exactly automatic either. She would try to make it go from a dead stop in second or high gear or else we would return all the way to home from town in low and screaming at 4,500 rpms at only 30 mph speed. This made it belch the blue smoke the more which didn't exactly help my respiration as I languished in the trunk.

It also had something of an ignition glitch. Willys & Nash & A.M.C. collectors and enthusiasts are adamant that that year model had a modern overhead cam inline engine but ours, (maybe because of the half-year designation) had an antiquated flat-head engine that caused moisture to drip onto the points after cooling overnight. Long story short, the stubbornness to crank in the morning led to the '67 station wagon.

Now if that Rambler had been the engineroom my own imaginary starship enterprise then the rear facing bonus seat of the '67 wagon with its electric actuated window was the equally imaginary bridge/conn. & combat control of that stalwart spaceship. It was a win-win for everybody. No matter how much legumes or or how many boiled hen fruit I had consumed, I was far enough removed from the middle & front seats that, especially if Ma or Pa overrode my control of the rear window & kept it open then the sulphrous atmosphere was kept at a minimum. The car's AM radio also had loud speakers in the doors of the middle row so that the voices of glen campbell or olivia newton-john easily overpowered my "tom jones" & "robert plant" impersonations/crooning. Did I mention it was a win-win for everyone ? Not being gagged with a handkerchief or confined in a dark trunk was certainly welcomed by me.

But every eden has its serpent as "they" say. Again, I was no automobile mechanic at age seven nor am I one now at nigh-on sixty but the narrative complaint then if I understood it correctly was that that '67 station wagon was designed around a massive engine of 455 cubic inches give or take (pardon if I have the numerology wrong). An option of a smaller engine of 350 cubic inches was available ostensibly for fuel consumption economy but it did not quite pan-out as planned. The smaller engine actually gave less miles per gallon than the larger. 19 mpg. (350 ci.) & 21 mpg. (455 ci.) theoretically on paper with real-life results of endeavouring to aircondition the whole twenty + foot long conveyance at 14 mpg. & 17 mpg. respectively.

I bring you back to the opening theme of this silly tale.....1974 and the long lines and exorbitantly high prices for petrol. Pa had the use of a company owned car or truck as chance happened for commuting to and from his work. We still used the gasergene guzzling gargantuan V-8 sled for personal uses but the trips to town were now rationed to a main comestible forage expedition on saturday and Sunday School and preaching on that sacred day. Wednesday night prayer meeting & subsequent suplimental grocery run on hump-day. Any other necessary purchases were made by me on my bicycle down at Peanut's bodega there at the lopsided "Y" where railroad & rosewood & 40 th. all intersect.

It followed that many of our neighbours were forced to economize as well. There was a sheeny cigar chewing goomer on one side who was queer for my eldest sister despite he being married and her lacking the age of majority by at least two birthdays. He traded his four-barreled muscle-rod for a v.w. beetle. This dropped his prestige in her eyes substantially which was a relief to Ma & Pa if you know what I mean (I did not understand back then).

On the other side, Mister LeBourgeois, a foreigner of some sort and a retired d.o.d. civil servant at the nearby army fort & ordinance depot bought something odd-looking called a Citroen.

Of that automobile Pa jokingly opined, "that contraption looks like the toy car at the circus tent of the county fair where the clowns all pile into it ! It being french, there is no way you could pack thirty froggies into it !"

I was confused. What had frogs to do with it. After all, unknown to Ma, I had had nearly that many frogs (or toads) in my Lee Majors in character as Col. Steve Austin bonifide licensed school lunchbox at one time or another. It took quite a few more years for me to ken Pa's meaning re. "frogs" in this context. After all, language(s) is/are all about definitions aren't they ?