Who can explain a person’s addiction to the automobile? I can’t and it really doesn’t matter. My fascination for cars goes back to around 1½ years of age. It certainly was a long time before not being legally able to drive was a reality.
The first car I remember was Dad’s ’26 Studebaker. The front seats with their green fuzzy upholstery were so tall I could crawl underneath. Then we moved to Kalama, and in the brush by the garden was a rusting and rotting 1924 Chevrolet touring car. I spent hours “driving” that hulk until it was hauled away.
My first real fun driving was taking my wagon to the top of Finn Hill Road and coasting down to Cloverdale Road. This stopped when a wheel came off, putting Cousin Herman and myself into the ditch. He got off with a lecture. My punishment had a red and smarting effect on my butt.
My folks gave me a used bicycle for my birthday. It wasn’t a Western Flyer like my friends had, but it sure established my independence. While Highway 99 was off-limits, there were miles of country and logging roads to explore. My friends knew I didn’t see well, but who could mistake a big logging truck as something to avoid, even if it meant hitting a ditch now and then?
At age 13 my dad taught me how to drive a Model A Ford. He took me out in the pasture and said, “You don’t have to worry about all the cowpies.”
At 15, I had a home-assembled motorbike. The Whizzer, which was legally licensed, though I wasn’t, was clocked once at 35 mph. It was a real thrill and gave me confidence that I could drive a car along with the rest of them. The frustration came when a legally licensed cousin sold his bike and bought a car. My parents drew the line. That’s when the reality of nondriving set in.
I never had hope of getting a license until the summer of 1947 when I worked on my cousin’s chicken farm. The work was yucky but the food and money were good. An extra benefit was going to town on Saturdays with Cousin Bob. While he had a couple with his friends, I’d look around town at the new cars. That didn’t take long in Winlock.
One Saturday, Bob had more than a couple and said he was worried about being stopped. He said I should drive. Naturally, I jumped at the chance to drive his ’36 Ford cut-off station wagon.
On the way, he casually said, “Your driving is OK, why don’t you get a license?” I explained my problem with reading the eye chart. He said, “We can handle that.” I chalked this up to his relaxed state of mind and forgot about it. Later I realized Bob’s background as a carnival barker gave him some valuable insights into human behavior.
“Saturday, we’ll go in about 4 o’clock and apply for the license,” Bob said. “The examiner gets off at 4:30, so he’ll be in a big hurry and rush you right through.” I still thought he was kidding, but on Saturday we went. I drove Bob’s new ’57 Chevrolet Aero, which was a lot different than the Ford station wagon. It was 20 miles to Chehalis, and Bob assured me I’d be used to the Chevy by the time we got there.
We arrived at the courthouse and waited in line for the car inspection. We were last in line and it was obvious the examiner was in a hurry. Two cars in front of us were disqualified for mechanical defects, but the new Chev passed with flying colors.
It was time for the written test and eye test. I was taking the written test when the examiner had another person ready for a test drive, so he told his helper do the paperwork and give me the eye test and he’d be back. Meanwhile, Bob quietly whispered the line on the chart I needed to read. I passed the written test with a 100 and passed the far-from-thorough eye test too. The examiner came back and said “OK, let’s take a drive.”
I was scared. He gave me directions. In those days, we had to use hand signals for turning, stopping and parking. He wouldn’t allow the new optional turn signals on the car. After going through a construction area and several streets, he said, “You drive well enough. Take me back to the courthouse.” He didn’t even ask me to back into a parking spot. The whole episode went exactly as Bob said it would. The license was issued and we left.
I said, “You drive, I’m too nervous.”
I had my license through two renewals. Unfortunately for me, the exam was changed and Bob rejoined the carnival, making it more difficult to cheat and sorely limiting any more renewals. In the early 1960s, I made the decision to quit driving for some what might call humanitarian reasons — not to mention lack of insurance.
But my love of cars hasn’t changed a bit. Who can say why?
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