Last week, I posted about the death of my friend, Flo, and said I’d share more of our fun times together in future blog posts. So, here it is.
Most of the following is taken from a column I used to write for a newspaper in a suburb of Dallas. For a while I was known as the Erma Bombeck of Plano, and I was honored to be associated with a writer whom I so greatly admired.
This is a tribute to my friend’s old car, and to my friend. Grab a donut to go with your morning drink of choice and enjoy…
Old cars hold a certain charm for many people, and it’s always fun to remember the cars of our youth. One of the classic clunkers of all time had to be the one my best friend owned way back in the era of Happy Days for real. It was a 1952 Plymouth that had seen better days by 1951, and it offered the option of air conditioning long before the automobile companies even thought of putting it on their list of extras, let alone making it standard equipment.
Most of the floorboard in front was gone, and the seat was anchored to two-by-fours placed strategically across the chassis. That was terrific for ventilation in the summer, but held less appeal in Michigan winters when the cold air and snow blew up through the gaping hole that should have been covered by the floorboard. But what did we care? We were young and hearty, and we owned snow boots.
Back then, we drove clunkers out of necessity. At least the folks I knew did. None of my friends, or neighbors, came from “means” so we acquired wheels the best way we could. Most of our cars were barely held together with chewing gum and rubber bands, and they threatened to die at each stop sign, yet we would rather get rid of the family dog than part with a cherished old car.
My friend’s Plymouth was just such a car. Even though its only redeeming quality was the fact that it would get us where we wanted to go, and most of the time get us back again, she loved it. One of the most interesting features of this car, besides the fender that I would have to pick up from the pavement every time we stopped at a traffic light, were the gaping holes in the front floorboard. Not having a floor gave us a false sense of security in that we figured if the brakes ever gave out, we could still stop the car by dragging our feet.
And did I mention that we had great air-conditioning?
Entering and exiting this vehicle took a certain amount of stage managing and skill. One did not simply open the door and sit down: First of all, because the doors wouldn’t open ninety percent of the time. Secondly, because the first person in had to balance the seat on the two by four for the next person. Otherwise the seat would rock, throwing the passenger through the hole, and her cries for help would never be heard above the sound of an engine hitting on four out of eight.
This next part wasn’t in that original column, but it’s an incident that we recalled numerous times with much merriment.
Once when the engine was smoking and sputtering more than normal, I was driving and Flo said to turn into the parking lot of a drugstore just off the main drag through town. A lady was waiting to pull out of the lot and had stopped her shiny red Cadillac in the middle of the access ramp, leaving no room to pull around her. She didn’t move, even though we were both waving our hands to indicate we wanted to turn in. Flo jumped out of the car and yelled. “Look out, the car’s going to explode.”
Not something to yell in today’s environment, but keep in mind this was a long, long time ago. And it did have the desired results. The lady quickly backed her caddy out of the way, leaving room for us to pull off the street and turn off the engine before it truly did expode.
Luckily, the problem wasn’t serious, and after the engine cooled it decided to run without all the smoke and sound effects.
A nextdoor neighbor used to complain about the sound of Flo slamming the car door when she came to my house. When I told her about the complaint, she didn’t say much, but the next time she came over and saw said neighbor on the porch, Flo rolled down the window and yelled, “Hey, Maryann. Is it okay to open and close the car door? Or do I have to try to squeeze through the window?”
Not sure, but I don’t think the neighbor talked to us again.
Totally unrelated to that venerable old car is something else that always makes me chuckle. My mother had a small tank with tropical fish in it but didn’t have an aerator. Flo would come into the house and swirl the water around with her fingers and tell my mother, “There. They have oxygen now.”
At first my mother was a bit alarmed about that, but the fish lived for a long time, so she finally agreed that maybe Flo was helping the fish.
This last little memory might make some people cringe just a bit, but when I had my first baby, Flo came to the apartment and saw all the paraphernalia for bathing a baby. She said, “Hey. You don’t need all that junk. Just put some soap in the toilet and dunk her up and down a few times. Then flush for the rinse.”
Luckily, my mother didn’t hear her say that as it was much scarier than swishing a fish bowl.
There are so many other wonderful, fun times we had together, and I will treasure these memories forever.
Thanks for being my friend for so long, Flobell. May you Rest in Peace. And remember what I said about not harassing the angels.