Driving Me Happy, Chapter 22: Soldier

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-25)

 

 

After returning to Ohio in the 1980’s, I retained a personal habit of writing and recording demo tracks, on cassette tape. My guitar collection was unremarkable, and the skill I possessed in plucking out chord progressions did not dazzle anyone. Yet I had been inspired by the Folk Music fandom of my father. And, by my mentor and bandmate, Paul Race of Corning, New York. So, whenever events of consequence occurred, I was moved to document them in song.

 

Bidding farewell to the exhausted Chevette qualified as a reason to write.

 

Somewhere in my messy, household heap of boxes, crates, and crammed shelves, is the original take of that tuneful composition. Though for the moment, it exists only in memory. Despite my best efforts to sift through the rubble of past years, I have not located that work. But with a bit of historical revision in effect, on a recent afternoon, I sat at my desk and tried to recite it from memory. With numb digits, I strummed my Applause roundback, and wandered into that lost era of chronology.

 

“How did that go? Farewell, old soldier? Farewell, farewell? I know it was something like that! I did one take, in the bedroom on Wearsch Road, I think, while the house was empty. If anyone had been listening, I would’ve suffered a fit of embarrassment...”

 

The yield of this introspective moment was poignant, and bittersweet.

 

“Farewell, Old Soldier – Revisited”

 

GM did the best they could

To merchandise some fun

When my hatchback mule rolled off the line

In nineteen-eighty-one

With a four-speed stick, standard

And room for a dog or cat

That bland little rattlebox

Cast a shadow where it sat

 

Now it wasn’t long on looks

Though some thought it had appeal

A short hood in the front

And four doors between the wheels

Like riding in a little red wagon

With everything bouncing ‘round

Those 13-inch tires

Kept you close to the ground

 

Farewell, old soldier

I know you served us well

Spun your wheels through three years of

Heaven and hell

Your place in the driveway

Was always a certainty

But a tow-truck took you home to

Junkyard eternity

 

It had electrical gremlins

That I never did locate

And the pep from that one-point-six

Wasn’t really all that great

But it sipped gasoline

Like a miser at the bar

I didn’t have to fill the tank

To travel very far

 

I used it like a pickup truck

Living on a country road

That tiny rig went rolling

Carrying its load

And I never feared of woe

I knew it’d get me home

To my humble shack in the outback

On a trail of stones

 

Farewell, old soldier

I know you served us well

Spun your wheels through three years of

Heaven and hell

Your place in the driveway

Was always a certainty

But a tow-truck took you home to

Junkyard eternity

 

Now eventually rust took a toll

The springs, they broke apart

The shifter wouldn’t hold reverse

Bad bulbs left me in the dark

A cracked piston topped the list

With metal fatigue that failed

I wanted to trade it away

But that ship had sailed

 

So, after it sat in the yard

I decided on relief

I called about a tow truck

That would do the job for free

They hauled that beater up the road

With dust hanging, thick and gray

My old Chevette finally got

Its path to judgment day

 

Farewell, old soldier

I know you served us well

Spun your wheels through three years of

Heaven and hell

Your place in the driveway

Was always a certainty

But a tow-truck took you home to

Junkyard eternity

 

Many years have passed me by

Since that car expired

But I still think of it sometimes

A brave heart, retired

I might never drive again

Going so slow, down the street

But if I did it’d be with a grin

Over America’s little heartbeat

 

My brother called it a piece of tin

Cut from soda cans

He never liked my T-car

I knew he was a Ford man

But by the grace of God

I kept it going strong

And now that it has gone away

I remember it in song

 

Farewell, old soldier

I know you served us well

Spun your wheels through three years of

Heaven and hell

Your place in the driveway

Was always a certainty

But a tow-truck took you home to

Junkyard eternity

 

In 1987, I had recorded my tribute with a V.J. Rendano axe, a plain, flat-top acoustic distributed by a Cleveland wholesaler. There was irony in using such a budget instrument, probably made in the Orient, to croon about a bottom-of-the-line vehicle from Chevrolet. I had purchased it for around $10.00 at a thrift store in Mentor. Like my boxy, automotive beast, that guitar has also long ago left the household. But both remain embedded in my memory.

 

I do not recall if Betty ever listened to my amateur recording. Though she often attributed such deeds to an offbeat sense of humor, and my background in a family of educators and professionals.

 

“There’s something about your bloodline. I can’t put my finger on it, directly, but you’ve all got that quirky outlook on life! You laugh at the oddest things! I think it’s in your veins!”

 

Paul, who I had met at Channel 13 in Ithaca, was that sort of person. Someone who enjoyed the witty, observational humor projected by George Carlin. He often spun tales of his Riverside cohorts into melodic creations that were seedy and satirical. Yet always delivered with good humor. I did not have the talent to match his vibe, or that of entertainment celebrities from the artistic continuum. But their influence shaped my own intellectual journey. Their gift was one of insight, and hope. It made the lackluster experience of driving an economy sedan more palatable, by far.

 

The Chevette inhabited a space in my driveway for three years. Yet its enduring presence in heart and mind is likely to last for an eternity.

Driving Me Happy, Chapter 21: Scrapyard

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-25)

 

 

Because Betty and I were living on an unimproved, rural road, hidden from the population center which was only a few minutes away, there was no hurry to junk my Chevette. The husk of this demolished, steel carcass sat in our side yard for several months. Throughout the winter and into spring. But eventually, I grew tired of seeing it framed in the kitchen window. Its lingering presence reminded me of what the hatchback had ultimately meant in personal terms. Specifically, a lengthy episode of failure, frustration, and regret.

 

The Weekly Mail was a popular publication in those days, read by nearly everyone in our county. It mostly consisted of advertising, but carried a few news stories on the first couple of pages. Because it was distributed by the postal system, and available for free at newsstands, the rag boasted an enormous reach with readers. There were lots of services and businesses hyped in their pages. So, my wife-to-be kept a close eye on the content contained, therein. When a notice of free towing appeared, offered by a local dealer in scrap metal, she immediately brought it to my attention. Her breathless plea tickled my ears.

 

“Rodney! You can finally get rid of that eyesore behind our house! I know you like using it as an extra shed, but please! Call this number and get them to haul it away! There’s no reason to miss out on such a great opportunity!”

 

I had already opened a cold brew, and stood by the front door while savoring my refreshing, Blue Ribbon libation. It gave me the confidence to speak what was on my mind. Something I normally refrained from doing when my love partner was present.

 

“Nah, wait a minute! I was going to peel off the hood, and plant flowers in the engine bay! It’ll to be a sort of lawn sculpture, you know? Wait and see! Maybe we’ll get a picture on the cover of that local paper of yours! Give me a chance, at least! It’s worth a try!”

 

My mocking sense of humor was not well received. She wrinkled her nose, and hissed, lightly.

 

“Mr. Ice, you are not the least bit funny! I want that piece of Detroit rubbish out of our yard! You are not a gardener or a decorator! Quit being an ass!”

 

My face flushed red, while drinking.

 

“Look, there are usable parts left on that thing. New headlights, the radio, a spare tire, who knows what else I might need down the road...”

 

Betty folded her arms, and spoke with the clipped cadence of an office-manager on duty. Her delivery was very direct.

 

“My son will help you. He loves to tinker on projects with his grandpa! Do whatever you need to do, to be satisfied, and get that little heap of trash out of here!”

 

Suddenly, my beer tasted flat. I surrendered without any further attempts to play the joker.

 

Her offspring and I spent an entire afternoon scuttling the General Motors T-car. He took pride in guessing what bits and pieces might be used for repair projects in the family. Once we had finished our work, my toolboxes and the storage barn were loaded with automotive spares. I dialed the number listed, and scheduled a visit for the next morning. Something that was easy and unexpectedly quick. Yet when the salvage representative arrived, he was stunned to see that we had culled the Chevy for anything worth keeping.

 

With a grunt and a crack of callused, greasy knuckles, he frowned and shook his head.

 

“WHAT, YOU STRIPPED THAT BEATER, ALREADY? HAH, OKAY! I SEE WHAT YOU DID! THAT’S A DAMN BITE IN THE BUTT! NOW, YOU OWE ME MONEY FOR THE TOW!”

 

I couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not. But my stomach began to ache.

 

“C’mon, you can still sell the hood and doors, and hatch. Even the wheels, maybe somebody needs a replacement rim. Who knows? You’re here anyway, load it up and go...”

 

The burly fellow grumbled and grew sweaty while doing his work. In only a matter of minutes, the decaying chunk of refuse was on his wrecker bed, and chained down for safety.

 

I expected a rush of excitement at finally seeing the Shove-It disappear. Yet when the junkyard rig began to roll back up our gravel trail, over the hillside, I actually felt a tingle of remorse. A bit more than three years had elapsed, since I bought the minimalist Chevrolet. Memories of long workdays, bar-hopping and traveling to New York sparkled in reflection. It had been the first dependable mule I owned. At least, by contrast with the white Volkswagen which stranded me on numerous occasions. The Econoline van was only a temporary substitute for my ruined econobox. Eventually, I would have to make another selection. When that moment arrived, I hoped to find something just as thrifty, and inexpensive to maintain.

 

My future bride glowed proudly, when she came home from Fisher’s Big Wheel, to see the empty rectangle in our yard. The green grass could bathe in sunlight, and grow once again. I had gotten rid of a headache and nuisance, that perplexed me for far too long.

 

“You did it! You did it! I’m very pleased, Rodney! Don’t you feel good now? It’s over at last! No more complaining about that bland beast! You’re free of it! Good riddance to bad garbage! Goodbye, buh-bye, bye bye!”

 

My face had turned pale. Both hands were cold.

 

“Yeah, I guess. That’s three grand in bank payments, right down the drain...”

 

Betty adjusted her oversized spectacles, and huffed.

 

“DON’T TELL ME YOU’RE FEELING SORRY ABOUT THIS! AFTER YEARS OF MOANING AND BITCHING ABOUT THAT CAR! YOU HATED IT! BE HAPPY FOR A CHANGE! BE HAPPY AND THANKFUL THAT IT RAN FOR LONG ENOUGH TO GET PAID OFF, AT LEAST!”

 

A cloud of dust drifted across the horizon, as the junkyard hauler reached our road peak, by the main route to town. I could hear the diesel engine hitting full throttle. This mournful sound echoed across the landscape, like a siren’s cry.

 

My erstwhile champion was now on its way to bowtie Valhalla. With its carbureted spirit being carried by a Valkyrie loyal to fallen, four-cylinder conscripts who perished in battle.

Driving Me Happy, Chapter 20: Bargains

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-25)

 

 

Driving my Econoline van was a stopgap measure that made sense in 1987. Its purchase price was so low that doing minimal maintenance to make it truly roadworthy did not present a problem. And indeed, I enjoyed having this remote living space available for moments away from my doting spouse-to-be. I hid Camel cigarettes in the toolbox, after officially giving up smoking tobacco products. I installed stereo speakers from a decommissioned home system, in the back. Then rigged them to a leftover, Sparkomatic radio, crammed under the dashboard. I used the mobile shelter as a hideaway for drinking and relaxation, when leisure moments arrived, and I was alone. Once, I even took Betty and her son on a family outing, back to the Pennsylvania territory from which my auctioned Ford had come.

 

But driving this one-ton beast was never easy. It handled even worse than the ponderous, high-mileage Country Squire wagons my father had owned when we lived in New York State. Visibility was poor, with acres of metal behind the driver’s seat. My fuel budget quadrupled. It rode hard and maneuvered like a battle tank. Still, it allowed me to start a small savings account. Something that Betty advised was a smart strategy for the future.

 

I drove it to work, and occasionally, on the back route to Mentor. A more developed city in Lake County, where record stores and music shops tempted me to spend my ready cash. But otherwise, I had little courage for long adventures. I needed something more dependable, and thrifty. Though owning a new vehicle still seemed out of reach. But while driving home one evening, past dealerships along the local strip, I saw a cluster of primitive, squarish vehicles flanking the sidewalk in front of a massive billboard. It was styled like a poster for the circus, or a demolition derby.

 

“BUY THE ALL-NEW YUGO NOW! It’s $3990, AND THAT’S $1800 LESS THAN THE AVERAGE USED CAR! TEST DRIVE ONE BEFORE YOU DECIDE! BUY YOURSELF A LITTLE FREEDOM!”

 

I did not take their invitation seriously, with the uncertain origin of this cheap product having already been debated in automotive publications like Motor Trend. Yet the specious promise of getting value for money stuck in my head. It was something that I needed, desperately. Later, that appetite resonated once again, as I looked through advertisements in a Sunday issue of our Cleveland Plain Dealer. Amid blocks of promotional content run by Chrysler, Ford, Volkswagen, Toyota, and others, was a lone column of specials from Classic Chevrolet. The last offer struck me like a bullet between the eyes.

 

“BEHOLD, THE LAST YEAR CHEVETTE, FOR 1987. GET IT NOW AT THE LOW, LOW PRICE OF $4995, BRAND NEW! YOU WON’T HAVE ANOTHER CHANCE TO GET ONE OF AMERICA’S FAVORITE ECONOMY SEDANS! COME IN AND SEE WHY IT’LL DRIVE YOU HAPPY!”

 

My jaw dropped while sitting at the dinner table.

 

“A new car that I could actually afford! And not some off-brand piece of trash! Woo hoo! God is good! God is good!”

 

When I confessed my weakness for this closeout deal, Betty pinched her nose, and then glared with indignation. She stood like a schoolmaster about to dispense correction to her students.

 

“Rodney, you’ve done nothing but complain about your hatchback Chevy since we met! And as a matter of fact, the poor thing is still sitting in our yard! You haven’t even called for a tow truck yet, and now, this sales pitch sounds appealing? Please! Use your noggin for a change! What point would there be in buying another car you’ll hate? It makes no sense!”

 

Her logic left me speechless. I took a deep breath, and slouched in my chair.

 

“Umm, well...”

 

My partner folded her arms defensively, and snorted with impatience.

 

“You need more of a down payment to consider taking out another car loan. How much have you saved so far? A thousand dollars, maybe? Two or three? Or more?”

 

I turned pale and closed my eyes.

 

“I don’t know exactly, maybe a couple hundred or thereabouts...”

She cackled loudly, and gestured toward the kitchen door.

 

“Your wallet is empty. And I think your brain went on vacation! But go ahead, do what you want! It’s fine with me!”

 

I knew that arguing was pointless. But wanted to explain my intentions before surrendering.

 

“My Ford van has been a lot of fun. I’d probably keep it as a second option for hauling furniture, or whatever. It’s like having a pickup truck, there are plenty of those running around in this county. But think of it, I could actually buy something right off the dealer lot! Not a leftover headache from someone else. All new, clean and shiny, factory fresh, ready for getting to work, or going back to New York, or anything! I’ve never had a new ride before! Not even close! We’ve got a stable household here, I’m on the job seven days a week, so trust me! I can do this! It’s no Cadillac, but maybe that’s okay! I can make it work!”

 

She shook her head and hissed. I had pushed my point too far.

 

“Sure, sure! Go ahead then! Go ahead and talk to them! Plunk down your pennies, and be satisfied. How long will that feeling last? A week? A month? A year? It’s still going to be a Chevette, no matter what. A thorn in your side. An embarrassment in our driveway. Something you’ll hate, every time that key turns and the motor starts to spin! You know, it won’t turn into a Camaro or a Monte Carlo, overnight. No matter how hard you wish for something better. It’s a Shove-It as you like to say! A Shove-itttt! A dreadful, bland, boring little piece of recycled, junkyard tin!”

 

My lungs were out of air. I wheezed in response, as she turned in the opposite direction.

 

“Ummmmmmmm...”

 

The folded newspaper landed in our trash bin. Our confrontational conversation was over.

 

Chevette Book, Chapter 19: Issues

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-25)

 

 

Buying the Ford Econoline van in Pennsylvania proved to be easier than I expected. A task accomplished with little planning or forethought. But this acquired relic had officially run through 200,000 miles on the road, already. There were minor issues that needed to be addressed before I could depend on it for daily service. This process began immediately, after returning to my home base in Ohio.

 

Before long, I discovered that the back-up lights did not work. This flaw was addressed by wiring a toggle switch on the dash, and activating them manually when needed. The heater core was apparently shot, and I got little warmth as a seasonal chill arrived. This was not so difficult to handle, but it meant that my defroster did not function. I had gotten used to driving with an ice scraper in one hand, while at the wheel of my 1973 VW Beetle. So, that habit returned. There was no spare tire, and the shifter would balk if moved too quickly. When it stuck between gears, I had to lie under the big bus, and pull on its transmission linkage to accomplish a reset. Additionally, the front suspension needed lubrication at its grease points, and a tack weld for the steering box. None of these woes were expensive to erase. Yet it meant needing a ride to my jobsite, on a weekday, when no other form of transportation was available.

 

Betty, with a positive tone and realist outlook that was characteristic of her mature personality, observed that I ought to take one more trip in my Chevette. She wrinkled her pointy nose, and waited for my response, after saying this out loud.

 

“You haven’t driven it since coming back from New York. How far is it to your supermarket, three or four miles, maybe? Being so close, you could ride a bicycle, if we had one. It’s worth the chance not to lose a work shift, right? See if that poor piece of junk will start!”

 

My body sagged when trudging through fallen leaves, across our side yard. The junk hatchback looked undeniably sad, sitting in a ring of tall grass. It was an orphan now, unloved and useless except for shielding a large bag of Gravy Train Dog Chow, from bursts of inclement weather.

 

After climbing inside, I pumped the gas pedal a few times, and twisted its ignition key. The motor huffed smoke and rattled. Another attempt shook the whole rig like a washer out of balance. Then, it actually started running. I was able to coax it to maintain a rough idle, and then shifted into first gear. The rear wheels spun out a stream of mud and weeds. With a brief burst of forward motion as my reward for being persistent.

 

“I don’t believe it! This hunk of tin might actually make it to Chardon!!”

 

I decided that my spouse-to-be was correct. Even if the GM mule happened to disintegrate somewhere between our homestead and the grocery emporium, I wouldn’t have far to walk. I reckoned it would soon be carried away by a tow truck, no matter what happened. Therefore, taking a chance on getting to my store seemed worthwhile. Upon gathering tools in case I got stranded, and finding my wallet, I set out on this risky jaunt. Something done with a prayer on my lips, and a whisper of fear in my heart.

 

The injured Chevrolet could only manage about 35 mph, even with its accelerator pegged. But most of the drive was through rural neighborhoods with little traffic. The car coughed and sputtered, and rattled while moving. I kept both hands on the wheel. An odor of motor oil and fuel wafted into the cabin, as I pressed onward. The vehicle felt limp, and lifeless. But kept going in a straight line.

 

When I arrived at my Bi-Rite food depot, there were cheers from members of the crew, standing outside. No one could believe that I had taken the beige beast out for a final cruise. A long-haired veteran named Scott, who was a fan of Heavy Metal and functioned as a rodeo clown for the team, clapped and whistled while grinning with neglected, yellow teeth.

 

“DAMNNNN! YOU CAME HERE IN THAT THING, AGAIN? SHITTTT! GOOD CHOICE, MAN! WHEN IT FALLS APART, YOU’LL PROBABLY GET CRUSHED LIKE A BAG OF SNYDER’S BBQ POTATO CHIPS! OZZY OSBOURNE WOULD BE PROUD! OR RONNIE JAMES DIO! HORNS UP, RODSTER! HORNS UP! WOOOOO!”

 

I shrugged sheepishly as he cackled about my predicament. His own ride was a 1970’s Thunderbird, which had suffered a familiar plague of rust to its front clip. The bumper had fallen off, leaving only scarred bits of the subframe visible. Whatever color it had been originally was now faded into a pale hue between maroon and brown.

 

In personal terms, I lusted after a new Monte Carlo, Olds Cutlass, or Chrysler Cordoba. Something with a V-8 under the hood, and more creature comforts, inside. Yet for the moment, I would be stuck piloting my living-room-on-wheels. That is, if I could drive home again, after finishing my shelf-stocking duties.

 

When I rolled into a parking space west of the building, my Shove-It came to rest at an angle pitched to one side. Some of the tires were going flat. Black soot stained its hindquarters. I didn’t bother locking the driver’s door, because having it stolen would’ve been a blessing. A merciful act from the automotive gods of Detroit.

 

I made a silent petition to heaven as the T-car stalled.

 

“Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Lord!”

 

I had suffered enough embarrassment over three years of being banished to the hellscape of Chevette ownership. My price of penance had been paid.

 

The green, Ford van was repaired and ready in only one day. Being so huge and ugly earned it a comic nickname of Godzilla from friends and family members. A label that was both amusing and appropriate. I found a toy representation of that notable movie monster at Fisher’s Big Wheel, and put it on the dashboard for good luck.

 

The undersized Chevy was now ready to be scrapped. I would not drive it again.

Driving Me Happy, Chapter 18: Auction

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-25)

 

 

With the 1981 Chevy Chevette banished to our side yard, I had returned to my original status upon coming home to Ohio, in late 1983. Namely, that of a pedestrian. I now had no form of personal transportation. Betty, my future wife, made sure that I could get to work despite this uncomfortable predicament. Yet it felt like a defeat on all fronts. My finances were depleted, having just finished making payments to Bank One on the car loan. Yet due to my youthful age and minimal credit history, I still did not have a secure foundation for buying another vehicle. Finding a solution did not seem to be an easy task. But my spouse-to-be was not disheartened. Her background as an office manager and networking professional proved to be more valuable than I had realized when we first met.

 

She tweaked her nose reflexively, while tapping away at a large calculator on the kitchen table. It made her look like an accountant taking stock of company resources. The look in her eyes indicated metaphorical wheels turning, while pondering my plight. So, I kept quiet and waited. Finally, she removed her oversized glasses, scribbled out a bottom-line tally, and handed me a homemade statement, written on notebook paper.

 

“Here’s your action plan, Rodney. Save what you can for the next year. Put aside the amount you were spending each month, on your little Chevrolet. Get yourself in a better position for tomorrow, don’t dive into more debt before you’re stable. We only live about five minutes from town. What do you really need for transportation? Nobody cares what you drive...”

 

My pulse had begun to rise.

 

“I CARE, DAMMIT! I CARE!”

 

She was short, plain but pretty, and in her 30s. Someone I truly needed as a life partner. Though my concept of an ideal mate had not yet matured completely.

 

“One of my brothers has connections at an auction site in Pennsylvania. It’s at a farm, just across the state line. Dealerships go there, and private individuals. He thinks you might discover a solution to your problem. Sometimes there are real bargains to be found...”

 

Her suggestion caught my interest, because it sounded oddly familiar. Like something my younger brother would do, if fate had left him with no motorized mobility. He was well on his way to having owned a hundred automobiles, or more. I guessed at the very least, it was worth an impulsive roll the dice.

 

We arrived at this secretive, Keystone State locale in the evening. The seedy venue was already crowded. A line of prospective buys snaked through a large, rustic barn which served as the showroom. I watched a progression of classic cars, luxury vehicles, and weatherbeaten relics roll by the reviewing stand. Bids came quickly from the mob of contestants. But nothing I saw was affordable, in my own terms at least. A white, 1969 Pontiac Grand Prix went for $3500.00, an amount that sounded incredible, but out of reach. Other offerings were less glitzy, but still appealing. None of them fit my budget though, so I stayed silent.

 

Near the end of this frantic session, a 1972 Ford Econoline van appeared. It was a one-ton model, sprayed in a military shade of green. The auctioneer related that it had served a newspaper producer in the City of Erie. It was big, boxy, and carried a 302 V-8 motor. With a three-speed shift, on the steering column. There were no accessories included. It had been ordered as a workhorse.

 

Hands were raised from a beginning point of $50.00. Slowly, this amount swelled as a modicum of interest was manifested. Though real excitement over the ratty beast did not resonate. When a closing price of $200.00 was repeated several times over, suddenly, I felt a jerk in my arm. My voice sounded hoarse. I literally shouted from the back row.

 

“TWO-FIFTY! IT’S TWO-FIFTY FROM ME!”

 

There were glares of disbelief, coughing fits, and snorts of indignance, everywhere. I suspected that someone had intended to snag the old mule for parts. Though it ran strong, and maneuvered competently. There were no rust holes in its body, and it had passed an official inspection. Everything seemed to be in order.

 

The auction master declared that I had won, before any other activity occurred. It was a moment both thrilling and surreal. Because despite a lifetime of idolizing GM products, I now owned something that carried the blue oval as its mark of quality. This put me in sync with my combative sibling, something that was rare, indeed.

 

Betty gave me a blank stare. I could not tell if she was horrified, or pleased.

 

“You and Ronald are the Ford brothers, now!”

 

On the way back to Geauga County, I had only a bill-of-sale in the glovebox as my proof of ownership. The van quickly revealed that it had manual steering, which meant it boasted the road manners of a cement truck. I followed the route home without a working radio, or interior lights of any kind. A dim glow from the wide dashboard was my only companion. There were two seats in the front, and nothing else behind. I reckoned that their intention had been to use the brutish hauler like a pickup truck. It managed to reach a cruising velocity of around 70 mph, but did not feel capable of much more.

 

The Chevette had been relegated to holding bags of dog food for our homebound kennel. So, it was still sitting in the grass, when I arrived at our address. The van headlights swept across its profile, as I pulled up, into the driveway which spanned a gap between two stout trees and their combined root systems.

 

My brother actually had a Super Van version of the Econoline, one adorned with chrome accents and features for passenger use. This meant that despite butting heads for so long, we now had a genuine kinship in the making. At my suggestion, Betty took a photograph of the pair, nose to nose, on our gravel road. Her approval echoed while tripping the shutter.

 

“They look like twins! How nice is that? Two peas in a pod...”

 

Ron laughed at this cheerful characterization.

 

“Nah, they are both Fords! I figure instead of rubbing snouts, they’d be fighting!”

Driving Me Happy, Chapter 17: Spring

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-25)

 

 

By the early months of 1987, I had reached a tipping point in my personal journey toward maturity. For the first time, I had a partner who was smart and stable. I had a job that fulfilled the needs associated with living independently. I was in the final year of paying off my car loan, a major expense which I wanted to eliminate. And I felt confident in staying on track. Something that had eluded me while living in New York. But with the seasonal thaw taking hold, and our rural bungalow emerging from heaping mounds of snow, I realized that the Chevette would not be a willing participant in this metamorphosis toward adulthood.

 

Friends observed that my GM hatchback looked like something out of a Flintstones cartoon. Its floor had disintegrated to the point that mud and muck were splashing inside, as I drove to work. The vehicle was now a rattlebox of sorts, worn and groaning with voices of mechanical fatigue. Eventually, a member of my social circle who performed repair work at a dealership, declared that I should be concerned about the transmission mounts, underneath. He did a brief inspection and saw that rust had overrun the structural integrity of my bland beast.

 

With no extra money on hand, I had few options to fix this malady. So, in desperation, I bought a length of heavy chain from a store in Chardon. I ran this through holes in the floor, cinched it tight to the center tunnel, and used a padlock to secure the improvised support. It worked well enough, but was a bit too obvious. I decided to place shop rags over the silver links, as a measure of camouflage. In case I might be stopped by police at some point, while rolling around our county.

 

With warmer weather reigniting my wanderlust, I began to ponder making another trip to the Empire State. My younger brother also had forgotten companions in the Finger Lakes Region, so he agreed to share expenses, and go along. But I hadn’t thought too much about his impressive, physical girth. A size that easily doubled my own weight. When he plopped in the passenger seat, and we reached Interstate 90, two things immediately became apparent. The first was that my beige bomb lacked enough power to pull our combined heft up to highways speeds in a timely manner. The second was that when he adjusted his sitting position for comfort, my minimalist transport would attempt to change lanes. I had to pay strict attention to our position, at every moment. And my foot stayed stiff on the accelerator pedal.

 

I dropped him off in Ithaca, and then circled back toward Corning. There, Paul & Mollie Race were waiting, with guitars, recording equipment, and lots of contraband substances. As usual, I stayed refreshed with native brews such as Utica Club. Plus, a small flask of bourbon. But I had no interest in becoming completely obliterated.

 

Paul voiced his displeasure over this shy stance of mine, as we tuned up the instruments.

 

“What the hell, man? You been in Ohio for a few months and all of a sudden get antsy about having a good time? What happened to the dude I remember passing out in my hallway, after a big spliff of Mary Jane? I think you need to relax a little bit! C’mon and get high, brother!”

 

I was no longer the rowdy, capricious teenager he remembered. My first wife had urged me to accept a perspective on living that was mindful of responsibilities. I did not quite understand this change completely, but embraced it as being necessary. Much like driving my boxy, four-door conveyance, from Detroit. Gone were the days of staying under a bridge, and gnawing on cold pizza when my belly went empty. I did not want to slide backwards into poverty, homelessness, and ruin. Or have to wash my few clothes in a public sink, while hopping around barefoot, and nearly naked.

 

“Hey friend, it’s a new chapter now. I turned the page, okay? Nobody could stand me anymore, and I couldn’t tolerate myself. You want that kid back again? I think not!”

 

By that point, my hippie mentor was sweaty, shaggy, and stoned. He shrugged and started riffing on a Blues chord progression. Then crooned a musical tale that reddened my face.

 

“Rod cleaned up his act, what the fuck is up with that? Oh, I used to know that guy, but I think he must’ve died! ‘Cause now he’s playing Mr. Clean, piss beer, and Jim Beam. That shitshow makes me sad, he was the best friend I ever had. So long, buddy boy, I’ll see you the next time you’re unemployed...”

 

His sarcasm was a scorching rebuke that I could not forget. Yet as I picked up my brother when the weekend was over, other concerns soon occupied my thoughts. We had only gone a few miles west, along the Southern Tier Expressway, when I noted that the Chevette was particularly lethargic. It struggled to hold road speed for any length of time. Then, it began to surge and cough while in motion.

 

We made several stops along the way. My brother expressed his determination to diagnose the issue, and we paused at a Kmart location, and later, an auto parts depot. Each time he fiddled under the hood, replaced bits and pieces, and tried to make an educated guess about the cause of our delay. But nothing seemed to help. By the time we reached Salamanca, my car was loafing with a labored chuffing of black exhaust. After getting grub and coffee, we returned to the road and puttered along slowly. I could feel that the undersized motor had suffered some kind of internal injury. Yet the need to get home took precedence. We had to reach our destination, intact. Failing that would mean being stranded in unfamiliar territory. Not an experience that either of us wanted to embrace.

 

When we reached the on-ramp for our last leg of the journey, my Shove-It balked at rolling up this long incline. I had my right foot on the floor, and the transmission in second or third gear. But our forward motion did not increase greatly. I could see an 18-wheel rig growing larger in my rearview mirror, a sight that quickly had me holding my breath. With no avenue for escape, I grabbed the steering wheel tightly, and braced myself for impact. The professional driver sailed past on my right flank, with inches of clearance to spare. Air displaced by his tractor-trailer combination shook my economy sedan as if it were a toy.

 

My sibling actually appeared to be unsure if we would survive. I had never seen him show fear before.

 

“SHIT BRO, THAT WAS FUCKING CLOSE!”

 

I had become sick at my stomach by the time we reached Munson Township, and Wearsch Road. My GM mule was spent. It barely had enough fortitude to bounce over the gravel trail that led to my house. Once in the yard, it stalled. That was the end of our adventure. I would never take the car on a vacation jaunt, again.

 

Later, I discovered that the low-buck Chevrolet had a cracked piston. Our ride home apparently occurred with only three cylinders operating. My daily driver was now fit for nothing more than being towed to a scrapyard. It had clocked up 77,640 miles of service. Not nearly the amount I had hoped for, when signing loan paperwork, with Bank One.

 

 

 

 

Driving Me Happy, Chapter 16: Winter

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-25)

 

 

When I moved in with Betty, on Wearsch Road outside of Chardon, there were many issues to consider. Some were financial in nature, and others related to basic logistics, or budding relations between our families. But I did not give much thought to the fact that living on a gravel road, in a township separated from the nearest population center, would present difficulties. During periods of intense rain and thunderstorms, our lonesome trail would get washed out by nature. This sometimes created deep furrows in the roadway that were all but impossible for my Chevette to navigate. I would find myself teetering along a precarious path. With wheels spinning, stones going airborne, and the motor of my hatchback beast lugging to stay alive. A tractor with grading implements could easily level out the surface, when it arrived. But waiting for relief might require hours or even days.

 

I became familiar with these unexpected interruptions, as a part of rural living. A tradeoff for having privacy and comfort, throughout the year.

 

My plain vehicle was not designed to be a champ in winter months, with rear-wheel drive, minimal horsepower on tap, and a light weight overall. The aggressive tires I used at its rear end helped a bit during bouts of lake-effect snow. Something which affected our region with severe consequences. Yet living in Munson Township, on an unimproved route up a hillside, magnified the woes of inclement weather. Occasionally, I was forced to surrender the freedom to roam, completely. Something that I never did with a smile.

 

On a particular Sunday night in January, I had to nap between shifts at my store, and be back on duty at midnight. Our grocery crew would stock a truckload of edible goods, some 2000 cases or more, by the morning. When I awakened that night, my wife and her son were both in their beds. I banked the wood fire to keep them warm, had a cup of coffee in the kitchen, and then went outside to clean off my boxy Chevrolet.

 

There were no lights along our rustic boulevard. So, I could not see much past the front porch. We had split logs stacked on one side, for easy access when the conditions were unreasonably harsh. I kept a collection of shovels, buckets, and long-handled ice picks, on the other. After warming up my thrifty mule, I backed out of our driveway, with a bit of sliding and slipping swinging the car’s tail around. My forward progress seemed steady enough to justify heading toward town, without any further delay. But as I crept up the incline, past our yard and the sloped field that lay beyond, suddenly my headlights went dark. I saw a swath of white flakes spill over the hood. Then, the vehicle stalled completely.

 

I had about a half-hour left, before being late. While yawning at the wheel, I twisted the ignition key once again, shifted into first gear, and let out the clutch. My undersized transport shuddered and howled, and stalled for a second time.

 

“WHAT THE HELL? WHAT THE HELL? WHAT THE HELL?”

 

When I tried to get the door open, for a closer inspection of our road, a rush of freezing wind chapped my face. I couldn’t see anything. But a flashlight in the glovebox soon revealed the severity of my plight. There had apparently been no plowing done, since the meteorological outburst had dumped its wrath our neighborhood. That meant the beige beater was buried where it sat. Even with a bit of shoveling, I had little hope of cresting the hill. About two feet of snow, or more, had drifted over the landscape.

 

With regret, I had to wake up our slumbering brood. I knew that missing a shift would be bad enough in personal terms. Yet leaving my GM mobile in the midst of a traveled route would mean getting rammed by the township crew, when they finally reached our location. It took all three of us, shivering and cursing, and chattering our teeth, just to get my Shove-It back into a safe spot between the trees.

 

“WHAT THE HELL?”

 

My boss at the groceteria seemed truly puzzled when I called. He lived in a development on the opposite side of town from our commercial building. Park estates that were maintained with expert care, throughout the season.

 

“You got stuck? Really? Well, that’s too bad, Rodney! I never spun a tire getting here, made it in about five minutes, just like normal! Everyone else showed up too, I haven’t heard a complaint yet. Anyway, I’ll put you down as being absent for the night. Hope they dig you out by morning! Bob the big boss will probably chew your ass on Tuesday. Be ready, he’s a handful when things don’t go right!!”

 

I felt sick at my stomach. Not only because of the warning he delivered, but also because lost labor hours would mean a slimmer paycheck. Not something that I wanted to ponder, while warming up in front of our cast-iron stove.

 

           

When I reported for duty at my next appointed time, our general manager was standing in the receiving area, with a cheap cigar tucked into one corner of his mouth. His oiled hair glistened in shades of gray and black. One shirttail had already worked its way from under his belt. I expected to get ripped for calling off with a heavy workload having been delivered. But instead, he nodded with mock outrage, and gestured toward the back door, which was wide open.

 

“I heard yinz got buried the other night. Where the heck do you live, Brother Buck? All the way in Pennsylvania?”

 

I swallowed hard and heard my gut make noises of gastronomic stress.

 

“Just outside of Chardon. But we’re down a hillside, not far from the creek.”

 

Bob tapped his smoldering stogie until ashes scattered on the concrete.

 

“Too bad yinz don’t live in Pennsylvania, brother. Then there’d be a real football team to watch instead of the wimpy ol’ Browns! Here we go Stillers, here we go! Now that’s a real squad if I ever saw one! Bradshaw is a guaranteed hall-of-famer, one-hundred percent!”

 

I shrugged and avoided making eye contact. Finally, he chortled and pointed toward the exit which connected with our sales floor.

 

“Now go back to work, and forget about it!”