More than anything else, the Old Brown Station Wagon forces us to cooperate.
In the closest of proximity, you can only argue, elbow and punch each other for so long. Pretty soon you figure it's less exhausting to simply sit, mope, and see the ride through. Occasionally, though, on long trips back to Denver to see our cousins, we learn to become inventive to help pass the time. We sing the Micky Mouse song in four part harmony or belt out "Jeremiah was a Bullfrog" like Three Dog Night.
Especially on the interstate, we notice a disturbing tendency by people who pass around our vehicle. With a kind of wonder, they stare through the window and attempt to quickly count our heads. At first we're insulted. Then we decide to give them their money's worth. We contort our bodies and flail our arms and heads to the beat of non-existent heavy metal music. Other times we pretend to be sound asleep - all ten of us - with our heads thrown back and drool dribbling down our chins. One time our brothers coax us into acting as if we're deranged juvenile delinquents being transferred to another facility, and we growl and sneer at passersby and sometimes claw at the windows. The startled reactions keep us entertained for hours. But Mom puts a stop to that.
When Joe, Mick and Rick all become of driving age, Dad shocks us by buying a brand new station wagon. Never in our lives have we been a two-car family. Dad parks his new baby in the garage and tosses us the keys to the Old Brown Station Wagon.
"It's all yours, Kids," he beams. "Be careful, and remember," he says, suddenly sober, "take care of this old car, and it'll take care of you."
We can hardly believe the enormous rush of independence. Having a second car means we can drive ourselves to school, and Dad can take himself to work. If we're delighted, however, Mom is ecstatic. She spends the better part of her day taking us to and from our various destinations and gladly surrenders her chauffeur duties.
The Old Brown Station Wagon has survived ten kids, two dogs and nearly two hundred thousand miles. Dad always takes loving care of it. It's never missed an oil change, a bath, or even a wax, and it's never so much as suffered a scratch.
All that changes when my brothers take the wheel. If a car has feelings, the Old Brown Station Wagon must think it's died and gone to Hell.
Within a month, Mick manages to drive it into a light pole in the Skagway parking lot. Dad is furious. Even though he hands the car over to us, he's still paying for auto insurance. Suddenly his premiums, always low because of Dad's flawless driving record, skyrocket into oblivion.
"How do you drive into a pole?" he yells at Mick.
But you never get the whole story with Mick. He vaguely suggests the possibility of black ice but is deliberately sketchy on details.
"Brick by brick," Dad shakes his head.
Dad repairs the car, and in a week, Joe rounds a corner by Blessed Sacrament school and rams it into another light pole. This time it's St. Patty's Day, the Old Brown Station Wagon is towed home, and Joe smells suspiciously of alcohol.
"Have you been drinking?" Dad glares at Joe.
Mom refuses to believe it. "It must be my perfume you smell," she convinces Dad. The details of Joe's accident are even sketchier than Mick's, and Dad shakes his head and walks away from Joe without another word. But he washes his hands of any more repair bills.
Unfortunately, the Old Brown Station Wagon is permanently disabled after its last scrape. The worst part is that it no longer shifts into reverse. My brothers work part time at Skagway to pay for their Central Catholic High School tuition. They have no spare money for repair bills. Driving a car without a reverse gear, therefore, poses a new wrinkle. You don't hop into a car that doesn't shift into reverse to go joy riding. Every trip to school, work, or even to the gas station for a fill up requires strategic planning.
There's no getting around our driveway, however. With no curbside parking on busy Capital Avenue, Joe masters an ingenious method of backing the car into the driveway. With the driver side door wide open, Joe stretches out his leg and pushes the car back with his left foot at the same time he steers it into position. Only one time does he knock over the homemade basketball hoop - when he gets distracted talking to our next door neighbor Tom McGowan. Eventually, all three of my brothers are able to maneuver the car backwards into the driveway using Joe's unique parking method. My sisters and I refuse to attempt it and always make the boys do it for us.
Sadly, the Old Brown Station Wagon eventually meets its demise. Surprisingly, it's we girls who are the cause of its death. Mary is driving, and all five of us are talking away as Mary rolls along Capital Avenue toward home. Suddenly, smoke in big puffs escapes from under the hood of the car, and then, to our horror, we see flames erupt. Mary pulls over to the side of the road near the Pump and Pantry gas station, and we leap out into the cold night air.
"Mary!" I scream, "Run into the gas station and call Dad!"
Dad, to our dismay, is not home, but Mick comes racing the short way from home to our rescue. While we wait, the five of us stand in the cold staring mesmerized at the flames beneath the hood. Finally, we blink and shiver in our jackets.
"Probably a lot warmer in the car," Deb suggests.
Mick's eyes nearly pop out of his skull when he sees the five of us casually sitting inside the burning vehicle.
"What are you doing?" he screams.
Mary rolls down her window. "It's 17 degrees out there!" she shouts back. Fortunately, Mick convinces us - not very nicely - to remove ourselves from the car before it blows up.
But that proves to be the end of the road for the Old Brown Station Wagon.
For a long time we miss it, like a beloved family member. It's been our constant companion for years and years - since Jeff was born and Tommy and Carry were still small enough to sit in the crack. No car has been more loved or more abused than the Old Brown Station Wagon.
Unless it will be the 1972 used Nova that Dad eventually purchases for my little sisters. It rusts so badly that the floor of the car disappears, and my sisters can see the pavement as they careen along. They drive that car until Terri turns the corner on Highway 281 and Capital Avenue, and the entire left front wheel disengages itself and rolls off down the highway.
But that's a story for another time.
In the closest of proximity, you can only argue, elbow and punch each other for so long. Pretty soon you figure it's less exhausting to simply sit, mope, and see the ride through. Occasionally, though, on long trips back to Denver to see our cousins, we learn to become inventive to help pass the time. We sing the Micky Mouse song in four part harmony or belt out "Jeremiah was a Bullfrog" like Three Dog Night.
Especially on the interstate, we notice a disturbing tendency by people who pass around our vehicle. With a kind of wonder, they stare through the window and attempt to quickly count our heads. At first we're insulted. Then we decide to give them their money's worth. We contort our bodies and flail our arms and heads to the beat of non-existent heavy metal music. Other times we pretend to be sound asleep - all ten of us - with our heads thrown back and drool dribbling down our chins. One time our brothers coax us into acting as if we're deranged juvenile delinquents being transferred to another facility, and we growl and sneer at passersby and sometimes claw at the windows. The startled reactions keep us entertained for hours. But Mom puts a stop to that.When Joe, Mick and Rick all become of driving age, Dad shocks us by buying a brand new station wagon. Never in our lives have we been a two-car family. Dad parks his new baby in the garage and tosses us the keys to the Old Brown Station Wagon.
"It's all yours, Kids," he beams. "Be careful, and remember," he says, suddenly sober, "take care of this old car, and it'll take care of you."
We can hardly believe the enormous rush of independence. Having a second car means we can drive ourselves to school, and Dad can take himself to work. If we're delighted, however, Mom is ecstatic. She spends the better part of her day taking us to and from our various destinations and gladly surrenders her chauffeur duties.
The Old Brown Station Wagon has survived ten kids, two dogs and nearly two hundred thousand miles. Dad always takes loving care of it. It's never missed an oil change, a bath, or even a wax, and it's never so much as suffered a scratch.
All that changes when my brothers take the wheel. If a car has feelings, the Old Brown Station Wagon must think it's died and gone to Hell.
Within a month, Mick manages to drive it into a light pole in the Skagway parking lot. Dad is furious. Even though he hands the car over to us, he's still paying for auto insurance. Suddenly his premiums, always low because of Dad's flawless driving record, skyrocket into oblivion.
"How do you drive into a pole?" he yells at Mick.
But you never get the whole story with Mick. He vaguely suggests the possibility of black ice but is deliberately sketchy on details.
"Brick by brick," Dad shakes his head.
Dad repairs the car, and in a week, Joe rounds a corner by Blessed Sacrament school and rams it into another light pole. This time it's St. Patty's Day, the Old Brown Station Wagon is towed home, and Joe smells suspiciously of alcohol.
"Have you been drinking?" Dad glares at Joe.
Mom refuses to believe it. "It must be my perfume you smell," she convinces Dad. The details of Joe's accident are even sketchier than Mick's, and Dad shakes his head and walks away from Joe without another word. But he washes his hands of any more repair bills.
 |
| Thanksgiving Day, 1976 |
There's no getting around our driveway, however. With no curbside parking on busy Capital Avenue, Joe masters an ingenious method of backing the car into the driveway. With the driver side door wide open, Joe stretches out his leg and pushes the car back with his left foot at the same time he steers it into position. Only one time does he knock over the homemade basketball hoop - when he gets distracted talking to our next door neighbor Tom McGowan. Eventually, all three of my brothers are able to maneuver the car backwards into the driveway using Joe's unique parking method. My sisters and I refuse to attempt it and always make the boys do it for us.
Sadly, the Old Brown Station Wagon eventually meets its demise. Surprisingly, it's we girls who are the cause of its death. Mary is driving, and all five of us are talking away as Mary rolls along Capital Avenue toward home. Suddenly, smoke in big puffs escapes from under the hood of the car, and then, to our horror, we see flames erupt. Mary pulls over to the side of the road near the Pump and Pantry gas station, and we leap out into the cold night air.
"Mary!" I scream, "Run into the gas station and call Dad!"
Dad, to our dismay, is not home, but Mick comes racing the short way from home to our rescue. While we wait, the five of us stand in the cold staring mesmerized at the flames beneath the hood. Finally, we blink and shiver in our jackets.
"Probably a lot warmer in the car," Deb suggests.
Mick's eyes nearly pop out of his skull when he sees the five of us casually sitting inside the burning vehicle.
"What are you doing?" he screams.
Mary rolls down her window. "It's 17 degrees out there!" she shouts back. Fortunately, Mick convinces us - not very nicely - to remove ourselves from the car before it blows up.
But that proves to be the end of the road for the Old Brown Station Wagon.
For a long time we miss it, like a beloved family member. It's been our constant companion for years and years - since Jeff was born and Tommy and Carry were still small enough to sit in the crack. No car has been more loved or more abused than the Old Brown Station Wagon.
Unless it will be the 1972 used Nova that Dad eventually purchases for my little sisters. It rusts so badly that the floor of the car disappears, and my sisters can see the pavement as they careen along. They drive that car until Terri turns the corner on Highway 281 and Capital Avenue, and the entire left front wheel disengages itself and rolls off down the highway.
But that's a story for another time.
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