Well the troubles I can get any self into are unbounded and sometimes at the best possible moment, just when I think I might have a minutes peace, something comes swarming in like a herd of yellow jackets and causes a wreck in my plans.

As usual the beloved ex had a hand in it. She showed up at the camp Friday, just before I emptied the last can of pork and beans into the pot. She has a sense of timing yet and cranked me out of a lethargic state.

“There’s an antique tractor and engine  show in Sardis,” she declared. Now the plan for the weekend was to do absolutely nothing, other than proof testing an inferior grade of Alabama Moonshine.
So, knowing me like she does, she twisted my arm, (which she is fond of doing) and wheel barrowed me down to another “Plan B” adventure.

That tricky wanch knew of my weakness for the smells of kerosene and heavy grease mixed with the noises that accompany old “Poppin’ John” tractors and 16 cycle “hit and miss” engines. It smelled of my childhood and sounded like wildcats  fighting in a beer barrel. The MidSouth Fair couldn’t touch it for memories.

I had driven, pushed pulled or cussed most of the prehistoric machines out there that day at one time or another and ridden in most of the type (automobiles on exhibit as well). There was one old codger displaying a 1936 Plymouth that still had the original moonshine tank concealed in a false bottom panel and a quart of high octane beverage of dubious origin to prove it (or proof it). They cranked an antique chain saw with it. Needless to say this gentleman desires to remain anonymous.

The Model T Ford brought back memories of the alcohol and smoke filled 70s. They say if you can remember the 70s you didn’t live thru ‘em but a flotstom or jetsome of memory floats briefly to the surface occasionally just to baffle you.

In 1979 (or thereabouts) Helena, Ark. was sponsoring a car show called the Cherry Street Cruize. The vice president of our club was a collector/restorer and was also an event coordinator for the cruise.

He had a 1931 Model A, a 1936 Chevrolet Sedan A 1919 Model T and several other specimens in various stages of disrepair (oops I meant restoration). As event coordinator our esteemed VP decided to enter the Model A and the Tin Lizzie in the parade and since the tinlizzie was an open top coupe, he thought it would be in keeping with the nature of the motorcycle club to have a pair of scantily clad Miss Goodbodies waving at the crowd from the rumble seat.

They vehemently stated later that they should have stayed on campus and studied psychology, but at the time they were vain creatures and craved the spotlight. It fell to me, since the rest of the club had to leave early to organize the parade, to chauffeur these two innocents eight miles in town and haul ‘em up and down Cherry Street a few times while they threw most of their clothes to the crowds along the sidewalk.

Well, it sounded pretty good, and I felt pretty good about it. I deposited the respective good bodies in their positions in the coupe, carefully set the spark (that’s the lever on the steering column that prevents the engine from breaking your arm when you turn the crank. Since I slightly miscalculated the position it only flung me about 20 feet into the rose bushes. Miss Goodbody No. 1 came hurriedly to my assistance, getting a thorny dose of rose herself, while Miss Goodbody No. 2 thought the whole proceedings were hilariously funny.

We emerged scratched and dripping while she giggled in position standing in the rumble seat. Miss Goodbody No. 1 was standing beside me in the passenger seat. (A few of the thorns in strategic locations prevented her from sitting anyway)

That’s when I noticed that there were too many control pedals on the floor. A tin lizzie has three, lined up like ducks in a row plus a lever and accelerator pedal. Assuming that the pedal on the far left was a clutch I mashed it, where upon the beast sprang forward like a leaping tiger promptly jumping Miss Goodbody No. 2 tail over tea kettle off the back.

Miss Goodbody No. 1 was spared this indignity because of the passenger seat, and began to see the humor of the situation. Miss Goodbody No. 2 grumpily arose and resumed her position in the rumble seat.
Seated this time well, the second attempt at locomotion came when I tried pedal No. 2. This resulted in an equally rambunctious  lurch to the rear which caused Miss Goodbody No. 1, who was by necessity still standing to acquire a black eye on the windshield post.

She failed to see any humor in the situation this time and added a few cuss words to the dialog already wafting forward from the grumble seat. We didn’t seem to be getting anywhere fast and were getting short on time, so I did the only thing I could think of to do, which always provided a solution to whatever mess I managed to create.

Yes, children, I called my daddy, and he indeed came through as always with flying colors.
He informed me that the left pedal was first gear and the curious lever was high gear, the center pedal was reverse and the far right pedal was the brake which clamped around the drive shaft like an oil filter wrench and locked both rear wheels (sometimes).

Having gotten that straightened out we proceeded bleeding, bruised, tattered and flung to the shindig. We lost first place to an antique fire truck with a burlesque troop on the back and limped home at the top speed of 18 miles an hour before it got dark and we had to fire up the kerosene headlights.

There ain’t nothing like old cars and tractors to bring back memories. The collective Miss Goodbodies found other means of transportation home via horse drawn buggy, and I went home via the emergency room to have my wrist reset.

Thinking ‘bout the good old days,
Ricky Harpole