The Friday Nite Read-Friday the 13th

Well, since it's officially Friday here in ColoRODo...and it IS Friday the 13th...how 'bout a Ghost Story?
R-


GHOST STORY


I never saw him. At first.

Perhaps, because, I didn’t believe.

It started when I got divorced. She, obviously, got the house, we had two children...my daughter, just turned twelve in 1977, was the best thing that ever happened to me. My son was five, the light of my life.

Divorcing and leaving a family is, at its worst, somewhat easier when children are young...they don’t understand the complexities, only that Dad is going away.

The divorce finalized, I moved in with a good friend. We got along well and became closer friends, he took me in when I needed a place to live. He owned an early 1950’s-era small two-bedroom bungalow in Denver. Quite a comedown from what I was used to -- a four-year old, four bedroom, 2 1/2 bath, two story house with fireplace, vaulted ceilings and oversized two car garage to a bedroom! Phil’s house was situated on a big corner lot with tall trees and grass...he used to mow it daily...but...I was grateful and the room cost little.

Phil was a mechanic. Met him at one of the few local car events I was able to attend while I was married. He had a blue 1957 Chevrolet two door, mine was Yellow. We hit it off instantly, after all, we couldn’t talk about 57 Chevys when our wives were with us.

I’d stop in, at the filling station he owned, on my way home from work. Dinner, with my family would be missed those nights. I drove a 1964 Chevrolet two-door hardtop then. That’s how my wife and I met. It was a ‘hot rod’-- big engine, four-speed, dual exhausts, five-spokes. She liked the car...and me...then. My 1957 Chevrolet was a toy, yellow, and the ’64 Impala I had was Verdoro green. Sometime in our years of marriage, her ‘like’ for my cars turned to tolerance, followed by downright hatred. I loved cars, playing with them, building them, driving them, polishing them, showing them. Guess she thought I’d change after we married. My wife didn’t like the yellow ’57.

Worse than that, the ‘57 didn’t like me. That aggravated our situation. Every time I went for a joy-ride, or drove it to work, the damn thing broke. I’d call Phil. He’d bring it home on a hook. I’d fix it...spend money...something we didn’t have a lot of. A huge mortgage, insurance payments on three cars, two children to raise, feed and clothe and pay for pre-school & babysitters took almost more than we had...we couldn’t “afford to waste money foolishly on a piece of junk” (her words).

The yellow ’57 finally went away, just weeks before I had to sell my Impala. “We need a family car,” she said. Granted, the ‘64 wasn’t a family car. Never was, what with the hopped-up V8 and four-speed. We looked at Cadillacs. Found we couldn’t afford one, ‘settled’ on a new Oldsmobile -- four-door hardtop -- whitewalls, cruise control, air conditioning, automatic. THAT was a family car. Okay, maybe it was time to stop playing with cars, settle down. After all, I was almost 35 years old. And a father, I did have responsibilities.

Cold turkey automotive withdrawal...not fun. It hurt. I eked by for a couple of years, aching for a new ‘toy’. A ‘project’. Yeah, that’s it. I perused the classifieds. Couldn’t afford a ‘driver’ -- a running car...too much cash outlay, a project was perfect. I could put a few spare dollars into fixing it up and no one would miss the money. I brokered printing as a side job, earned extra money, had a bit stashed...I’d spend that.

I found a wrecked ‘57 Chevrolet 2-door on the way to visit a client, tucked away behind a truck repair shop. The owner related he’d was towing the car, it slipped off the hook into oncoming traffic. Cost him big time, no insurance. He ended up buying the ‘57’s owner a newer car, never mind that he had to tow the ’57 and the one it hit, back to his shop. He repaired the car the ’57 hit better than new, including a complete new paint job. The owner was happy. Law-suit avoided. The wrecked ’57 languished out back. His intent was to fix it, sell it, recoup the money he’d lost. He wanted $500. Too much for a car needing a complete front clip: fenders, hood, bumper, grille, radiator, windshield and paint.

Phil told me to offer $200. The repair shop owner declined. “I'd take $250.” It was towed to Phil’s station. I didn’t tell my wife. Big mistake, didn’t help my marital situation. I stopped by Phil’s every night -- removed the damaged front clip, fixed little things on it...with my stashed money. Dinners were neglected. I’d usually get home in time to tuck my kids in. My wife became suspicious. Accused me of seeing another woman, eventually found out about the ‘57. But, weekends had always been reserved for my kids...and my wife. Wasn’t good enuff...weekends became painful...always ended in a fight...accusations flew. She was certain I loved that ’57 more than I did her...or the children. In all fairness, she was probably right...about her, at least.

One weekday afternoon about two, on a summer day, top-down weather you might say, it was hot. I was on my way to see a client. I’ve never owned a convertible, but imagined what it’d be like riding around with the sun shining and warm breeze through my hair. Heading north on Colorado Boulevard, I spot a red convertible. Yeah, great day for an open air cruise. Two people in the front sitting close together and a young child standing on the back seat, looking toward the rear of the car, wind tousling his blond hair. As I got closer, he waved. I waved back, thinking his striking blond hair sure looked like my sons’. I pulled closer. It was my son! Speed up, get alongside the car and see my wife practically sitting in the driver’s lap...was she ever surprised! So was the driver. They made a left turn and disappeared.

I waited at home, got there before them. I intended to confront the man, out with MY wife. Never got the chance. He dropped them off two blocks away, my wife and son walked into our subdivision. Probably a good thing. I was livid, something I never let myself get to because of my rage. My wife was certain I wouldn’t be able to control myself. I fumed for days.

Her infidelity and my ‘57 toy grew into a rift we couldn’t patch. We were divorced four weeks later.

The wrecked ’57 at Phil’s station kept me going...therapy. Phil was very helpful...six months previous, he, too, had divorced. His wife just plain didn’t like any of his cars…or his job.

Nine months of therapy rebuilt the ’57. It was done...and...perfect. The last night we worked on the ’57...right after we’d driven it around the block to check how the V8 ran and everything else...was when all of what follows started: A chain reaction that goes on yet today.

Why he waited until then I’ll never know. I think it was because he missed part of my life -- our family -- my two kids, and his life as their grandfather. Who am I talking about? My father...he died in 1966, never got to hold either of his grandchildren when they were babies...never got to watch them grow, nor play with them. I can only speculate he felt he missed something, coupled with a strong desire to be around his oldest son (me) again. That, and possibly Phil’s old house allowed him to slip into my life again.

That night I parked my “new” ’57 Chevrolet on the street in front of Phil’s house. It was late but I was excited. I now had the ultimate ’57 I’d been wanting for a long time, although the price I paid to get it was extremely high.

During the night, my newly painted Pearl White ‘57 disappeared.

Phil lived on a hill, on the corner. When I parked for the night, in my excitement and haste, I neglected to turn the front wheels toward the curb. Sometime after 3:00 AM, the car rolled down the hill, gathered speed, aimed directly for the house at the bottom of the hill.

Aggie lived there…cutest little redhead -- curly hair, lots of freckles. She always came to Phil’s house on her pink tricycle to visit his cats. He had two- a steel gray hyper youngster and a black and white long haired male...older and much more mellower. Aggie liked to hold him, pet his soft fur and talk to him as only a nine year old could. The cat liked Aggie, too.

Aggie’s bedroom was in the corner of the house at the bottom of the hill. Her bed next to the window. During the day the sun played on the window, illuminating Aggies’ pictures...drawings of Phil’s cats and cats she wanted some day -- orange cats, striped purple ones and big, fat blue cats. Aggie didn’t care what color they were…one even had freckles...and bright red whiskers.
That night was dark, cloudy, no moon illuminated streets, trees or houses.

The ’57 rolled...about 45 mph by the time it got to the bottom of the hill. Dead straight for Aggie’s bedroom.

Saturday morning came way too early after that late-nighter. The Chevy was to make its debut at a car show that day. I freaked when I looked out the window. My ’57 was gone. Stolen! Hundreds of scenarios went through my mind...lots of people, jealous, envious people, had watched the car being built in Phil’s station. Phil’s regular clients watched, too, but they wouldn’t steal a car...would they? We called the cops. And waited. The day ruined.

The coffee was boiling when we heard the knock on the door. “Probably the cops to write the report,” Phil said.

“Hi. Where’s Muffy?” the little voice asked as she strolled past Phil into the living room, looking for the cat. It was Aggie.

Phil’s wife named the cats. She was gone and yet the cats were stuck with their feminine names. I couldn’t persuade Phil to change them.

“He’s around, check Roger’s bedroom,” Phil said.

Aggie found him curled up on my bed. “Did you feel the ground shake last night?” she asked, carrying Muffy into the kitchen. Phil poured two cups of coffee. Of course, neither of us heard or felt anything after 3:00 AM...we were dead to the world. “Did we have an earthquake?” Phil asked politely. Denver hadn’t had one for quite a while, since the Army quit pumping refuse into their wells on the Rocky Mountain Arsenal. Aggie replied we did, “maybe...or a tornado cuz there’s a broken car in the yard by my house.”

Phil and I were out the door and halfway down the street when the closest neighbor, Allan, yelled at us from his truck, grinning, asking why my new Pearl White ‘57 was at the bottom of the hill in the Bellow’s yard, wrecked. “It took out their chain link fence, too,” he said, adding to my injury.

A foot more and it would have taken out Aggie’s bedroom. Bob, Aggie’s Father, was talking to the cops, telling them he had no idea whose car it was, it was just there. He hadn’t heard nor felt anything during the night. I sheepishly told the cop it was mine, apologized to Bob and explained the situation. I got a ticket. And my broken ‘57 back. The hood and left front fender were bent as was the newly chromed bumper. The grille-bar was broken. So was the radiator, apparently damaged when the car hit and jumped the curb. Antifreeze stained the grass. Oil pooled under the car from the split oil pan. Acid had splashed out of the cracked battery, ran down the fresh paint on the right front fender in bizarre stripes. I was bummed.

Phil called his friend Butch, the tow truck driver; “Pull the car off the lawn, take it to the station. We’ll be there in a bit.” When we got there, the ’57 blocked the pumps. Butch, in his infinite wisdom, didn’t figure we wanted it inside so he parked it as far away from the bay as he could. What a guy.

We couldn’t move the car, not even an inch. The sheet metal was not bent against either front tire but I bent the sheet metal on the door trying to open it, rolled the window all the way down and made was sure it was out of gear. There was no reason the car wouldn’t move now. Phil backed his ’57 to mine, attached a tow strap and pulled. The car moved, but both rear tires left five foot long black marks. He quit, opened the door on my ‘57 “Didn’t you tell me the e-brake musta failed?” Phil shouted. I nodded. “How is it that it didn’t work last night but does now? Not possible.”

Phil called Butch. “No, didn’t mess with the emergency...lift the back end, tow it backward, tie off the steering wheel. No need to take it out of gear or even release the emergency brake.”

Why didn’t the e-brake work last night? I set it, I know I did. Always do, force of habit. If it released during the night, how could it have reset itself? How did it stop short of Aggie’s window? Was the car locked? “Yep,” Butch replied, “unlocked it with a Slim Jim.”

Something doesn’t add up. There has to be a reason the car stopped before it hit Aggie’s bedroom. The emergency brake had to be pulled out to stop the car.

We went to the car show in Phil’s ’57, talked about the accident on the way. Nothing got resolved, no questions were answered. Toward evening, Phil’s sometimes girlfriend-Donna, showed up. I knew she’d spend the night with him and didn’t look forward to their amorous adventures. What choice did I have? Fortunately his bedroom was on the other end of the house...maybe I could get to sleep before they started.

Sunday morning all was quiet when I awoke. Muffy was on the bed and my bedroom door was closed. I couldn’t remember closing it.

They weren’t awake yet. I’d make coffee...my way. Phil liked it way too strong. I stumbled into the end table in the dark hallway. “Owww! Dammit!” What the hell is that doing in the middle of the hall? And who put it there? That woke them up.

I poured Donna a cup of coffee. She told me there’d been a ghost in the house last night.

“Yeah, right!” I said.

She always said she was a witch. Born on Halloween...made her a witch. I humored her. Yet Phil told me she saw things no one else did. Heard things no one else had. Now she’s telling me about a ghost...in this house…a male ghost --about 50, 55. Balding, hair combed back over his head front to rear, khaki colored trousers, gray jacket, work boots. Carried a fishing pole and wore a dark Fedora. “Do you know anyone like that?”

“I don’t believe in ghosts”...and at the least, witches!

“He came out of your room last night.”

I swear the goose bumps had a field day right then and there. No such thing as ghosts, why should I get goose bumps and chills?

“He walked down the hall, through the kitchen and out the front door.”

“Out of my room, out the front door?” I asked.

“Well, not exactly out. More like ‘through’,” she replied.

“Did you close my bedroom door?”

“We didn’t want to wake you. I was going to your room to close it, saw him come out, right toward me, into the hall.” She was serious. “He brushed past me. I watched him go through the front door. Do you know this man?”

“Why do you think I know him? Sorry, I’m not buying this ghost thing,” I shot back.

“Ghosts tend to be around loved ones. You probably know who it is. An Uncle? Your Father?”

“Don’t know,” even though she’d described my father perfectly…and things about him she couldn’t possibly know. He died when he was 52, of Rheumatic Fever he’d had as a child...loved fishing, always wore a Fedora, a dark one. The gray jacket was his favorite. I wanted to get off this subject. I didn’t believe in witches...certainly didn’t want to believe in ghosts!

Took a couple of weeks of ‘ghosting’ to finally figure her out...Donna wanted the house...and Phil to herself. Me out. I was a broken tooth in the gearset, an over-eager bystander offering advice at a chess game, two’s company, three’s a crowd. I was in the way. What better way than to ‘scare’ me out? I didn’t buy any of it.

Donna moved in full time. During the following year, the ‘ghost’ visited us on a regular basis...tables moved, lamps switched on, magazines wound up in the kitchen pantry, toilet paper mysteriously rolled out of the bathroom, clothes moved from closet to night stand, windows ‘clinked’ as if someone was tapping and both cats hissed at ‘nothing’ while we watched television in the evening. What’s worse, Donna wasn’t even there some of those evenings, gone to visit her Mother. My goose bumps got worse. Maybe Donna really was a witch and she and the ‘ghost’ didn’t get along.

With Phil’s hospitality, the intent was always to get back on my feet. It took that year to save the down payment for my own place. It finally came time for me to leave. I moved into my three-bedroom ranch in late February. It was cold and the streets were nasty. The ’57 remained at Phil’s until the weather warmed.
Late March, the streets cleared enough so I could drive the ’57 to my new home. I parked it alongside the garage because it was full of donated-by-friends furniture I had to sort and decide what to keep. Soon the garage was emptied and the ‘57 got a reserved spot on one side of the two-car attached...the other side for my every-day driver.

Spring arrived, May came in like a desert breeze; hot and dry...and rite now, you’re probably thinking this is the end of the ghost story? Hardly.

Plans were made for all the car events; local cruises and weekend trips to out of town shows. Phil made it known he and Donna would like to go to St. Paul, Minnesota for the huge event there in August. We asked a few buddies to go with us. Soon we had seven cars lined up. Would be a fun trip. My rebuilt ’57 handled and drove near-perfectly around town; the second rebuild was even better than the first. It was ready for a 900 mile one way trip.

Memorial weekend showed up. I mowed my back yard Saturday, just before lunch. The kitchen faces my back yard, I sat at the table to eat...and saw him -- the ‘ghost’...or whatever it was. Guess I didn’t really ‘see’...glimpsed something out of the corner of my eye, slowly walking east to west across freshly mowed grass. Wasn’t really sure what I saw, but I can tell you it wasn’t tree branches blowing, birds skipping across the lawn or shadows. It was mostly on the edge of my peripheral vision, I could see more of ‘it’ when I wasn’t looking.

Sunday, the next day- after washing my ’57, saw ‘it’ again, this time a bit clearer. It looked like a man, but he wasn’t there when I concentrated my gaze in its direction. Was it the ‘ghost’ from Phil’s place? If so, how did it get from Phil’s house to mine? Is it my Father? I definitely see something back there. I don’t believe in ghosts.

June and July came and went. We did a lot of car shows and events, had a great time.

During those months, I’d seen him walk across my back yard several times. Always east to west. Never in a hurry and never any closer to the house than when I ‘d first seen him. Donna insisted it was my Father. I can only speculate ‘he’ rode in the ’57 when I moved it to my new home. But she had no idea why he was hanging around, there must be a reason. Wasn’t sure I didn’t believe in ghosts anymore.

Off to St. Paul, planned to spend the night with my Mother, still living in southwestern Iowa...550 miles from Denver. I informed her a few days before we left there would be ten of us. She made reservations at the local motel for Phil and Donna and our traveling buddies. I would stay at home.

After a wild, fun filled, not-the-speed-limit lane-swapping, race me 10-hour trip on Interstate 80, we arrived home at 9:30 PM. It was agreed we’d leave in the morning, make St. Paul by late afternoon. After saying our hellos and having a snack, I volunteered to lead the group to the motel. I backed my ’57 out of the driveway, turned the steering wheel, heard a ‘pop’...and dismissed it. Ran over something...no worries. I straightened the wheel, gunned the engine and shot down the street -- showing off. Something didn’t feel right. I slowed to make a right turn at the next intersection. The Chevy drifted right, I tried to correct, it stayed the course. I braked. The right tire bounced against the curb. Turn the wheel to the left, feels “loose,” attempt backing up. Turn left and right. Give the steering wheel a spin. It made five complete turns before it slowly stopped. The steering wheel was no longer connected to the steering box. I didn’t know it that second, but the ‘pop’ was the steering shaft shearing off inside the box. I started to shake...realizing just how lucky I’d been. I’d just driven 550 miles at 75-80 mph, with bursts of speed up to 100-110 mph as all of us played on the way. Why did the shaft break conveniently in the driveway? Was it luck or was someone riding with me? Watching over me?
It took a full day to find another steering box, remove the whole column, install the new box, bolt the steering wheel back on and hook the electrical together. We’ll leave in the morning.

That night after we’d cleaned up, during dinner and anticipating tomorrow, the conversation got around to ‘what if’? Postulations made, questions pondered and blessings counted made us feel relatively good. At dessert, Mom reiterated her stand on my driving. I remembered her years-old warning, her nagging feeling that I would be killed in an automobile accident and “this could be the start of it. Please be careful on the rest of the trip, son.”

That was mid-eighties, many years ago. I’m still driving all over the country in the summers...and I’ve seen my Father regularly since then, but only at my home. He walks across my back yard carrying his fishing pole, heading for the only-he-knows-where fishing spot. Relaxing on my patio in the evening as the sun dips below purple mountains, I think about his occupation: truck driver, and figure that’s where I got my love of driving. Dad used to travel the highways of this great country weekly in his eighteen-wheeler...and loved it. Even when our family went on vacation, we didn’t fly. Dad drove, everywhere we went. But I never see him in his truck driving outfit or jacket, always in his green trousers and favorite fishing jacket. Dan, my brother, sees nothing, even though I point out where Dad walks in my back yard. He doesn’t believe in ghosts either.

Several years ago, Dan and I built another ’57 Chevy. We made plans to drive to Peoria, Illinois for a car show, taking both ‘57’s we owned at the time. Denver to Mom’s in ten hours, spend the night at her home. Leave the next morning, cruise the old Mother Road -- Highway 30 east across Iowa. Somewhere in the rolling hills of eastern Iowa, fate awaited. I followed Dan, running 60 mph up and down hills on that narrow two-lane. Ditches on either side waterlogged as Iowa had been rained on for several days. We topped a hill, headed down. At the bottom, a mobile home towed by a pick-up truck was in our lane, going the same direction. His right turn signal on...safe enough, turning right onto a dirt road. Being the expert drivers we are, Dan radioed over the CB that he was going around. He crossed the yellow center-line into the other lane. Just after he accelerated, the pickup pulling the mobile home also crossed the yellow center-line...making a left turn. Their taillights were wired in reverse. There was no time for Dan to stop. No way to avoid an imminent collision. I could see, in my mind, his ’57 sideswiping the trailer, then center-punching the truck, destroying car and truck, possibly killing both drivers. I watched the brake lights on the ’57 blink on for an instant, then watched the exhausts puff...Dan accelerated, slipped off the highway onto the narrow, muddy shoulder...mud flew everywhere. He rocketed past the trailer and truck. I’d slowed somewhat, but still going too fast stop to avoid hitting the truck. I hoped the truck’s driver was surprised by Dan flying around him. I followed onto the shoulder, cleared the truck just as another car came down the hill toward us. I was scared as hell, heart in my throat, ears pounded, palms wet and knuckles bled white. Seemed like an hour later I finally breathed again, heard the stereo booming out the tunes. In reality, it had been only seconds. Dan radioed he’d like to stop, he was shaking so much he could hardly drive.

My mind raced: someone IS watching over us…both of us. We’d just escaped sure destruction. Is this the reason my Father hangs around? He rides with us, keeps us safe?

To this day, we still speculate -- there have been several other near-misses since then as Dan and I travel the summer highways of this great country, putting on nearly 11,000 miles every summer -- April through October. Yet returning to our homes unscathed, undamaged and unhurt.

One summer, just outside of Holland, Michigan, the ’57 suffered a seized pinion bearing in the rear-end...definitely a hazard at 75 mph...I was slowing because of the noise and the rear-end locked up at 40 mph. Left thirty feet of skid marks, hit no one and nothing. We were 1100 one-way miles from home. Fixed it in a small town, in an auto parts store parking lot, in the rain, swapped the whole third member. Drove the rest of the way home without a problem.

A near miss in Yakima, Washington in 1994...a drunk driver ran a red. For some unknown reason, when I let out the clutch, I killed the engine. That never happens to me.

Nineteen ninety-six gave us a shredded radial tire. With less than 100 miles on it. Seventy-five mph, in western Kansas on a hot 110 degree August day, running a two-lane highway full of on-coming traffic. It took both lanes to stop the wildly gyrating car. Just about the instant the tread peeled off, a farm tractor pulled onto the highway a block ahead, effectively slowing on-coming traffic.

Two years ago, returning from a trip to GoodGuy’s Phoenix, a full-grown buck deer darted between Dan and I one dark evening in November, on a two-lane county road -- a short cut -- we were 25 miles from home. It bounded out of the ditch between our 57’s...I missed it, but the guy going the other way didn’t. Totaled his new GMC pickup. Dan ran over the carcass as the impact knocked it into his lane. Damaged the front bumper on the ‘57...minor compared to the destroyed pick-up...Dan wasn’t hurt.

We’ve been lucky. Damn lucky. But, is it luck? I now swear someone is watching over us.

None of those near misses were as heart-stopping as that first near-accident…until 2000. Memorial Day to be exact. We went to Casper, Wyoming, 280 miles north of Denver. Started out at ten o’clock Friday morning with lunch in Cheyenne. Just north of Douglas, I heard a grinding noise...sounded like a rear wheel bearing. Bad news: ’57 rear wheel bearings have a way of simply failing and seizing. When that happens the axle can be twisted off and the wheel and tire has nothing to keep it under the car...it would exit the wheel well and cause a severe accident. I radioed Dan of the problem...I’d slow to 45, attempt to make Casper, where I knew we could get it fixed. I drove on that grinding bearing, hoping it wouldn’t seize. We made Casper, called a friend. He ordered both rear wheel bearings and we were at his shop Saturday AM to fix it.

That one wasn’t bad...at least I had warning to prepare for it. Regardless, it was another near-miss...my Father was riding with us...again. He’s defying Mom's warning.

The rest of the weekend was fun. We stayed over Sunday night. We’d do the 6-hour road trip back home Monday...Memorial Day.

My brother is never without a map...“there’s a two-lane highway just west of Casper, let’s take that.” It went over a portion of Rattlesnake Hills, through a corner of the Shirley Mountains to the town of Medicine Bow. Then to Laramie, through Rocky Mountain’s Roosevelt National Forest to Ft. Collins, Colorado -- a gorgeous two-lane 60 mile drive from Laramie -- curves, hills, cliffs, ravines, monstrous red rocks the size of houses and 60-80 foot tall evergreen trees. We’d catch Interstate 25 at Ft. Collins and run the remaining 55 miles home on four-lane. The trip was uneventful until I got to the I-25 on-ramp. Memorial Day, remember? Interstate 25 was loaded with traffic, being how it was the first holiday weekend of the year...and everyone was in a hurry to get home! Dan led, I followed.

One hour to home...and I’m tired...the worst time in an automobile…attention span is short, getting there high on the list. Dan slipped onto the on-ramp and punched the big V8 in his car up to 80 mph...to merge with traffic. I clutched the 4-speed into third, nailed the accelerator and eased in behind a pickup pulling a boat, running, according to my speedometer, 85 mph.

I always turn off the stereo when I drive through a town...don’t know why, just do. Glad I did this day. Noise...I don’t recognize this noise. Growling at first, then rumbling. Lift my foot from the accelerator. The first thing I think of is that a new rear wheel bearing is going...defective. Tell Dan, via CB, I’ve got a problem. The rear of the car starts to vibrate. I slow, but don’t panic or hit the brakes. That’s the worse thing to do if the wheel bearing freezes and is in the process of shearing the axle off. It would immediately leave the car or twist under it, launching the car, and I, into the center lane of traffic, causing a multi-car pile up of great proportions. The back end of the car now bounces wildly, shaking me over to the right lane, harder than hell to hold onto. I aim for the shoulder. Aiming, at 60 mph, is the best I can do. The gyrations worsened, steered quickly left and right, try to maintain control...shoulder coming fast. Too fast. Tap the brakes, try to keep the rear of the car from coming around. Forty mph, slide onto the shoulder, try to avoid roadway markers. Naw, trample them if necessary. Tap the brakes again and the ‘57’s rear bounces. Horrendous bouncing. Good thing I’ve got my seat belt securely attached. Deduce now it’s not a wheel bearing, something else -- tire coming off the rim! The car slows. The bouncing slows. My heart doesn’t. Ease the car to a stop, shut it off, unbuckle the seat belt, open the door and fall out of the car, shaking. Close. Too damned close in that traffic. Glad I didn’t hit anyone.

By then, Dan had backed up. I walked around to the passenger side rear of the car to see...nothing! The tire and wheel is where it is supposed to be. Not flat, it holds air. What the hell? Grabbed a screwdriver, removed the hub-cap...two lug nuts fall out when it’s halfway off, then four. With the hubcap off, we find that it’s simply not the lug nuts that have worked loose. It’s the studs, sheared off at the axle. Broken...lug nuts still attached. Four that way. One lug nut/stud holds the wheel/tire on. We’d just escaped a major holiday accident. Why?

I knew why. My Father...again. I’m now certain he is keeping us alive. I thank my God just the same.

We always carry a floor jack, get the car in the air. Instruct brother to drive back to town, buy studs. I’ll pound out what’s left of the old. When he returned, I was ready. Slipped the new studs into place, pulled them into the axle with washers, lug nuts and lug wrench, slipped the wheel back on, tightened it and let the car down. We drove the rest of the way home in the rain at 55 mph, and avoided a major hail-storm because we had broken down.

Do I believe in ghosts now? I’m not positive...however, I will not bet money against it.

Do I believe in my Mother’s warning? Partially, especially after all the near accidents we’ve been through.

Do I believe someone watches over us, defying my Mother? Dad always was hard-headed.

These days I’m almost certain my Father rides with me...and my brother, every time we take to the highway. I never see him in the passenger’s seat, I just know he’s there.

And at home, he still walks across my back yard, east to west, fishing pole in hand...never in a hurry.


Copyright 02-13-04 Aden Rush/R.A.Jetter

 

good story

 

WOW!

 

Captivating and well written story.

Do I believe?
Yes.

Enjoyed reading it and it made me think.

Kudo's....

 

ive got a new bukowski paper back, ive had it for a week now, and have only read 84 pages! great to see you back with the"friday nite read" great story.

 

I do believe your father is watching over you! Great story,Roger!!!!Makes me think of my dad,thanks!

 

Uhmmm, no 40oz...appreciate your enthusiasim, hang onto your paperback...NOT every Friday nite...only ocassionally...when the mood strikes me...besides, C9 is posting a full book (in increments) every Friday nite...read that one too!

Thanx to allfor the comments.

R-

 

as always, good to read your words, man. thanks.

 

there is nothing wrong with a little friendly competition
I always enjoy your stories and have come to enjoy C9s too...good to know someone has some talent out there besides putting cars together

 

Damn I love reading a good short story on a Friday nite. Always nice after a trying evening at school, great read as always!
-Jesse

 

The truth is out there...if you want to see it. Another great read. Thanks Roger.

 

Now I know why I don't care for 57 chevys (awful lot of damn problems). Belive it or not I was driving an borrowed z24 when the front driver side wheel came completely of the car and went across the road missing a truck, down into the ditch, and int the woods. I was traveling at about 45 mph at the time. I pulled over on to the shoulder and got out of the car to inspect the damage. The rotor was ground down pretty good but no other damage. The kat driving the truck stopped and retrieved the wheel and tire for me. The hub cap was still attached to the wheel and all the lug nuts where still inside. The studs where undamaged so I reinstalled the tire and drove on. Lots of strange things about what happened but one of the strangest to me was that my wife had just put in a "Red Hot Chilli Peppers" cd into the cd player when the tire came off, and the man in the truck that my tire barely missed, the one who stopped to help me, well he just happend to be wareing a "Red Hot Chilli Peppers" shirt and the shirt was of the exactly the same album we had just started listing to. Life is Strange.

 

Great read. Thanks Roger

 

Even better the second time around Aden.

 

Thanks Roger, a very good read.

 

Thanks! I've really missed reading your stories.

 

SKR8PN, Beatnik, Tinbender...many thanx to you for the comments...and thanx to whoever put the five stars on it...
R-

 

Roger, What a captivating story!! Man that was a super read, and I can relate to it as my dad was a truckdriver as your dad was and I know he has looked out for me a few times when it was unexplainable. I had goosebumps just reading it. Thanks for sharing the story and never quit writing these great stories!! Bill

 

Great read Roger. I had to search to find it, but well worth it.

Chris Nelson
Kansas