by Jeff Tapia
And we said, “What, Pops?”
And Pops said, “That old dingsbums you found fits after all. Had the dang thing in backwards and upside down to boot.” And then he added, “But don’t you go tellin’ no one.”
And we said, “It’s between us and the fence post.”
Then Pops said, “Well, let’s get rollin’!”
“You mean we’re gonna start it up?” we asked.
And Pops said, “You didn’t think we was gonna stand around singin’ to it, did ya?”
We just covered our ears.
POPS TOLD US TO START the engine. We looked up and down the steering wheel for a keyhole,1 and since we didn’t find one, we inspected the engine box. We didn’t have any luck there, either, so we stood up and turned around to inspect the seat we were sitting on. The whole time Pops kept going, “Warmer, warmer . . .” and then, “Cold. Very cold. Bitter cold,” and you could tell he was enjoying himself. But at some point he had us so cold, our teeth were rattling, and we clean gave up.
Pops got a big laugh outta the whole deal. “What you’re lookin’ for is right there in front of your beaks,” he said, and pointed to a black curved metal bar sticking out of the right side of the engine box.
“That ain’t no key, Pops.”
And Pops said, “You’re right. It’s a crank.”
And we said, “Huh?”
Pops explained to us that back then you didn’t start a pickup with a key—you had to crank it started.
And we said, “You mean like a jack-in-the-box?”
“Yup. But just don’t expect no weasel to go poppin’ out of the engine. Now, go ahead and wind her up.”
The crank was big enough for all four of our hands, and we worked together hard as a walnut, but it wouldn’t budge none.
Pops shook his head and asked, “Am I gonna have to go get the spinach or somethin’?”
“No spinach!” And with the help of some elbow grease, we finally got the crank cranking.
“There you go!” Pops shouted.
We kept that crank moving around in circles like a dog after its tail, but the hippomobile didn’t seem to care none. It just sat there all peaceful and quiet, and we finally had to give up and take a breather.
“You two ain’t plannin’ on walkin’ back, is you?”
We’d show Pops what we were planning and not planning to do! This time we spit on our hands and rubbed it in real good and got that crank whizzing like an airplane propeller.
And Pops said, “Atta way!”
But the hippomobile still sat there lazy as a Sunday afternoon, and there wasn’t anything left for us to do but to give up. Even Pops said, “Booger,” and took off his beret and scratched his head.
“Maybe we should put some gas in it,” we said.
“Gas.” Pops repeated the word like he was spitting out a piece of gristle. “It ain’t called gas—it’s called fuel.”
“Well, maybe we should put some fuel in it. You brought the can and all.”
“Don’t you think I done thought of that?”
We could tell that was one of them questions we wasn’t supposed to answer, probably because he forgot all about it.
Pops let a little time go by and then said, “Where is that gas can, anyhow?”
“You mean the fuel can?”
“Just gimme the can.”
We did so and watched him pour like a mad scientist in a laboratory. We leaned back and had our faces covered just in case a cloud of something rose up out of the tank. But that ain’t what happened. Instead came this sputtering and coughing and vibrating from underneath that reminded us of a busted ride at the county fair.
Pops yelled out, “Crank it, you turkeys!”
And we did. And the more we did, the more the hippomobile shuddered and shimmied and coughed like it needed a good slap on the back. Then the engine sorta went vroom! Pops told us to hold off, and we stopped cranking. And sure as a cow tail swats flies, the hippomobile kept on vibrating all on its very own.
Pops said, “Good goin’, you turkeys!”
But we didn’t have time for celebrating because something else started to happen. “What’s going on?” we asked.
Pops just laughed. “You better put on them helmets of yours. ’Cause we’re rollin’!”
And indeed we were! Not too fast maybe, and you probably could’ve walked backwards on one sore foot faster than we were traveling, but there was no doubting the fact that we really were on our way right out the factory door. So we put on our helmets and fastened the straps secure under our chins and couldn’t help but feel like we were out on the speedway.
Pops told us to scoot it and grabbed the wheel. “Let’s just hope them axles hold,” he said. Once we left the building, he needed to steer the hippomobile around back the other direction toward town. “Help me out some and lean hard to the left.”
We leaned like saplings in a windstorm, and Pops worked like crazy to get the steering wheel to turn, and the hippomobile began creaking louder than attic steps. But nothing busted, and soon us and the hippomobile were turned around the right way and on Hill Street and slowly heading back into town.
“This ol’ thing handles pretty good!” Pops said.
We were about to agree, but just then the hippomobile stopped in its tracks and might’ve bucked us clean off if we’d been going any faster. “Hey!” we yelled.
Pops’s hand came down with a loud smack on the engine box. And believe it or not, that got the hippomobile running again, all right. But it started running backwards.
“Hey, Pops, we’re going the wrong way!”
Pops gave us that one look that said, “Thanks for telling me.” He started looking all over for some kinda knob or switch to change directions.
He looked kinda funny, but we weren’t about to say “Cold, colder!” or nothing like that. Instead we just took a chance and gave the engine box another smack, but this time on the other side. And lo and behold, that did the trick! The hippomobile stopped, rumbled in place for a moment like an upset stomach, and then set back off in the direction we were wanting to go.
“Looks like I’m gonna have to work out a few kinks in this thing,” Pops said. Then he moved over and let us take the wheel. “Easy does it.”
And there we were, riding for real on top of the hippomobile just like Gottfried Schuh! It was almost like a Sunday drive. The only thing missing was a radio and a window to hang your arm out of. We sure couldn’t wait to show Mom.
We began veering a bit rightward, and Pops said, “Hold her steady, now.”
And so we leaned left and gave the steering wheel a nice gentle twist. It twisted just fine. In fact, it twisted clean off.
“Pops! Look!”
And Pops said, “Holy potato! Gimme that thing quick!”
We handed it to him and held on tight as the hippomobile ran off the road and began mowing down weeds. Pops worked double time to get the steering wheel to fit back in, and we didn’t bother him none except for yelling out, “Tree!” and then, “TREE!” and then finally, “TREE!”
But lucky for us and the hippomobile, Pops was able to snap the wheel back in just in the nick of time and avoid the tree trunk. We did run through some branches, though, and were forced to eat a few leaves. And Pops darn near got his beret snatched off.
“Mon dew!” Pops called out in some French we didn’t get. “That was closer than my shadow!”
He stayed in the driver’s seat and got us back on the blacktop, and for a while we were happy to be the copilots. But once we turned off Hill Street without anything unordinary happening, Pops said we should have the honors of driving the home stretch.
We were smiling so much, our cheeks hurt. This time we made sure to keep the hippomobile right in the middle of the road. When we went by our oak tree, we waved and yelled, “Thanks, Old Tom Wood!” If it hadn’t been for Old Tom Wood, who knows if we would’ve found Gottfried Schuh’s old letter to begin with.
Then we had
just one more block to go. We couldn’t wait to see the looks on everybody’s faces as we drove into town. Except it turned out that we were the ones in for the big surprise. Just before we entered the square, we saw a big banner stretched across the street from the top of one building to the top of another. It was made out of old sheets, and the words painted on it read
WELCOME TO WYMORE
HOME OF THE HIPPOMOBILE
Pops said, “Didn’t turn out too bad, did it?”
We looked up at him and said, “You mean you knew about it?”
But we didn’t hear his answer because then we saw something else, and our jaws dropped down to our knees. It was Mom, and she was up on the one roof holding the banner steady. She was wearing a helmet, but it was her all right, and that might’ve been the first time she’d ever been up on a roof in all her life.2 And yet there she was, waving and smiling proud. And up on the other roof was Grandma Ida. She pulled a camera out of her apron pocket and started taking snapshots.3 And since the hippomobile was going so slow, we even had enough time to make several silly faces.
Then we crossed under the banner, and the whole dusty town square came into full view. All our grandpas and grandmas were lining the street in their best bib overalls and button-down blouses and waving the flags that otherwise came out only for Train Day. We waved back to everybody, and it was almost like being in a real parade, except that parades usually don’t crash.
Pops said, “Now we’ve just gotta figure out how to stop this contraption.”
We started looking around down at our feet for some kinda brake, but it didn’t seem like Gottfried Schuh had gotten around to putting one in.
Pops said, “You gotta be kiddin’ me!”
We squeezed the horn, but it just blew out a cloud of dust. So we started working our lungs. “Outta the way!” we yelled. We waved our arms like windmills to make sure we had everyone’s attention. And in all that commotion, we didn’t realize that we were holding the steering wheel clean up in the air.
Apparently our grandmas and grandpas did, though. As we started edging off the street and right toward Mabel’s, they parted faster than the sea. Some ran for cover back into the café, and others hid behind a lamp pole, and a few climbed up on the bench Grandpa Chester always sat on.
Meanwhile we kept right on inching toward disaster and stomping with our feet for a brake that wasn’t there while Pops fiddled with the steering wheel. Unfortunately, one of our stomps must’ve caught Pops’s toes because he let out quite an “Ow!” and dropped the steering wheel. Alls we could do was watch it roll clean off the hippomobile, land on the ground, and keep right on rolling.
So now all three of us started smacking the engine box in the hopes of getting it to stop or even go backwards again. But in the end what saved us from running through Mabel’s screen door was nothing more than the plain old curb. The hippomobile hit it square on but didn’t have enough oomph to get up over it, so we came to a stop.
For a moment there, no one dared to move a muscle. But then smoke started rising up out of the engine box higher than a woodpecker’s hole, and the front wheel fell off, and that was when we figured it was time to bail.
Mom was down in the crowd by then, and we heard her shout, “No jumping!” But it was too late because we were already standing back up and dusting the dust off our knees.
It took Pops a little longer to get down, but once he did and got a kink out of his back, he came over and stood with us in front of Mabel’s and watched and listened to the hippomobile shake, shudder, cough, and blow more smoke than a chimney. We didn’t have to wait long before a back wheel gave out. Then the other back wheel gave out, and the whole shebang fell flat to the ground and turned silent as a stone. And for a stretch, alls you could hear was the ringing in your ears.
No one said nothing. Mom pulled us closer in to her. Some people covered their mouths with their hands. Some of our grandmas made the sign of the cross, and our grandpas removed their hats. There our future was, lying flattened out as a toad on the road. It wasn’t hard to figure out that this wasn’t a good development. And just when we thought nothing couldn’t get no worse, the banner came loose and went flapping down to the ground like a ghost gone haywire. And still no one ain’t said nothing.
Then Pops went over to the hippomobile and kneeled down best he could and examined one of them wheels and took a close look at an axle and said, “Looks like I know what else I’ll be doin’ tomorrow.”
We almost didn’t dare ask. But we did, just not too loud. “You mean you think you can fix it?”
Pops turned around and looked at us. “You askin’ an old grease monkey that?”
That’s when the whole town of Wymore, all fifty-one of us, broke out in a cheer louder than a stampede. Everybody walked up and inspected the hippomobile and ran their hands over it like a long-lost pet. Many grandmas and grandpas shook their heads in silent wonder, several debated how long it’d been since they’d last saw it, and quite a few wiped their eyes.
At some point Pops said, “Yeah, you gotta hand it to that ol’ Gottfried. He built himself one robust and rugged contraption.”
We looked at each other and said, “Pops, how did you know that phrase?”
Pops said, “Saw it in some old book I used to look at back when I was a little kid. It’s where I learned my French at, too.” Then he grinned and said, “Now, where’s that Mabel at?”
Everybody called for Grandma Mabel, and she finally stepped out of the crowd in her white apron and chef hat.
“I hear you’re open for business,” said Pops.
We could tell that Grandma Mabel didn’t know what to say at first. She looked all around at everybody else. When we all nodded our heads, she finally turned back to Pops and said, “I reckon I am.”
And Pops said, “Then gimme a blue-plate special, would ya?”
THE REST OF THE DAY was spent in fun up to our ears. We all ate our fill and swilled fifty-fives1 and played games like red light/green light and washers.2 Grandpa Homer and Grandpa Virgil supplied the live music, and Mom and Pops danced a slow dance until Pops said Mom kept stepping on his toes.3 We all gathered around the hippomobile for a sing-along to “Let Me Call You Sweetheart,” and Mom told Pops to go easy on the rest of us and to just mouth the words. Then everyone wanted Grandpa Homer and Grandpa Virgil to compose a special hippomobile ballad. They got right on it, but it was us who came up with the opening lines:
Way back when, down Wymore way
Lived a man named Gottfried Schuh
But that’s as far as we got because Grandma Mabel came by and distracted us with a scrumptious-looking black bottom.4
Later that afternoon, when some of us were playing charades and Grandma Ida was trying without much luck to be a teapot, Grandpa Milton bellowed out, “It’s over now, Henrietta!” All our heads turned quick. Sure enough, he’d just won his first game of checkers.
Grandma Henrietta said, “I wanna rematch!”
But Grandpa Milton just said, “Read this first.” He pulled How to Win at Checkers out of his pocket and handed it to her.
And as if that wasn’t enough to keep us remembering that day for years to come, something else happened. We lost our sun grins, and even our shadows disappeared from the ground. Grandpa Bert pointed up at the sky and shouted, “Hey, look at that!”
We all looked up, and there it was, a little cloud pretty as a pillow. We all gathered under it best we could, and it dropped down a drizzle on us for a good five minutes. And we were happier than ducks on a pond.
It was the most dramatically sensational and rarely exquisite day of our lives. Once we were back in our hotel room, it turned out it wasn’t even over yet. Mom suggested we pitch the tent and sleep out up on the roof. We just couldn’t hardly believe it none. Even when Pops claimed he couldn’t pitch a tent on account of his back, Mom just said, “Smitty, get!”
Mom stayed down with us and put us through the wringer. She washed our hair clean to the
roots and did a twice-over on our ears until they squeaked like mice. Then she trimmed our claws and was making sure we were brushing our teeth right when Pops yelled that he needed some help. She said she should probably give him a hand, and we didn’t exactly hold her back none.
We put on our jammies and made sure they were right-side out for a change. But before we went up to join Mom and Pops, we kneeled down by our window and stuck our noses against the screen and breathed in deep. We were about to say something profound and meaningful, maybe something about dogged determination, but we heard Pops from up on the roof. “Hey, where you turkeys at?” he shouted.
And then we heard Mom. “Yeah, you comin’ or ain’t ya?”
Mom said “ain’t”? Yes, indeed, it was truly a day for the history books.
“We’re comin’!” we yelled. We jumped up and ran out of the room and were up on the roof while that four-letter word was still ringing in our ears.
There was still a sliver of sun out, and Pops had the tent set up just right so that when we all sat out in front of it, we were able to look clear out over Wymore and watch the sun go down. By then the town was quiet as a whisper, and the only thing you could hear were the cicadas and a grandpa or two snoring louder than a carpenter saws wood.
Mom sighed and said, “It’s gorgeous up here.”
And Pops just looked at us and winked.
Then we sat there without saying nothing, just swatting mosquitoes and counting golf carts until the sun dipped all the way down behind Mabel’s. Then a funny thing happened. That one last lamppost on the square that’d been flickering suddenly gave off a big buzz and flashed once and then went out. And it was like Wymore disappeared right before our very eyes.
And we said, “Aww!”
And Mom said, “That’s too bad.”
But Pops just said, “Say lah vee.”5
And so a second or two later, we did say it: “Lah vee!”
And then we all crawled into our tent and went to sleep.