“What does that mean?” Heidi asked. Nobody answered. It meant nothing to me, and I knew more about engines than anyone else in the car.
Dad poked his head in again. “Dear, why don’t you try to start it while I take a look.” Mom slid over and gave it a try, but it wouldn’t fire.
“OK. Hold it for a second. I’m going to take off the air filter to dry out the carburetor. I think it’s flooded.”
We waited awhile for the gas to evaporate. The heat began to build up inside the car. We continued to sit in silence, swaying slightly when eighteen-wheelers whooshed by and shook the car.
“OK. Try it again.” Mom turned the key, and gasoline spurted out of the carburetor like a geyser. “Whoa! Hold it! Stop it!” Dad hollered. “I’ve never seen a car do that before!” He looked at me through the window. “Gas pours forth like a freshet in spring.” Then he leaned on the grille, staring at the engine.
“So, what are we going to do?” Heidi asked, undaunted by her previous failures to elicit any response. When nobody answered this time, either, she evidently gave up trying to find out anything and changed to declarations. “It’s sure getting hot in here.”
Heidi seemed to have a need to fill any lull with sound. I never understood why. I have a reputation for talking, but I only talk when I have something to say. That didn’t seem to be a prerequisite for Heidi. She would spout phrases at regular intervals, like a snooze alarm. In between comments I tried to fathom the motivations that drove her to spasmodically engage her mouth without necessarily including her brain in the process. I speculated that when things got too quiet, she felt waves of silence swallowing her. Then she would panic and blurt out something, anything, like a drowning man clutching at driftwood.
Well, that’s one theory anyway. Maybe it was chemical; I don’t know. I do know that if I was already irritated, it drove me crazy. Especially when she would spontaneously point out the painfully obvious. During the first hour of the trip, when we were driving in the Big Thicket, she said, “There sure are a lot of trees out there.” When we got stuck behind a log truck on a back road, she said, “He sure is driving slow.” I figured that one day she would finally drive me crazy, and I would hit her in the head with a bat. I was restrained by the thought that if I did she would probably say, “That bat sure is hard.”
After several minutes, Dad opened the trunk, moved some hanging clothes, and pulled out the toolbox. Years of experience had taught him not to bury the tools under luggage.
When I saw the tools, I figured he had a plan. I pulled on my shoes and joined him in front of the car, screening my eyes from the relentless Texas sun behind the fresh crop of hair I had been growing for this trip.
“So, what’s the deal?”
“Well, I think it’s the needle valve in the carburetor. I think it’s stuck open and flooding the engine.” He wielded a wrench that he used to tap on the side of the carburetor. “I’m hoping that I can jar it enough so that the needle will drop back down into the hole and it will start working properly.” He wrinkled his nose to keep his glasses from slipping down. Sweat ran into his eyes, and he blinked and squinted.
I leaned on the fender long enough to realize I had made a mistake. Maroon paint and the Texas sun had rendered the fender hot enough to fry the proverbial egg. I jumped back and rubbed my arms gingerly, checking to see how much hair had been singed off. “How long will that take?”
“I don’t know.”
I relayed the information to the womenfolk, two-thirds of whom received it without comment. Every five or ten minutes Dad would have Mom try to start the car again, with strict instructions to stop immediately if she saw a geyser of gas. After about an hour of tapping and cranking, the car finally started, and we were on our way once again, however briefly.
Within another hour we were back on the side of the road, stewing. Dad got out and tried his tapping trick again. After a few more roadside sessions, ranging in length from fifteen minutes to two hours, Dad concluded that the air conditioner was causing the car to heat up, which was causing the needle valve to stick, which was causing the car to flood, which was causing all of us considerable frustration. We once again resorted to 4-60 AC, which seemed to reduce the frequency of, but not eliminate entirely, the roadside sessions. Both temperature and tempers inside the car were rising.
About the time we hit West Texas and were sitting, once again, sweltering, on the roadside, Mom reached her limit. “I’m ready to turn around and head back,” she announced. “If this is the way it’s going to be for the rest of the trip, I don’t want to go.”
I couldn’t imagine a mundane thing like being stranded on the side of the road for thirty minutes every other hour being a problem of sufficient magnitude to stop a Cloud vacation. After all, two years earlier we had taken a rambling trek through Michigan to Canada, Niagara Falls, New York City, and Washington, D.C. En route we had the exhaust manifold replaced in Ohio by a former deacon; the generator rebuilt in London, Canada, by an electrical engineer who had emigrated from Hungary; and the clutch replaced in Alabama by the governor’s third cousin on his mother’s side. What was a carburetor to that? Car problems were a way of life for the Clouds. The publishers of Chilton repair manuals sent us Christmas cards. Car part dealers had put kids through college because of us.
But Mom was insistent. Evidently the Eastern Seaboard experience had left its mark on her. Then occurred the event that could only happen to the wife of a preacher. (Consider it well, single female readers, and ponder carefully your choice of future mate.)
Taking a break from tapping, Dad was sitting in the car with his feet hanging out of the door, his shirt hanging limply on his back. “You know,” he said, “I’ve been studying James 1 for the past few weeks. Verses 2 through 4 say:”
“My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations; knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience. But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing.”
“I guess this is just the Lord teaching us patience in a practical way,” he concluded. He wiped the sweat from his face with a sleeve that had the cuffs unbuttoned and hanging loosely from his forearms.
I recognized this stuff right away. It came just before the part about asking for wisdom. He was at it again.
That ripped it as far as Mom was concerned. “I don’t want to learn patience on the side of the road in West Texas. Let’s go back to Fred, and I’ll learn it in the air-conditioning.”
I weighed the options. In one sense I was with Mom. If I had to sit on the side of a West Texas road in hundred-degree heat to learn patience, I could do without it. My interest in refining my soul had a limit, and that was definitely beyond it. On the other hand, I was fervently anticipating our arrival in California, the land of Ultimate Cool. I was willing to endure considerably more than occasional turns tapping on the carburetor in order to get there. My vote was to get to the nearest town of consequence and have the carburetor fixed. However, I was not consulted and kept my own counsel, not being one to volunteer advice where none was sought.
Heidi, however, had no such reservations. “Why don’t we stop at the next town and get the thing fixed?”
Dad sighed. “A new carburetor would cost several hundred dollars. If we did that, we would have to turn around anyway because we wouldn’t have enough money to finish the trip.”
“Oh.” That’s what you get, I thought. A bit presumptuous, too, I figured, since she hadn’t taken a single turn tapping on the carburetor.
Once again we were down to Dad insisting on getting practical with the Bible. It had worked with the broken bolt, but this was different. That time getting practical had brought a quick resolution to our impasse. But in this case, it seemed like getting practical meant prolonging the difficulty, enduring the problem rather than solving it. Would that really bring patience? While I tapped on the carburetor, which was now beginning to look like a part bought from a demolition-derby scra
pyard, I listed a few other things it might produce, like frustration, rage, ulcers, heatstroke, or apostasy. It didn’t seem to be having the desired effect on Mom, at any rate. Just how long was it between the trying of the faith and the producing of patience? I was afraid to ask.
Regardless, we forged fitfully ahead at an erratic, if not leisurely, pace. By late afternoon we had only traveled two hundred miles and were approaching Abilene. Based on our progress during the day, we could see there was no point in trying to make it to the planned Tuesday night destination. We consulted the map and opted for Abilene State Park, a few miles outside of Abilene near a watering hole called Buffalo Gap.
The road to the park turned out to be a long, twisting drive through scrubby mesquite trees, leading quite a ways from the main highway. At about the moment the sun was kissing the horizon, Dad uttered an exclamation and began wrestling with the steering wheel as if some invisible force were fighting him for control of the car.
“Power steering just went out,” he explained through gritted teeth as he tried to navigate a road that rivaled San Francisco’s Lombard Street for sinuosity. Inspection revealed a broken power-steering hose. Five minutes later I was riding with Dad as he grappled his way back down the winding road in the gathering dark, leaving the women behind to make camp and fix supper. We took the car into the town of Buffalo Gap to pick up some ice and see what could be done about the hose. In the days before auto-part franchises, there wasn’t much chance of finding something open after sundown, so I wasn’t sure what Dad’s intentions were. But I adopted my usual policy of wait and see.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Before we proceed to plumb the depths of the resourcefulness of fathers, I need to have a little talk with you, the gentle reader. The experience that I am about to relate catches Dad at a disadvantage. We glimpse his humanity and are given occasion to have amusement at his expense. I don’t know what your experience with parents was like. (Or is like, if you’re just a kid. Shoot, I don’t even know what you are like, for that matter. Remind me to ask you about it later. I’m a little busy right now.)
Anyway, based on my experience at the time, I saw parents as creatures of conservative reliability, sober and reserved.
Here’s something that will give you an idea of how I saw Dad. I remember at age six sitting in the garage helping him work on some little project, when he made a comment about being wrong about something. I was astounded. “But you can’t be wrong,” I protested. “You’re a daddy!” He assured me that even daddies could, on rare occasion, be wrong. It revolutionized my entire worldview. In light of these attitudes, you can see how, as I grew older, I found it remarkably refreshing to witness an event wherein a parent was placed in a humorously awkward position. I was amused primarily because these events were very rare in my experience.
For example, once, back in Ohio, the family sat down to a meal. The normal beverage for our meals was iced tea. It just so happened that there was only enough tea for one glass and we all wanted it. Mom, as moms are wont to do, gave it to Dad, the rest of us having to suffer with KoolAid. Dad said the blessing, and when we opened our eyes, we all looked up to the head of the table at that glass of tea. Dad put his napkin in his lap and reached for the glass of tea. All eyes followed his every movement. Conscious of the attention focused on the glass, he slowly and regally raised it to his lips. But just as the glass crossed his plate, the bottom fell out and tea flooded his plate and the table.
If my parents had been buffoons, then perhaps these events would not give me such pleasure. Well, now that we have settled that little detail, let’s get back to the silent teenager and his father, who is wrestling a reluctant maroon road ship toward a one-horse town in the darkening twilight. (But, don’t forget. We’ll get to your dad in a minute.)
As was his habit when in need in a strange town, Dad sought out a member of his fraternity, the clergy. Very few towns in Texas, regardless of size, lack a Baptist church. As we crept through the streets, squinting in the failing light for some sign of a church, we came across two barefoot boys toting cane fishing poles. Dad slowed and called out the window, “Say, can you boys tell me who is the pastor of the Baptist church in this town?”
They stopped and looked at us closely, then at each other. The taller one spoke. “Oh, you mean Elder Nelson.”
“I guess that’s who I mean. Is he a Baptist preacher?”
“Yup, sure is. That’s the church, right down there.” He pointed to a building about three hundred yards away. “His house is right next to the church, on that side.”
“Thank you.” Dad drove on.
“Elder Nelson? How could he be a Baptist preacher if he’s called elder?”
“There are many different variations of Baptists. Southern Baptist, American Baptist, Independent Baptist, and so on. There is one variety called Primitive Baptist, sometimes called Hardshell Baptist. Some Baptist denominations,” he continued, “call their pastors elders.” We pulled up in front of the house, a frame structure that had at one time long ago been white. “Heck, I’m just as much an elder as he is.”
We emerged from the car and walked to the gate. The yard was largely dirt; a few sparse tufts of grass straggled by the walk. On the porch two barefoot kids of five or six were playing in the gloaming.
“Is your father at home?” Dad asked. The kids skittered into the house, leaving the screen door waving open. We walked up the sidewalk, which jutted from the dirt like a causeway, and stood at the foot of the porch steps.
Presently a woman in a plain cotton dress appeared at the door. The kids followed, grabbing her legs and peeking out from behind her skirt. The woman was slender and sturdy, with the cares of raising children on too little income plainly written on her face. An older boy, about ten or eleven, stood behind her, half-obscured by shadow.
She eyed us cautiously. Dad hadn’t shaved since we left Fred, much to Mom’s dismay, and his two-day growth gave him more hair on his chin than he had on the top of his head, which didn’t exactly lend him an air of respectability.
“Is this the home of Elder Nelson?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Well, I’m Elder Cloud.” I looked at Dad, taken by surprise, but my reaction was nothing compared to theirs. The woman looked startled, and the older boy yelped out a barking laugh of one syllable. The younger ones continued to stare brazenly as though we were performing animals.
“I pastor a Baptist church in East Texas. We’re on vacation, and we’ve had a little problem with our car. We were wondering if he could direct us to a garage that would give us a fair shake.” He took off his glasses and smiled. I stood by, woodenly, as was appropriate for a teenager.
“Sure. He’s not here right now, but he should be back soon. Why don’t you come in and wait?” She opened the door and we filed in, taking a seat on a lumpy couch that was probably past its prime before I was born. On the other hand, with these kids, it might have been new last week.
“Would you like some iced tea?” We assented and she disappeared into the recesses of the house. The older boy stared at us for awhile and shuffled out the front door. The younger kids continued to stare from around corners and doorways.
Always curious about how other people lived, I looked about the room. Here were others who shared my fate, being a preacher’s kid. Perhaps they haven’t felt it yet, I speculated. Perhaps they never will. My own sense of PK isolation developed after the symptoms of that dreaded malady, adolescence, had manifested.
I wondered how different their life was from mine. The room was sparsely furnished. Other than the couch, there was an armchair, a rocking chair, and a coffee table—all past their prime except the rocking chair, which looked like it was built to outlast several generations of indigent pastors. A threadbare braided rug attempted vainly to disguise the fact that the wood floors had lost their finish long ago. On the far wall was the inevitable, albeit small, bookcase filled with reference books and magazines.
The living standard seemed belo
w what I was used to, but upon reflection I realized that I was used to a nicer house only because the church in Fred had built a rambling, brick parsonage with volunteer labor just a few years before we arrived. If we had been forced to buy or rent a house on Dad’s income, it wouldn’t have been as nice as the one I was critiquing.
The woman eventually returned with our drinks. I sipped at mine. It had a strong mineral taste, making the tea almost undrinkable. I resigned myself to holding the glass and making token sipping movements every few minutes. The woman went back to whatever she had been doing, and Dad and I waited in silence. The house seemed to discourage conversation. Dusk deepened toward genuine darkness and still we sat, holding sweating tea glasses and meditating on the metallic taste in our mouths. In the twilight I could feel the relentless stare of those kids, like the never-sleeping eye of God, inspecting my every movement and nuance.
After an eternity, steps sounded on the front porch and a tall, genial-looking man walked in. Dad rose awkwardly from the couch, and I followed suit as Mrs. Nelson entered the room.
“This is Elder Cloud,” she said, smiling.
The man registered surprise. “Really?” He grinned at Dad.
“Yes. I pastor a Baptist church in a small town in East Texas.” He proceeded to explain our dilemma to Elder Nelson, who directed us to the Ford dealership in Abilene. Of course, both being pastors, they were incapable of concluding their business immediately. I slumped in the requisite adolescent stupor while the two elders talked shop. I knew I was in for the duration, much like my experience with Darnell on the Roller Coaster, only with less panic. Eventually they both talked themselves down to a fine powder, and we made the preliminary overtures to parting.
The parting ritual took almost as long as the conversation. I endured it with obvious stoicism. Finally the rites led us out of the house, lingering on the porch, tediously inching down the steps, through the yard to the gate. We moved deeper into the humid night and the warm cocoon of cricket song and fireflies. As we stood near the car, the denouement fell like a flourish of timpani.
Welcome to Fred (The Fred Books) Page 19