My father was a bit of a hot rodder. Some of my earliest memories are of driving home from visiting Hauan and Bell relatives in Iowa and sleeping in the back seat. On several of these rides I was awakened by a violent lurching. I heard my mother say from the front seat, "Oh, Allen don't pass him here," but we shot forward with a roar, then swerved back into the right lane. Bright headlights glared in the back window and lit up the interior. I could see my mother's face and hear her nervous laughter.
"He's coming back for more, "my dad said with a laugh and the lights disappeared from the back window then came along side. It all lit up the inside of the car with wild patterns. Now wide awake, I heard and felt my dad gun the car, and my mother, once again the voice of reason, said, "You showed him, why don't we let him win one?" and my dad just grunted and floored the car again, and we shot off into the dark as I rolled around the back seat like a peanut in a pinball machine.
Here is a photo of my father and that car:
I am not good on these old cars prior to the fifties. But a couple guys on Facebook said it's a 1937 Ford Deluxe Tudor Sedan with a V8 engine. Someone else mentioned it had baby moons, but Jim Cherry scoffed at this: "Those aren't baby moons, those are factory dog dishes." Ha.
Here's a side view of this puppy, taken at my grandpa's farm north of Thompson, Iowa:
"There goes that damn Bell kid!"
—Every neighbor Carl and Minnie Bell ever had
"I have learnt silence from the talkative, toleration from the intolerant, and kindness from the unkind; yet strange, I am ungrateful to the these teachers."
—Kahlil Gibran.
