Compact cars were new after World War II and a new car company, the Kaiser Corporation, began producing the Henry J -a forerunner of the modern compact: fastback styling, folding rear seat, four cylinder engine. The basic idea was revived in 1976 when Honda launched the Honda Accord. This photo is from the Pintrest site but is identical to the one we were driving in the story below. What this car lacked in safety features and reliability, it made up for by adding tailfins, a Studebaker front end, and a beautifully sloped Chevy-style roofline. I seem to recall that Dad paid about $1200 for a new one. It was to be one of only two new cars he ever purchased. The other one was a 1952 Henry J.
My mother, Mamie, was a beautiful woman and wonderful mother, but always seemed uncomfortable driving a car. Considering the unrelaible old cars my family had to rely on, this is not surprising. From an early age, I learned how to pop the clutch while my father pushed off the lastest car that wouldn’t start. Once, about age eleven, while helping to push off our old Dodge, I fell and the car passed over my leg. Fortunately, the ground was damp and soft and I was unhurt.

                                            

Baby at the Wheel

We are traveling a red-clay road through September-dry farmland. My mother (we call her “Baby”) is driving because my father (“Honey”) is ill. Dust roils though the car windows. We close them only to suffocate in the heat. The choice is to either choke or burn up. The Henry J coup has felt seats. With every rut and bump, they exhale a plume of last year’s dust. No one had air conditioning in those days.

The car vibrates on the washboard road. In the bottoms, sand has collected, deep enough to grab and twist the front tires so that the steering wheel my mother holds jerks to one side stopping us in our tracks as the car leans and tilts over on its side, like a horse, slow and deliberate, and we all (my three-year-old brother is with us) fall to the driver’s side.

Baby’s hands clinch the steering wheel as we look at the bare-dirt road up close through the side windows. Even sick, my father is a strong man. He climbs out the window toward the sky-and I follow. At eight years of age, I am of little help.

An old black truck stops a hundred yards ahead. An entire family of five gets out, the mother holding one child’s hand, another child in her arms. A boy stands in the back of the truck for a better view. The man’s overalls and straw hat say he is a farmer. They look like the Dust Bowl pictures from Life Magazine. They stare, spectators to our plight.

Together, my father and I push against the roof of the car, rocking it to build momentum. Miraculously, the little car rights itself and bounces, unsteady on its feet at first, stretching its legs. My father and I get in.

My mother is still griping the steering wheel, frozen in place, depressing the clutch.

Miraculously, the Henry J’s flathead motor is still running. My father says to drive away. Baby releases the clutch. The car struggles to escape the sandpile but pulls us through. My little brother and I sit in the back seat, and we all assume the look of a family out for a drive as we pass the gawkers and their truck. Looking past them, my father says, “Don’t wave to them.” He is a proud man.