One day melts into the next when you’re little, unless tomorrow is Christmas or your birthday. My memory has flashes – images of things nobody took a picture of, images of life in the 1950’s – fleeting memories.
We used to go to Sunday school – Mom’s family had been quite involved with the church when she was young, it made sense she would want us to be as well. Sunday was an event; shoes needed to be polished, shoe laces bleached, hair washed and dresses ironed. It took Mom all weekend to prepare for forty-five minutes on Sunday morning – making a good impression with what she had to work with took a bit of effort.
It must have been a challenge getting four kids out the front door at the same time looking spit and polished. Mom would ready one of us and send us out to sit in the car while she prepared the next – it was a lengthy production. Dads in those days had no idea which drawer the socks lived in let alone how to dress a baby – I don’t remember mine lifting a finger to help. One by one we’d make our way to the car to wait – and wait – and wait. Mom didn’t send the baby out until she was ready to accompany it – Dad was charged with locking the door behind them.
On one particular Sunday morning the waiting became too much – my brother decided he would drive my sister and I to Sunday school himself. He slid into the driver’s seat and took the wheel. All was fine while he was pretending to navigate the car down the steep slope of Hilton Avenue – it was only when he took the emergency brake off that we realized the game might have gone too far.
The car picked up speed quickly – a gentle roll became an all out sprint in no time flat – the laughing sisters in the back seat changed their tune just as fast. It was Mr. Weaver, the neighbor with the greenhouse, who came to our rescue. I’m not sure if he thought the scallywags had kicked things up a notch and were attempting to drive a car through his living room window or if he really cared about the screaming children in the Buick. He made a mad dash for the driver’s side door – swung it open and dove toward the emergency brake as the car bounced over the curb. We came to an abrupt stop in the middle of his front yard.
Dad must have thanked him before he stormed into his house – or at least I hope he did.