In 1958, Mickey Mouse was my hero, the champion of my dreams. Since Papa didn’t own a television, I went to my aunt Ala’s house to watch The Mickey Mouse Club. I was lying on the floor, propped up on my elbows, ready to hear about an exciting new toy, when Mickey said, “Kids, you will want to see this next message.” On the screen, a boy about my size effortlessly pedaled a Marauder J4 car down the sidewalk.
Although the television had a black-and-white picture, I saw a shiny red car with white sidewall tires, the headlights coming toward me. The chrome bumper and side trim sparkled in the sunlight. Like a fiery red streak, my dream car zoomed by and displayed its rounded taillights on the back of its rear fenders. I saw myself pedaling that car, not on the sidewalk, but down Tyler Road in front of Papa’s house.
On the walk home, I went over the arguments in my mind, how I would convince Papa to buy the Marauder J4 for me. Would he listen? Of course. He didn’t own a car, which was all the more reason for him to give me a J4. I would run errands for him, and I wouldn’t have to walk everywhere. The decision was obvious. Yes, next week I would be pedaling a car like other boys.
When I reached the front steps, Papa was on the porch, sitting in his rocking chair, sharpening the blade of his pocket knife.
For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. “Paa‑p‑pa… uh…” After the first two stammers, my list of arguments flowed like memorized scripture. With intricate detail, I described the Marauder J4—both its beauty and its importance. “You w‑wouldn’t have to hitch a ride with Uncle Ves. With a M‑marauder J4, I c‑could do your errands. I’d pedal to the store and bring back w‑whatever groceries we needed.” I visualized the four miles of rutted dirt road to the store as only four blocks of sidewalk. “The J4 is easy to pedal, so I could take it to the ball field.” Having that car was the obvious solution to walking everywhere, including the three miles to the ballpark. “I’ll s‑save at least forty-five minutes.” It was good-bye to ankle express and hello to pedaling.
Papa seemed genuinely interested in what I was saying. He neither smiled nor frowned. He listened like he was waiting for the rain to stop before stepping out, a good sign.
After describing every detail of the Marauder J4 and giving every argument I could think of, I was out of breath. “W‑what do you think, Paa‑p‑pa?” My ears were alert, anticipating his agreement. All he had to do was place the order, and I would wait for mailman Milton to drop the Marauder next to our mailbox.
“From what you’re telling me,” Papa said, “I figure this is a sidewalk car, right?”
“Yes, s‑sir. That’s where the kid on TV was driving it.”
“If a bicycle tire won’t hold up on our dirt and gravel roads, what makes you think your Marauder would? Will it handle the pot holes and deep ruts cut by the log trucks after it rains?”
I thought about what I had seen in the television commercial. “It looked real sturdy c‑coming down the sidewalk.”
“Do you think it’s a good idea for you to be pedaling up and down Tyler Road with the log trucks?”
Why hadn’t my arguments been convincing? “I’d be careful and s‑stay out of their way,” I said.
“Wayne, it doesn’t sound like the Marauder is the right car for you. In town where there are sidewalks, fine. But with our rough roads, I don’t see how it would hold up.”
“Are you sure? It looked real sturdy in the commercial?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Something like that would not last very long.”
“It looked sturdy. It had solid w‑wheels that would definitely help out in the mud.”
“Wayne, I know you’re disappointed, but I know what I’m talking about.”
“But Paa‑p‑pa—“
“Wayne! I don’t want to talk about it anymore. The issue is closed.”
I let a wimpy-sounding “yes, sir” drip from my puffed-out lower lip. Why hadn’t he seen the value of the J4? There was no cause to say more. When Papa made a decision, that was it. Anything more from me would be whining, and Papa didn’t tolerate whining. “Okay,” I said. “I think I’ll go w‑walk on my stilts.”
I went through the back gate, down the trail past the cow pen, to the tall pine where I had left my stilts—the ones Papa made out of 2×4’s. Standing on them raised me three feet into the air. I had practiced all day before I learned how to walk on them without falling. For the moment, walking on stilts had little appeal. All I could think about was the car I would never own.
Tyler Road was a six-mile red-clay-and-gravel road between Readhimer and Ashland, used for hauling timber from the woods to the Jonesboro sawmill. Whenever it rained, the fully loaded trucks dug deep ruts in the road. After the clay dried, the tops of the ruts were sharp enough to ruin car tires. Papa was right. The Marauder was a pedal car for the cities—made for sidewalks, not the dirt roads of Natchitoches Parrish. Ten miles to the north, Saline had sidewalks—at least on Main Street. Why couldn’t we live in Saline? Then Papa would have to listen.
I mounted my stilts and weaved in and out between the pine trees. Past the cow pen, a stand of pines concealed the outhouse. If we lived in Saline, we would have indoor plumbing. In the winter, I could sit on a toilet and not have the cold wind whistling up my backside. We would have a real bathtub so I wouldn’t have to sit in a No. 3 washtub with my knees drawn up under my chin. No more carrying well water into the house and heating it up on the stove.
On a frigid day, I dragged the washtub in front of the fireplace, and everyone left the room so I could bathe. After three minutes, Papa’s voice came from the bedroom. “Boy, quit messing around and scrub.”
If we lived in town, I wouldn’t have to sit in a tub at all. We would have a shower. There would be indoor heating. No more carrying firewood from the wood pile and stacking it on the porch. We might even have one of those new window air coolers in the summer. Maybe we would have a car and even a television. I could walk barefoot without chicken poop squirting up between my toes.
My frustration grew as I longed for the comforts of Saline. The kids who lived there had many more fun things to do. There was a skating rink and a picture show. Why didn’t we live in town?
Papa’s voice from beyond the pines brought me back to reality. “Wayne! Can you hear me? Come home!”
I jumped down, leaned my stilts against the fence, and ran down the path through the back gate. “I’m coming.”
Papa was standing on the front porch.
I glimpsed something that caught me in midstride. “Paa‑p‑pa, w‑what’s that on the porch post?”
“Your new car.”
“My new car?” I wasn’t sure what it was, but in no way did it look like a car. How could a stick, a blue lid from a gallon can of lard, and three small tin cans be called a car?
Papa came down the stairs like he was walking into a showroom. “What do you think?”
I looked around to see if he could be talking about something else. Nothing. I stared at the blue lid. “Is this what you said was a car?”
“This is it.”
While I stared at the contraption, I remembered Papa saying, “Boy, would you like to be eight feet tall?” When I told him yes, he showed me the stilts he had built and taught me how to use them. As soon as I was up in the air, he laughed. “Now you are eight feet tall.” Papa had a sense of humor, but this? The old boards and cans didn’t look anything like the J4. “How is that a car?” I asked.
The pieces crudely resembled a practice model where students learned the feel of a steering wheel before actually taking to the road. I was looking at a pieced-together “porch” car with a 2×4 steering column nailed at an angle to one of the oak porch posts. A blue lid from a gallon container of Mrs. Tucker’s lard formed the steering wheel. For a gas pedal, Papa had flipped an empty Spam can against the porch post, with the lower end on the softened dirt. For the clutch and brake pedals, he used round Borden’s cream cans with the labels peeled off.
“I’ll take her for a spin,” Papa said. “Then you can drive. Get that hide-bottom chair off the porch.”
Was he serious? I wanted a Marauder J4, not a pretend car. Even so, I was smart enough not to complain. I carried the chair down the stairs.
Papa placed the chair where a car seat would be. With his left hand, he opened an imaginary door and sat down. With his left hand on the steering wheel, he extended his right arm toward where the dashboard would be and turned an imaginary ignition key. “R‑ump, r‑ump, r‑ump,” he growled with the sound of a starter. “Sometimes, she’s hard to start.” He pumped the Spam-can accelerator. “I have to be careful not to flood the carburetor.” He reached for the ignition. “R‑ump, r‑ump” was followed by “Varoom! Varoom! Varoom!”
With his foot pushed down on the cream-can clutch, he slipped the imaginary gearshift into reverse. While looking back where there would be a rear window, he let out the clutch and acted like he was actually moving onto Tyler Road. Looking forward, he again pushed in the clutch pedal and slipped the gearshift into first. “Varoom! Varoom!” With his left hand on the steering wheel, his right hand on the gearshift, and his left foot on the clutch, he made motions and sounds of changing gears and accelerating. “Varoom! Varoom!” He bounced up and down in the chair and leaned one way, then the other, while turning the steering wheel back and forth.
Papa put on a look of frustration. “I wish the state would fix the potholes in this road.”
I stood wide-eyed and speechless as I watched him dodge potholes, go around corners, and meet other cars. Papa was having too much fun driving my porch car down Tyler Road. I wanted to sit behind the steering wheel.
“Varoom. Varoom.” The sound was quieter, as if the car was coming to a stop. He shifted into neutral and pressed the cream-can brake. His chest lunged slightly forward, then settled back in the seat. Like an instructor who had shown his student how to handle a racetrack, he looked at me and said, “Do you want to take her for a spin?”
“You bet I do!”
“I’ll leave the motor running.” He opened the imaginary door and stepped out. “You’ll need to scoot the seat up.”
I reached under the chair to move it forward, like I would if a release lever had been there. I checked to make sure my feet reached the pedals.
“Do you need to scoot the seat up?”
“No, I can reach the pedals fine.”
“She drives a little bit like your Uncle Harry’s Mercury.”
I put both hands on the lard-can steering wheel and gunned the Spam can with my right foot. “Var-room, var-room, var-room!” The engine came to life.
“Where you heading?” Papa asked.
“I think I’ll drive to Saline and see what’s going on up there.”
“Okay.” Papa waved good-bye. “We’ll see you when you get back.” Smiling, he walked up the porch steps and into the house.
I was gone for an hour, touring city streets, waving at friends, and racing past kids who loved their skating rink and picture shows. Most of them didn’t have stilts. None of them had a brand new porch car. No driver ever enjoyed a better bumpy ride down Tyler Road.
The next day, Granny stitched on white cloth a red design that looked like a speedometer and gas and temperature gauges. I tacked the gauge cluster to the support post. For light and windshield-wiper switches under the gauges panel, I nailed empty wooden spools from Granny’s sewing box.
In wind, fog, and rain, I maneuvered my porch car through heavy traffic on narrow roads, freeways, and residential streets. Even the rain couldn’t keep me inside the house. I saw myself almost getting stuck in the mud, but I was a good driver. I could handle the toughest road conditions. My imagination took me everywhere I wanted to go.
The more I drove my porch car, the more easily I cranked up automotive adventures. I relived the feeling I had when I sat in Uncle Harry’s lap and steered his white Mercury. When the weather was nice, I rolled down the glass and rested my elbow across the lowered window like Uncle Harry did. Sometimes, I imagined others riding with me, but I mostly enjoyed drives by myself.
My new porch car was no more than what my imagination could make of sticks and tin cans. But sitting there with my hands around the lard-can lid and my right foot on the gas, I traveled to places across the country where I would never have thought to go before.
Having a Marauder J4 on city sidewalks was a fleeting infatuation that meant nothing anymore. Papa gave me a better ride when he released my mind to roam the dirt and asphalt roads of Natchitoches Parrish.
If anyone else had built a porch car and asked me to drive it, I would have laughed and refused to look foolish. But if Papa told me the Martians were coming from outer space to take us away, I would have gone to my room to pack.
He showed me how to use my imagination, a talent I didn’t know I had, allowing me to explore possibilities and enjoy pleasures I might never experience in real life.