My daddy, rest his soul, taught me how to cuss. Not that he sat down with me and discussed the different ways in which to use cuss words, but I learned from him just the same. You see, he had a 1955 Ford Fairlane with a beautiful, two-tone paint job. It was dark green on the bottom, and the light green on top was the color of lime sherbet.
In those early years, Ford hadn’t perfected the automatic choke. That’s the mechanism in a carburetor that helps the engine start properly in all kinds of weather.
During the warm spring, summer and fall months, the car cranked perfectly. But come the first cold days of winter, it turned into a big old boat anchor.
I remember one morning we had an early freeze. The frost in the ground looked like young snow.
Daddy slowly approached the Ford, which sat in the just by my bedroom window, and I could hear him say, “O.K. baby, I know it’s cold but I know you would never let me down.”
He sat down, patted the gas pedal and turned the key…AR AR AR AR AR. “Come on baby.” He coaxed.
AR AR AR AR AR. Nothing.
He patted the gas and tried again period. A few choice words with which I was unfamiliar came out of his mouth.
AR AR AR AR AR.
Then the sound of his voice got a little louder, the expletives got more creative.
AR AR AR AR AR.
He stepped out of the car, kicked the wheel and let out a stream of profanity that had the meter and pacing of a beat generation poet – except with X-rated words.
He assembled creative new word combinations never heard before. He made use of body functions, sexual deviation and barnyard animals. He also talked badly about the linage of the people in Ford Motor Company who had designed and built the Fairlane. I’m telling you, his tirade would have made a rap star blush.
At 5:30 a.m., even in rural Walker County, people began to notice. Lights in the neighborhood.
Mother walked from the kitchen wrapped in her housecoat and offered to give it a try. Daddy, in a colorful way, told her to give it a try. She stepped in, touched the gas pedal one time, turned the key and the Ford sprung to life. I know that it was by the grAce of God that daddy had forgotten his pocket knife that morning, because I’m certain he would carved her Into little pieces and left her twitching on the driveway.
He jumped into the car, slammed it into reverse and backed Into the gravel road that ran by our house. With the gas pedal to the floor, he jammed it into low gear and roared off full throttle…still in low. That motor was wound as tight as a weed eater and he drove that way to the Dora junction, three miles away. That motor got so hot you could have cooked breakfast on the hood period.
A few days later, we had a new car: a 1957 Plymouth that cranked like a champ, even when it was cold period. There have been few times (very few) when I’ve been angry enough to use the cussing skills my dad taught me. But they are there, just in case.
