Lessons from the Road

I looked at the old car radio and wondered what would come out of the speakers if I turned it on. Taking a deep breath and crossing my fingers, I tried it. Nothing. Kind of what I expected. Oh, well.

The old car radio resided in an equally old car: a 1958 Olds Delta 88. A huge cruise-ship of a car, it seemed to be twenty feet long. White with red touches. Fancy fins. Whitewall tires. Everything about it screamed “Classic!”

But road-trip ready? Well, I was about to find out. I hoped the rest of the car would work better than the radio.

It was 1980, and the car was as old as I was. It had been sitting in a garage for the last ten years at least. I had been madly trying to “find myself” for the last - well, it seemed like a really long time.

One thing after another failed to pan out for me. After working very hard to earn a degree in Fisheries Technology, I had managed - miracle of miracles! - to find a job in my field. Only to be laid off after one season. To add insult to injury, Unemployment informed me that I had spent more time waitressing than working in my field, so I did not qualify for Unemployment unless I sought waitressing jobs. Though I argued that I was seeking Fisheries jobs, they didn’t want to hear it, and they refused to honor my efforts. I was … displeased. They were … adamant. Stalemate.

Enter the 1958 Olds, an old lady, her elderly dog, and an opportunity to race off into the sunset. In one of those odd twists of fate that seem to happen so often in my lifetime, the perfect escape presented itself. A friend of a customer of the beautician who does my mother’s hair was looking for a driver. (This is how news travels in Small Town USA.) The beautician told my mother. My mother wasn’t interested, but she presented the offer to me. And I jumped at it.

This lady - we’ll call her Mrs. Smith - wanted someone to drive herself, her dog, and her late son’s 1958 Olds from Owego, New York to Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. (Yes, it’s a real town, named after an old radio show that preceded the TV show of the same name.) Would I like the job? You betcha!

My first challenge was locating the gas tank. For the record, it is cleverly hidden under the middle of the decorative fin on the driver’s side of the chariot. I didn’t know that. Who would? Not the over-confident young man at the gas station who tried to impress me with his knowledge. Nope, it was the old guy sitting at the desk that knew.

“It’s under the fin,” he said, without looking up from his newspaper.

Lesson one.

Next fun fact: the windshield wipers on a car of this vintage operate off of - I kid you not - some sort of vacuum with the accelerator. You press on the gas pedal, and the wipers slow down. You let up on the gas to get the wipers to go faster. When you’re driving through the Blue Ridge Mountains of West Virginia in a blinding rainstorm, that means that you have to take your foot off of the gas every time a tractor-trailer passes you.

When I called my father that night (he insisted that I call him every night) he assured me that that was how cars worked then. Who thought that was a good idea?!

Lesson two.

Eventually we arrived in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, with remarkably few problems along the way. The car did need some attention, of course. Where would one find a mechanic - in 1980, in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico - who knows old cars? Luckily, at the very first gas station I brought it to. Not only did the mechanic know old cars, he positively loved this specimen. You’d have thought I brought him the best Christmas present ever!

He oohed and aahed about her, in technical talk that floated over my head. Admired the dash, with all the shining chrome. Started her up. Turned on the radio. Poked around in the massive engine compartment, pointing out the highlights to me.

And, to my utter amazement, music poured from the radio. I stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment.

“What?” he said.

“It works?!” I gasped.

“What works?”

“The radio!” I sputtered, pointing wildly at it. “It works?!”

“Sure it works,” he assured me. “It just needed to warm up.”

“Warm up?” I asked cluelessly.

“Tubes,” he said. “It’s got tubes. That’s how old radios and TVs worked. The tubes have to warm up. Then it works fine.”

Moral of the story: if you’re ever setting out on a cross-country journey in a very old car, give the radio time to warm up. It could save you a long, silent drive of 2,000 miles.

Lesson three.