by Phyllis McCrossin
If Dad ever felt out-numbered by a household with five women, he never let us know. But I would guess it certainly must have been trying at times.
Dad always had definite ideas about how a young lady should behave. We were never, ever allowed to call boys on the phone. They could call us and we could talk until he would walk into the kitchen and point at the clock.
But call a boy? Never. Ride the circuit on Eighth Street in Holland? Heaven forbid. Drive on a date? Nope. Drive a boyfriend’s car? Out of the question. In fact, as far as Dad was concerned driving a boyfriend’s car was akin to premarital sex. Both were for after marriage.
Between he and Mom we were always taught to be “lady-like,” but that did not mean “helpless.”
Mom taught us to cook, clean and sew. Dad taught us to hammer a nail straight, change a flat tire and fend for ourselves.
I am surprised by the number of women who say if they ever have a flat tire they would have to call road service. My biggest problem with a flat tire would be lug nuts turned too tightly.
Several years ago (before retirement), while at work I got in my car to grab something to eat during my break. The car would not go into reverse. Dad taught me to drive a stick shift when I was 13. As an aside, I can’t tell you how many near-misses I had during driver’s training when I was constantly looking for the clutch with my left foot.
On this particular evening the gears ground, made a horrendous noise and refused to shift. I finally did manage to back a little way, but then could not get it into first gear. After some consternation and the realization the clutch was simply flopping around uselessly, I did manage to get into first gear and drive to the drive-thru for a salad and cup of soup. (I did – and still do — have my priorities). I drove it back to work and backed it into a parking space so if it still wouldn’t shift properly when I left work (maybe the clutch faeries would come and fix it under the cover of darkness, right?) at least it would be facing in the right direction.
One of my co-workers was quite aghast that King did not drop everything, drive the 30 miles to where I worked and “help me out.” I’m really not certain what King was supposed to do. I still had four hours left on my shift. Leaving early was not an option. I worked second shift at a newspaper. The news must go out. You don’t leave work because a car won’t shift.
“I’m really disappointed in King” the co-worker said several times during the evening. This co-worker obviously didn’t know I had been taught self-reliance at an early age and that the depth of my stubbornness – even today — knows no bounds. I simply called King and told him to sit close to the phone in case I got stranded on my way home. King knew I would figure things out or would call him from the road if I got stranded.
So in the end, when I left work around 11 p.m., I played with the clutch until I could get it into gear. I somehow managed to get it through all the gears and into fifth — taking a lot of corners much too fast and praying I didn’t take anyone out when I did. I made it to South Haven and got off at the exit, the light was green and I stomped on the gas and managed to get home. There was no coasting into the driveway, the clutch was not working so there was no going into neutral. I swerved around a few farm implements and managed to get the car parked in the middle of the drive so it could be loaded onto a flatbed (with a crane maybe?) and taken to the dealership.
And like Dad taught me. . . I did it by myself.
