Sunday, June 28, 1998

An old family story about passion for cars

By Sharon Randall

My brother had a driving passion for cars. So to speak. Fords in particular. He was especially fond of speed.

It was enough to make my mother fear he was crazy. But she feared that about all of us, including herself.

When Joe was little, he'd say, "Sister, when I'm old enough to get my license, I'll fly so fast the angels will run and hide their wings."

Then he'd grin real big, picturing how it would be.

I could have told him it would never happen. No matter how old he got, he'd never get a license, never drive a car. But I didn't tell him that.

Joe was born blind. He couldn't see his own face in a magnifying mirror. But he could dream; yes, he could, like nobody's business.

I had dreams of my own, things I hoped for, knowing I might never see them. What were the odds I'd get to go to college? Or earn my living as a writer? Or visit strange, foreign lands like California? I'd bet more money on my blind brother's chances of getting to drive at the Indy 500.

I didn't want to be the one to dim Joe's dreams. Life would do that soon enough. Until then, didn't he deserve a few happy anticipations? What else was dreaming for?

Joe had trouble not just with his eyes, but with his legs. He didn't walk until he was 5. That's when he got his first "car," a red tricycle that he called his '49 Ford.

He couldn't pedal, so he'd push it, one hand on the seat, the other on the handlebars, driving daylight to dark, all around the yard, into ditches, anytime, any place he pleased.

Come bad weather, if our mother threw a fit big enough to keep him inside, Joe would drive his other "Ford," a green, overstuffed arm chair. It had a few miles on it, he said, but it ran fine if you knew how to drive it. Which, of course, he did.

Growing up is a "tug of war" between disappointment and surprise, a reconciliation of dreams and reality. By the time he was 12, I think Joe knew he'd never get a license. He didn't mention it any more.

As he had with other hard facts of life, he seemed to accept it without question, without bitterness, as if were nothing more than a card drawn at random from a deck.

One summer day when he was 16, Joe went tapping out the driveway with his cane, click click, and tapped into my stepfather's '49 Ford. He ran his hand along the hood, felt the heat of the metal, opened the door and climbed behind the wheel. He looked good.

Rummaging under the seat, he discovered a six pack of Budweiser. It was so hot, he said later, that it burned the roof of his mouth. Maybe so, but he drained all six cans.

Then he felt along the steering column, found the keys in the ignition, shouted "Hooweee!" and fired it up.

To my grave, I'll regret I didn't get to see it.

By then I was out of college, off in California, earning my living as a writer. I've heard various versions of the story, depending on the teller. They all boil down to this:

The Ford's engine roared.

My mother fainted.

My stepfather nearly killed himself running out the door.

And my brother, after a moment of pure bliss, threw up on the dashboard and the seat.

The Ford was up on blocks. It never moved an inch.

But Joe swears he heard angels running to hide their wings.

Scripps Howard News Service