Each of my Model A Fords1The one pictured here is from an online sales add – none of mine looked this good. had running boards, wide fenders, and bumpers.
What we did could also have been done on any car with the same configuration. The stunt was always done with all the windows rolled down, so we’d have hold-on places.
The Model A Ford was the ideal vehicle because it had a throttle lever that could be set to keep speed without pressing on the accelerator pedal on the floor.
The front seat passenger would slide to his/her left and take the wheel. The driver would open his/her door and step onto the running board as the transitioning passenger slid into driving position.
The former driver would close the door while standing on the running board and crawl up the fender, cross the vehicle on the front bumper, go down the fender and enter the vehicle on the passenger side.
A variation was for the original driver to make it to the passenger seat via the back of the vehicle. There was also the four-passenger version.
No one I know of tried roof surfing. We weren’t that stupid! However, Don’t do driving stupid.2Remember Forest Gump’s reference to stupid?
When I was ten or eleven in the late 1940s, a neighbor had an old axe grinder behind his tool shed. It had a large stone wheel in a frame with a seat.1The photo was copied from an e-bay sales add. The edge being sharpened was kept cool by dripping water from a small can fastened to the frame.
One hot day when he wasn’t home, I decided to see how fast I could get the wheel spinning in reverse so the water from the drip can would spray on my face. I moved it as fast as I could with the pedals, but the water only sprayed on my chest. I disconnected the rods that connected the pedals to the cranks on either side of the wheel. I turned the crank on one side by hand. I made it go faster and faster when it was unrestricted by the pedal mechanism.
I had a plan. I tried spinning it with one pedal attached. I could still get the wheel turning faster by cranking than by using the pedals. My plan was to get it going really fast then attach the pedal rod while the wheel was moving. At the right speed, my face would be sprayed with cooling water.
My plan didn’t work the first time I tried. My right little finger caught between the crank and axle before I got a full rotation.
Rip!
Pain!
The wheel stopped and I unwound my finger from the mechanism. The skin on the palm side held my finger on and the knuckle of the separated joint was exposed. It looked just like the bone ends from a chicken leg.
I pushed the bones together, so they looked right and closed the skin over the top. There was very little bleeding. I put the rod back on with my left hand and ran home. I put a small piece of cloth from my mother’s sewing kit over the skin flap and taped it as tight as I could. She didn’t pay much attention to it. With seven kids wounding themselves on a regular basis there wasn’t need for concern, except when an injury was brought to her attention.
Knowing I would be in trouble for using the axe grinder without the neighbor’s being present, I kept my hand well hidden and didn’t complain. I’m not sure if it was the second or third day when Mother noticed that my hand was swollen. Somehow, she got me to Parshall, ten miles from Van Hook, ND, to see the doctor.
He looked at it, put a small splint on my finger and said he couldn’t do much else at that point. I took off the splint and soaked it in warm water several times a day until the swelling went down.
Sometimes when my hand gets really cold, I feel a little ache in that joint, but other than that it has never bothered me, except when I see an axe grinder and the memory is rekindled.
Lou Brancaccio, editor of the Vancouver Columbian, had a “Don’t Do Stupid” campaign several years ago. The campaign included mugs for sale or awards.1The cup photo was copied and cropped from https://www.columbian.com/news/2014/feb/10/get-your-dont-do-stupid-stuff-mug/. Thinking about how many of the cups I could earn led me to remember some of my “Don’t Do Stupid” activities.
School had already started when I entered the second grade in 1943 at Moxie, WA. My migrant worker parents were picking end-of-the-season hops.2Being of Norwegian decent, they were the minority field workers of the time.
Two boys I didn’t know asked me to leave the school grounds with them during lunch recess so they could buy some candy. I didn’t have any money to spend but walked with them. We lost track of time and the kids were in class when we returned. When the teacher asked, we didn’t lie about what we did.
He lined us up in front of the class and explained that he was going to give us a reminder. I wasn’t sure what to expect. We were told to take everything out of our back pockets. Many boys had red and white plaid hankies, and a few had wallets. I had nothing so that was easy for me; but I still didn’t know what to expect.
The teacher separated the first boy from us, so he was facing an open space between his desk and the students’ desks. When he took a long wooden paddle from his desk drawer and said, “Reach down and touch your toes,” I knew what was next.
The crack of the paddle on tightened denim was impressive as he hacked the first boy. “Did that hurt?” the teacher asked.3It was commonplace in those days for a teacher to punish a student with a hack on the rump.
The boy said, “Yes sir,” and was sent to his desk. It went the same for the second boy. He gave me my hack and asked the same question.
Being the new kid, being stubborn, and not wanting to appear weak. I said, “No.”
The teacher hacked me several more times and after each swat he asked the same question. I gave the same answer. The pain increased with each hit, and I realized that if I wanted to sit without a constant reminder I’d better say, “Yes.”
The edge being sharpened was kept cool by dripping water from a small can fastened to the frame.