A Couple of Old Ford Trucks and Time On My Hands Growing Up in Bracebridge

I LEARNED TO DRIVE IN A BROKEN-DOWN FORD DUMP TRUCK THAT WAS MORE GARDEN THAN MOTOR VEHICLE

GROWING UP WAS A LOT OF FUN, IF YOU DIDN'T THINK ABOUT WHAT COULD KILL YOU, EVEN IN YOUR OWN BACKYARD

     Wayne Weber and his father, owned a construction company in Bracebridge, back in the 1960's and early 1970's. They were also the landlords of the three story apartment our family lived in, up on Hunts Hill's Alice Street; the blue collar neighborhood where money was tight, and most of the working stiffs got that way later on pay day. Wayne and my father often drank together, even out on the lawn of the apartment, on warm autumn nights like this. The neighborhood was a safe one, and everyone knew each other, and their business, which is what you expect of a small town. It was by standards of other town neighborhoods, a cluster of average homes, of residents with average jobs, making average wages. Rich folks lived elsewhere. We didn't mind this, and never felt lesser citizens because we didn't have two cars in our driveways, and a summer place on the lake.
     At the rear of the apartment, behind the adjacent house where Wayne lived with his wife Hilda, there was a cinder block warehouse, jammed to the rafters with construction equipment and building materials. There were all kinds of lumber and empty 45 gallon drums stored behind the shed, with some old cement mixers rusting into the sandy soil. To the right, where another apartment stands today, was a sand pit that the Webers drew upon for their cement-mixing requirements. We got to use it when they stopped their construction work, and it was a great place to play, and well away from the kind of things, like parked cars below, that might be damaged by our rock throwing, and baseball hitting. We were insulated by the nature of the landscape. I was most enthused about the modest isolation in the fall of the year, when the hillside grasses made perfect hiding places, from our peers demanding our presence.
     Outside of being prohibited from digging caves in the sand wall of the pit, after two of our school mates were killed during a cave-in, at another location, my mother Merle was ademant, I had to stay away from two derelict trucks in the yard behind the storage building. There was, if memory serves, a Ford dump truck and a Ford pick-up, that must have been from the late 1940's, to have been in such bad shape by 1966-67. For us neighborhood kids, being told to stay out of the trucks, was as much, an invitation to jump inside, and take an innocent joy ride to nowhere in particular. The danger, according to my mother, was that we could be crushed by the "dump" part of the vehicle, if somehow, with our magic fingers, we could engage it back to life, and then be accidentally snuffed-out, when it would come crashing back to the main frame. It was impossible of course. There was nothing left of these vehicles except the barest look of having been mobile at one time. If you have ever caught a whiff of an old, rotting automobile, or in this case a truck, you would know exactly what I mean, when referencing the horrible, musty, metal smell of a soon-to-be soil vehicle. We could only stay in the trucks for a limited time, because we'd be overcome by the aroma, which I assume, included the feces and urine of all the woodland critters, that called these relics home.
     If I was bored, and on my own for a few hours, at this time of year, I would sneak back to where the trucks were stored, so as not to attract my mother's attention; and I would park myself in the driver's seat, of that day's vehicle of choice. Once comfortably situated, with a clear view out of the cracked windshield, I would go through the motions of driving to the destination of choice that particular hour. I loved these trouble-free motoring adventures, that never once caused, (or was involved in), a single accident, except when I caught my finger in the door once, when I was preoccupied with something going on in the building in front. If Wayne or Hilda had caught any of us neighborhood kids in either vehicle, we would have been chased clear, with a loud roar of reprimand chasing-up behind us, like a dark, dancing tornado. The allure of the driver's seat was stronger than the consequence of getting caught in the wrong place at the critically wrong time. As I wasn't very big, when these adventures were at their peak of recreation, I was able to slip down in the seat, such that only the tip of my head was visible, if someone was right up to the driver's door. A voyeur might have thought, on seeing a moving clump of hair, that a bear had somehow got inside, and to disturb it, would be periless. I had hundreds of near misses for the close to ten years our family lived in the Weber apartments. I was probably only caught red-handed, as they say, twice, and was hauled by the Webers, up to see my mother, in her third floor apartment. As the Webers and my family were close friends, the penalty for trespassing was never more than a warning. They meant well. Merle felt more embarrassed than anything else, that the landlords had to discipline her kid. She probably clipped me in the ear for bringing shame to the family. She used to tell me over and over again, "Remember your family name Teddy. Don't forget how important it is to have a good name." That was a warning I never fully understood; at least not until much later in life when I used to drink heavily, and forget where I lived.
     Sitting in the driver's seat, in either one of those old trucks, was both invigorating, for a young mind, and a respite for the over-active soul. I have always needed my periods of solitude, even today, which now is mostly found, in walks out into the Bog, in our neighborhood. There were a lot of times I sought refuge in these decaying hulks, when there was other turmoil in the neighborhood, and even at school. It was a place to hide from my adversaries, and believe me, as a mouthy kid, I had an army chasing me after school. In the cockpits of these once mighty trucks, I felt that nothing could hurt me. None of the bullies I had interaction with, on a daily basis, growing up in Bracebridge, knew where to look for me, when I got up safely into the known-wilds of my stomping ground. I hid from my parents and from all adult authority, so it wasn't too hard to give the jerks who found sport chasing me, the slip, by slouching in one of the trucks. In the meantime, I drove those trucks all over North America in my over-active imagination, that was of course, amazingly fuel efficient. I think I may have actually learned the basics of motor vehicle operation, in the years I used the trucks as convenient sanctuaries.
     It was the fall of the year, me thinks now, that the trucks were most used by this junior driver in training. It's another reason, I suppose, why I wax nostalgic so often. I grew up with the influences of old Ford trucks, that were more gardens in those days, than vehicles. I was mesmerized by their appearance, inside and out, and intimately understood the differences between old and new technologies even in the 1960's. I felt sorry for the wrecks, because they had so darn much character to go along with the pungent aroma. They deserved a lot of credit, for nurturing my wanderlust, such that I never felt the need to escape by any other means, and believe me, all the Hunt's Hill lads I knew, fantacised about jumping a box car at the train station, to head off to our dream destinations. I'd finish a stint behind the wheel, and I was good for another couple of days. The experience afforded by those old trucks, was exactly what a wild kid like me needed; for one thing, to keep me occupied, and not destroying public property of which I was inclined to do. On the day we moved, I made one final retreat to the back of the Weber's shed. Yup, I took one last drive in both vehicles, which by this time, were minus their floors, which had rotted out, and grass was growing up into the cab. Some of the graffiti I had scratched into the metal dashboard, reminded me of the many occasions, when I escaped the neighborhood stresses, driving off into the beckoning horizon, looking for my place in the adult world. It was innocent fun, and inexpensive recreation, and this was good for all concerned. Our family didn't have much money after food and rent, so I didn't ask for allowance money. I didn't need it, with all the natural resources open to me, and these two accommodating trucks that survived just long enough to keep me entertained. I feel I owe them this latent tribute, especially at a time of year, I most frequently sought them out as refuge, up to the time of the first major snowfall, which in my youth, often arrived in early December.
     Thanks for joining me for a whacky trip down memory lane.