I
was 10 years old and very much taken with building a soap box
derby car and racing in our annual downhill event. My building skills came
from being at my father's side with tools and materials. These were not the skills, though, to build the downhill racer
with curving wood fuselage nor did we have space or a large
enough garage to take on this task. But racing my own car, one that I
built myself, had my full attention.
Kids
around the neighborhood made make-shift downhill carts using old
materials and wagon wheels. A rope was tied to the front axle so the
cart could be steered down a hill. Their front feet also were
positioned on the front axle to help steer. They built quick enough but
did not last long on our back roads and hills. Every once and awhile,
a neighbor friend would let me on a short ride of the cart he had
built. One ride!
During
the summer of 1955, my folks had saved up enough money to buy
materials for some remodeling and building me a bedroom. I was older
and it was time to find space in our small house for my own room. Mom
and Dad both worked and during the summer and I would stay home alone
under our neighbors watch. “Stay close to home, check in every
couple of hours, lunch at noon, nap after lunch, chores and more
checking in with the neighbor.” Our home was across the way from
the neighbor's large kitchen window. And it worked.
The
day arrived when the local lumber store delivered the materials my
father ordered for the bedroom remodeling project. The 2x4s, 4x8
plywood, nails and other assorted items arrived late morning, were
unloaded neatly and stacked in our driveway.
As an older man now, I believe I know what my father was thinking at work that day. He would come home, turn up our street to see a neat pile of building materials stacked in the driveway. All of his planning was over and he could now start on this project and finish it. This is a big plus for anyone who builds things. To have all the materials at hand is half the fun.
As an older man now, I believe I know what my father was thinking at work that day. He would come home, turn up our street to see a neat pile of building materials stacked in the driveway. All of his planning was over and he could now start on this project and finish it. This is a big plus for anyone who builds things. To have all the materials at hand is half the fun.
But
instead of Dad driving up the driveway and seeing all of that new
material waiting for him, he saw his saw horses with cut up 2x4s
on them. Small scrap pieces of wood were strewn around his son's work site
that afternoon. Sawdust was on the ground, hammer and nails were out on the
plywood, hand saws, squares and tape measures scattered nearby. And his son was proudly
standing and welcoming him home next to the completed frame of a downhill racer. Four old wagon wheels were set next to the 2x4 frame to
show my dad the frame of “The Apache.” I did not know how I was
going to mount those wheels, or how to make the front wheels and axle
turn, but Dad would.
And
to this day I do not remember what he said or what his body language
was getting out of the car and looking at our driveway and the bedroom materials turned into a
car manufacturing area. I do not remember him being mad or upset. He
must have swallowed all of that in the few seconds he had seen his
son's project and the building materials turned into the beginning of a soap
box racer.
What
I do remember is how dad helped me attach round axles to the 2x4
front cross member of the frame. Large bolt with spacer piece of
plywood between the front axle and frame would allow simple turn left
and right motion. Dad greased the two surfaces of the front axle
plywood pieces. Grandpa greased all of his farm equipment. Dad
greased all of his equipment. And I needed grease on my stuff. Grease
keeps things running.
I
remember Dad finding an old lawn mower handle and how he helped me
fashion that into the steering wheel. Dad taught me how to turn
rotational motion of the lawn mower handle into lateral motion of the
front axle. We had to go to the store and purchase some pulleys and
clothesline wire. A large spring was needed too to return the
friction drag hand brake dad fashioned under my seat. I would pull
the brake handle, the brake arm with small square tire tread nailed
to a pad, would drop down and drag “The Apache” to a stop. The
break pad would neatly retract under the car when I released the
handle. Through all of this I was at his side using tools, helping
hold materials, drilling, nailing, bolting and adjusting. Dad turned
me into a car manufacturing apprentice and I was not about to let him
down.
In
a few short days the Apache was done and tested on the short slope of
our street. Everything worked. An adjustment to tighten up the slop
in the steering cables was all that was needed. The final touch was
painting the name on each side in bright red bold letters: APACHE.
Down
the back woods road the Apache ran, turned sharply left and coasted
all the way to the main street. Next run the brake was tested just
after the sharp turn and worked perfectly. Now the neighborhood kids
were clambering around the car. I had acquired an immediate pit crew.
Pushing touching and running alongside as I raced time after time.
Soon though, my pit crew wanted a turn at the wheel for all the
pushing and pulling they were helping me with. To the main side walk
we went and they all got to run the Apache the full block and return.
Then the next kid and so forth.
After
a few days of this, I towed the Apache a few blocks to another
neighborhood where a long, paved, winding road ran a mile or so up a
hill. The kids there too came running and wanting to drive. More
“miles” were put on there. With a little coaxed help, a few of us
towed the Apache up a half mile of the hill road. Hardly ever any
cars during the day and kids were always coasting some kind of wagon
down the hill.
We
turned the Apache around, I got inside and tucked myself into the
aerodynamic driving position. And off I went, leaving all the other
kids behind in seconds. A little brake had to be applied for speed
control, but the wind whistled like never before. She rounded corners
tightly and beat the wind to the bottom of the hill. We had won. Just
me and the Apache. No helmet! There at the bottom of the hill, in all
of our glory, we waited for the other kids to arrive. The thrill of
the moment, the thrill of victory in the car Dad and I built with our
very own hands. It was all good.
The
summer wore on, the Apache, the kids in the neighborhood and I spent
many an hour touring the sidewalks and short hills that summer. Of
course, I had to do the upkeep and maintain the greased plywood
turning plate.
Grandpa greased all of his farm equipment.
Dad greased all of his equipment.
And I needed grease on my stuff.
Grease keeps things running.
Grandpa greased all of his farm equipment.
Dad greased all of his equipment.
And I needed grease on my stuff.
Grease keeps things running.
All
of this was quite awhile ago. But a memory etched in my soul. Late
this morning, I completed a portion of a new stair project on our
porch. I set all the tools and remaining materials aside, got on the
riding lawn mower and pulled the small yard trailer around the house
to the garage. I noticed the back wheels of the little trailer
squeaked. I propped up the trailer, pulled each wheel off,
added a little grease and spun tested them both.
Grease keeps things running.
UPDATE 11-4-16
Just found this photo.
Grease keeps things running.
UPDATE 11-4-16
Just found this photo.