Exceptional My first car Grinder by RaymondJohn      Contest Winner

Category:  Biographical Non-Fiction   Posted:  August 23, 2008      Views: 840

RAYMONDJOHN  IN PRINT   ABOUT RAYMONDJOHN  Raymond John is a hopeless FanStory addict who has at times spent as many as twelve hours in a single day reading, reviewing and writing for the site. His three purposes are based on three "Es" which are Explain, Enlighten and Entertain. His greatest fear is to take himself too seriously. He may not always smile, but he always has a twinkle in his eye. Knock his socks off with a fantastic write and he'll be your best cheerleader and give you a banner award, to boot. He has written two novels and numerous short works. His first book, The Cellini Masterpiece, has sold nearly 3,000 copies and received an Honorable Mention in the 2006 IPPY awards. It is now available in a Kindle edition from Amazon.com. An audio version (ISBN 9780615268125) is now available read by the renown actor, James Cada. MP3 edition, downloadable for IPOD, is 14.95. Order at www.raymondjohnbooks.com. His second mystery, Mix and Match Murder, which was originally scheduled for release in September of 2008 is now in print and available from Amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com and North Star Press. A scholar born in the golden age of radio, Raymond always appreciates hearing a well-told story, especially one with action and believable dialogue in a historical setting. I have written and received many reviews. I have a thick skin, so if constructive criticism is forthcoming, bring it on. He has won several contests. The contest submission Mousie, Kittie and Booger was the first place winner in the contest Tales of the Weird.. Gold In Them Thar Words was the first place winner in the contest Tales of the Weird.. Lot 386 was the first place winner in the contest Tales of the Weird.. He is a top ranked author and is currently holding the #23 position. He is an accomplished novelist and is currently at the #83 spot on this years rankings. Portfolio | Become A Fan "She runs good, and she don't use no oil." "How much?" I asked. "A hundred dollars," Uncle Severt said. "It's been sitting in Helen's barn for almost twenty years, but the mice haven't got into the upholstery. I drove it into town yesterday, and it runs fine. You'll have to come down here and pick it up, though." His voice trailed off and the telephone went silent. Dad and I looked at each other. I wanted my own car, but couldn't afford one. Dad didn't mind my using his, but I had long passed my teen years. In 1965 I was in my mid-twenties, and it was time to get my own. I didn't know Helen, but had heard about her. She was Severt's younger sister. I wanted Dad to ask the questions, so I gave him the phone. He had nursed a '35 Chevy along for more than twenty years, and when he traded it in for a new Bel Air, the dealer sent it off to Detroit as a museum piece. "How many miles does it have on it?" Dad asked. "Just thirty-two thousand. Meade didn't drive it much, and Helen don't drive at all. She wants to get rid of it." Dad pursed his lips and shook his head at me. Covering the receiver, he said, "I don't know, John." I didn't like the words. Dad always let me make up my own mind, and this was about the closest he would come to recommending against my buying it. I still wanted to see what it looked like. Mom hadn't seen Auntie Cuddha (my childhood word for Clara) for quite a while, and I always enjoyed seeing Severt. If you can imagine a five-four, 87-pound-man, as a bar-room brawler, you could get an idea of what he was like. Sitting on our stairway one night, with liquor flowing freely at a party below, I heard Mom let slip that Severt arrived half-frozen at her parent's farm on cross-country skis in January of 1922. Auntie Cuddha took one look at him, and four months later there was a shotgun wedding. Five months later, Cousin Lars was born. "Helen wants you to come to dinner and take a look at it," Severt said. "Otherwise, she's going to haul it to the dump. You busy this Saturday?" Dad saw my face and sighed. "We'll see you then." Plainview, Minnesota is now known primarily as the home town of Jon Hassler, one of our most-beloved authors. In the nineteen-sixties, it was just a little town a bit north of Rochester. Aunt Helen's farm lay at the city limits. My heart skipped a beat when we rumbled down the cowpath and I saw the '49 Chev sitting in front of the frame farmhouse. The chrome still looked shiny and I liked the searchlight on the driver's side. Severt came out to greet us. Then Aunt Helen. I had never met her. She was plump and had Severt's blue eyes. Severt opened the car door for me, but I stood aside to take in the whole picture. The tan paint was original and in good shape. I liked the old torpedo-back style that swooped at an angle toward the ground. Grinning broadly, I slid into the driver's seat. The first thing I noticed was the aroma of cows, and the brown tinge to the fabric on the floor. The car had been kept in the barn, for sure. No problem. Uncle Meade had much shorter legs than mine, so I adjusted the seat. When I noticed the extra pedal on the floor I knew I would have to learn how to drive all over again. The only cars I had ever driven had an automatic transmission. I ran my palms over the driving wheel cover. The elastic had worn out, and it sagged. I didn't care. It was mine. I liked the knob at the top of the steering wheel, too. They were popular when I was a kid. It made turning a lot easier. They've been illegal for years, now. Too easy to snag on your sleeve. The searchlight was also illegal. Only cop cars were allowed to have them. The keys dangled from the dashboard. I gave them a turn and nothing happened. "The battery's dead." "There's a starter button," Severt said. "Turn the key upright and push it." I did, and the car lurched forward. "Put your foot on the clutch first." Glaring, I started over again. This time it worked fine. The engine was noisy, but it seemed to run smoothly. I remembered the spotlight and pushed the button. My heart leapt when it turned on. "So how do I get the car to move?" "Push the clutch in and pull the gearstick toward you. Up is reverse. Down is low." I decided to try low. The car jumped forward and the engine stopped cold. "Let the clutch out slowly," Severt said. "Thanks for mentioning it," I growled. I tried it again. To my delight, this time it crawled forward with a grinding sound. From that point forth, she was Grinder. I knew I was helpless and I had to have her. After my initial inspection we went in for a chicken dinner. I knew it was fresh because before we went in to eat, Severt showed me the bloody tree stump where he had cut off the poor bird's head. After eating, we spent the rest of the afternoon taking driver's lessons. Dad gave me instructions from the front seat and Severt from the back. I had the first '49 Chev with stereophonic sound! By four in the afternoon, it was a done deal. I handed Severt a hundred dollars in cash, and we were ready for the drive home. Luckily, Dad decided to follow me. At first I was afraid of the clutch, but I got Grinder to run through her gears. Finally, lo and behold, I was actually cruising down the highway in high gear. I was on cloud nine until about five miles down the road I noticed a funny smell, like wire burning. One of the dials on the dash showed the word "batt" with a plus and minus sign. The needle had moved way past the plus sign and was jumping. Grinder started to cough. She quit entirely when we entered a small town about seven miles from Plainview. Luckily we were only a few feet away from a service station when it happened. The attendant came out, sniffed the air and said, "You need a new voltage regulator. I'll have to order it for you, but you can pick up your car on Monday afternoon." Dad had to work, but Mom volunteered to drive me down on Monday. It only cost me a steak dinner and a promise to cut the grass when we got home. The victory lap at the Indy 500 couldn't have been more triumphant when I finally stopped the car in front of my house. All the neighbors came over to admire my dinosaur; it was a real sensation. On Friday, I had my first date with my own transportation, and we went to a drive-in. By then, all the other drive-in movies in the Twin Cities had closed down, and there may have been four or five other cars in the lot. It didn't matter. I had never taken a girl to a drive-in before. Grinder gave me a belated adolescence. She performed loyally through my last year at the University of Minnesota with a modest appetite for gas. Meade somehow had had the foresight to put in turn signals, and everyone seemed amazed at how fresh my pride and joy looked for her age. She even survived throwing a rod. One summer day I heard a ping and the engine started to clatter. I drove it on five cylinders until the racket got to be so loud I had to pull into a gas station. The attendant cut his throat with his fingers. "It's dead. Get it off my driveway." She sat on the street by the gas station for more than a week. Someone offered me fifteen dollars for her and I was ready to take it, but Dad talked to a mechanic who worked with him at Minnegasco. The mechanic agreed to regrind the valves for twenty-five dollars plus parts; this was like having a brain surgeon offering his services for $100. A week later, I was on the road again. Grinder lasted for nearly two years, dying tragically when I rear-ended a pickup truck at an intersection. I cried when I saw her rumpled hood and the radiator fluid bleeding away into the street. The last I ever saw of her was when she was being towed away, her rear bumper nearly dragging on the ground. The tower offered to buy it for the cost of the tow and I accepted. I still think about her today, nearly fifty years later. If offered the chance of getting her back, or a brand new BMW, the beamer wouldn't stand a chance. Grinder was one of a kind. Contest Winner Recognized Share your own writing! - Information on our membership for writers. Pays one point and 2 member cents.

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