The Edsel and I: (Or a Car Named "Bob")

By Jil Carlson

The sixties were the heyday of baby boomers from the last 'war to end all wars'. Unfortunately, they were just in time for another war--the Vietnam conflict that was even more senseless than the previous wars before it. Rebellion surfaced in flower children, long haired "hippies", psychedelic posters, and a new type of music...the Beatles were the royal leaders, setting the pace for the dynamic '60's.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475939798

Jil Carlson

Jil Carlson was born in Dallas, Texas, and attended a variety of schools where she gleaned a cursory knowledge of shorthand (which she was a whiz at taking down but, unfortunately, could not read) and typing. This led to a later resume that read like an F.B.I. Wanted poster: “Last seen working at a Bob’s Big Boy Drive-In, also briefly spotted sorting mail at Warner Bros. movie studio, inking cels for Disney, typing for Lockheed Aircraft plant, clerking at Bank Of America, painting pottery at Gladden-McBean, and working as a dispatch clerk for United Airlines. As soon as she turned 21, she joined the Navy and was assigned to be an Air Traffic Controller in spite of a tendency to call pilot’s ”Honey” (“One-oh-niner. ..Take a wave-off, Honey”. Jil also found a new Best Buddy by the name of Howard, who she thought was a radio repairman, but turned out to be Howard Hughes. Her Navy days were over after she married the top pilot on the base and settled down to raise five children. When she was asked to come to Washington,D.C. and help her brother open his new Mexican Food restaurant, she loved the east so much, she later moved there, working for historic Ford’s Theatre. She also wrote a weekly humorous column for Roll Call, the newspaper the president reads each week. Ms. Carlson now lives a few miles from Carmel in Northern California,. Her extended family includes five grand children, six great grand children, and Mewriel, her persnickety cat. Books by JIL are: SKIRTS OF NAVY BLUE, ESCAPE FROM DISNEYLAND, AND THE EDSEL AND I.

Book preview

A Car Named Bob

Chapter One

black.jpg

Before marriage, I worked steadily—or as steadily as the employment agencies could find me jobs. This came to a halt when I joined the Navy, became a W.A.V.E., then met and married Gerry, who was an ace Navy pilot. Believing wholeheartedly that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach (and also realizing that there were no unemployment agencies for marriage) a Betty Crocker’s cookbook became my constant companion because I knew absolutely nothing about cooking. Mother, an excellent cook, had tried to show me the rudiments, but it was like watching a hummingbird in motion as she swiftly added a dollop of this, a dab of that, and whipped eggwhites to a froth on a platter using only a fork. Forget wondering if that hummingbird had wings—I wanted to know how she knew that a dollop of this or a dab of that was going to turn out to be so delicious. So far the only compliment I had received on my culinary efforts was when Gerry said he really liked nuts in a cake I had baked. Unfortunately, I hadn’t put any nuts in that cake.

As for the housework, a guide on How To Keep House said to throughly clean one room a week—including the windows and closets. Needless to say, when the babies started coming (one about every fifteen minutes it seemed), there was little time for trying to thoroughly clean one room at a time. I was lucky if I got the beds made, the dishes done, and meals cooked—mostly meat and potatoes. The rest of my time was spent in diaper duty—washing, folding, and applying—and fixing formula, boiling bottles, and checking constantly to see if the kid was still breathing. Finally, the diapers, 2 a.m. feedings, and constant surveillance for signs of a pending catastrophe were over. Our four little Baby boomers, Gusty, Sally, Bobby, and Gary, were into jeans, snacks, and aside from a dislocated shoulder or cut lip, were able to handle whatever catastrophe that happened on their on.

I got used to a different type of activity—other than washing ironing, and cooking. Now I was their own private limo service; games, sleep overs, and shopping.

Gusty was learning to play guitar and spent hours practising; Sally liked Barbie Dolls but the clothes she made for these hard-eyed voluptious dolls were getting shorter and shorter; Bobby had discovered Playboy magazine, and Gary drew cartoons of Dead-Eye Dick on everything including the backs of envelopes we had to return with payment. I began to yearn for the good old days where the Unemployment office was my second home, and a new job meant new friends, new experiences, and a few dollars to spend on shopping after the rent was paid.

Eula Mae was experiencing the same things with her two sons who were also leaving their adolescent years behind, but, unlike my kids, they were still into hunting and fishing—vocations that began shortly after birth when their father ascertained that they were boys. Linda, my neighbor across the road, was luckier than either of us. She simply watched her teenage boys segue into raising cows instead of calves (they were staunch members of the 4-H Club) while her oldest daughter—like Sally,—was now doing some of the cooking and cleaning.

Linda was the first to go where no woman (in our midst) had dared to go: she got a part-time job at the nearby school. I thought this was a wonderful idea and said as much to Eula Mae one morning over coffee and freshly baked cinnamon rolls. Judging by Eula Mae’s reaction, you would have thought I had suggested we get behind a plow. She narrowed her eyes, took a deep drag on her cigarette, then—emiting smoke like Mt. Vesuvius—told me she had worked like a field han’ too long to go get some crappy job now! I tried to think when all this working like a field han’ had taken place since she seemed to spend most of her time in her car—terrorizing other drivers on the road.

During the long process of building our own home on a pay-as-you-go basis, she always had words of encouragement: Just think of all the starving people in India who would love to have a house like this whether it had inside walls or not!. She was also adament about my not doing so damn’d much ‘helping’!

You don’t see me nailing up sheetrock on our new house. I just point to what I want done and Lou does it!

This was true. Her husband seldom let her lift more than a cigarette or the keys to her car—which made me wonder all the more about her workin’ like a field han’.

Eula Mae pointed out another flaw in my good idea of perhaps having a career in town. I was driving Miss Emily, my l933 Plymouth sedan, and was able to make the 20 mile trip into town only when Miss Emily could be roused from her increasingly frequent naps. Without a dependable car, I could kiss any outside job goodbye unless it was working at the local country store.

My car problem was solved when Miss Emily couldn’t be roused from one of her increasingly frequent naps in order to take us into town for dinner. My comment of: Honey, I think it’s time to get another car! was snapped up by Gerry who had been hankering to get another new Mer cury station wagon ever since we had had to sell our nearly new one in order to buy lunmber when we were building our house.

Not having a dependable car was responsible for us having very few familyh outings. The last time the whole family went anywhere together was when we all piled into the pickup to go to the Rodeo, and although I got to ride in front, I said never again! Now, however, without a backward glance at my beloved old car, I climbed into Gerry’s Ford Bronco and we headed for the Ford dealership in town.

The showroom was filled with new Ford Ranch wagons (too small), Bronco pick-up trucks (Gerry didn’t need another one), Mercury sedans, and several station wagons. Spotting a big dark blue Mercury Station wagon, we waltzed over and nearly passed out in shock—we would have to mortgage our house to pay for it! Noticing we were about to leave, a salesman sidled up—and in the manner of someone whose coat is lined with watches to sell—said he wanted to show us a honey of a car that just came in. The price, he said, was almost $1,000 less than the Mercury!

Gerry stopped dead in his tracks with a look on his face that said he still believed in Santa Claus.

We were immediately hustled (and I use that word advisedly) into the service area behind the showroom. There, being polished by a couple of workers, was one of the most beautiful cars I had ever seen—a sparkling red and white station wagon lavishly trimmed in chrome with an oval grill that formed a small moue of surprise.

As far as I was concerned, it was Hello, gorgeous!

A test drive was immediately arranged and, after less than ten minutes, we knew this was our car. The red and white leatherette seats were so comfortable it was hard not to snuggle down. We were impressed by the quiet authority of that big engine with its quick pickup, and hysterical over the roominess. Back in the showroom, Gerry signed any and all papers shoved under his nose. Forget about bargaining; it was what do we have to do to own this car? If we had known the Edsel would give us 26 miles to the gallon, the salesman could have asked for—and probably gotten—the deed to our house.

Eula Mae thought we were out of our minds to buy a car named Edsel. Nobody, she said, is gonna want a car named ‘Edsel’.

We did, I told her, besides, Edsel was the name of Henry Ford’s son.

They should’ve named the kid ‘Bob’

We were still congratulating ourselves on finding such a bargain when the Ford Motora Company announced that they were discontinuing the Edsel. We couldn’t understand why this superior car was being cancelled, but Eula Mae did. It’s that name Edsel, she said lighting her cigarette.

I didn’t bother to tell her that even fewer people would have bought a car named Bob.

A Career Beckons

Chapter Two

black.jpg

Honey, let’s take a look at a little office I want to rent in town was my first introduction to doing something besides housework and wondering why I couldn’t get anything to grow in my garden.

Gerry’s cement contracting business had grown to include building swimming pools and he was mulling over the possibilities of selling pool supplies and accessories. He also needed a place where he could talk to customers, keep all his records (other than in the pantry), and hand out payroll checks each Friday evening. Since I was already making out the checks, going over the invoices, and making appointments for job estimates from home, it followed that he would want his number one, executive secretary to follow through and man the office. The prospect was pure bliss!

After a lickety-split ride into town, he parked his pickup in a narrow driveway that separated a small Victorian house from a tacky neo-modern doctors office, then asked how I liked it?

I liked the little house immediately—especially the big leafy elm tree that stood sentinel in the front yard like a forgotten bodyguard. This perfect little relic of the past seemed a curious oddity—left intact when progress started moving businesses from the center of town, engulfing her old neighbors in gas stations and appliance shops.

As I looked at the building next door with its cloudy glass bricks curving around the front entrance, wondering why progress is usually so tacky, Gerry asked if I would mind being there during the week from around 10:30 in the morning until 3 pm? Of course not, I said, resisting the urge to jump up and down and click my heels.

My first day at work proved to be slightly more interesting than being at home. There was nothing—absolutely nothing—for me to do after I had gone through a stack of invoices at the ratty desk, checked the telephone to be sure it was working, then explored the rest of the house. My new domain consisted of a small front parlor, a large middle room where an old desk and chair were located, a bathroom complete with claw-foot tub, a tiny kitchen, a glassed in back porch, and an open attic that seemed as if it had been intended as a bedroom (but was now ideal for handy storage of the big bags of chlorine and other swimming pool equipment and supplies.)

The front parlor was surprisingly bright thanks to two tall windows in front and one that faced the doctors glass-bricked office. An oval etched-glass panel, set into the sturdy oak door, also let in a lot of light.

What a great place to do art work I told Gerry. I could set up a drawing board in the front parlor and maybe do a little bit of commercial art.

My conversion from Fine Art to Commercial Art had come via a home instruction course. This had been infinitely more interesting than my previous studies in Fine Arts which had involved tired models wearing very little, and lots of still life arrangements. Not only was it boring, I saw few chances of ever making any money since I wasn’t into Calendar art and few people wanted Still Life’s featuring apples, oranges, and/or wine bottles in front of draped tea towels—about the extent of my imagination for them. By switching, I envisioned creating lucrative magazine covers, fashion illustrations, and greeting cards—if I could ever find the time.

It now seemed that the time had come!

With Gerry’s blessing (and money), I bought an art table, extension lamp, a swivel chair, and a small side table to hold my pens, pencils and inks. At Bob’s Barn, a used furniture—antiques place, I found a bile-green, two-piece sectional sofa that might have come from a motel (a really tacky motel) and picked up a home-made stereo system that looked as if the cat had built it, but had marvelous tone and a turn-table that held 6 records. A couple of Toulous-Lautrec