Sinister Summer: Cars, Cruisers, & Close Calls

By Carol Ann Hartnell

Surf’s up! Make the summer scene for friendship, fun, adventure, and mystery that fill the pages of Sinister Summer: Cars, Cruisers, and Close Calls, the second volume in a four book series, The 1950s Adventures of Pete and Carol Ann. Join two eleven-year-old, All-American, Southern California kids, Pete

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hawk Prints Publishing LLC
• Release date: Mar 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9780999050279

Carol Ann Hartnell

Jingle bells are ringing and snowflakes are falling in author C.A. Hartnell's Christmas-filled, package-wrapped, fast-paced, historical-fiction chapter book, Wild Winter: Christmas, Clues, and Crooks, for readers eight and up. This is the fourth and final volume in the four book series, The 1950s Adventures of Pete and Carol Ann, inspired by cool places, dreamy decorations, and actual events from Hartnell's childhood. The author spent her grammar school years at Cherrylee School in El Monte, Southern California, home of American Legion Stadium where rock 'n' roll thrived and Christmas was celebrated with a special, all-city children's Christmas party. Hartnell is the owner of a 1937 Ford Slantback hot rod called Hawk's Ride. Its chopped-top and painted flames would have been right at home in the Legion's parking lot during the 1950s. The author was a board member of Big Hearts for Little Hearts Loma Linda Guild at Loma Linda University Children's Hospital in Loma Linda, California, and has authored six Luke the Lion Activity Books for them. She's written articles for the Guild's newsletter and the hospital's in-house newspaper, TODAY. Author Hartnell belongs to four writer's organizations: SCBWI-Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators, IPBA-Independent Book Publishers Association, ACWA-American Christian Writers Association, and Writer's Institute, Inc. She lives with her husband in the Southwest United States and has four grown children who have blessed her with twelve grandchildrenand many great grandchildren. Ring-a-ting-ting. Hartnell desires to entertain plus encourage readers of all ages who love winter, Christmas, and the joy of the holiday season. Visit her website at: www.cahartnell.com

Book preview

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Adventure often meant to do something both exciting and a little risky. Going to new places and finding adventure along the way was what so many pioneers did in the early years of American history. They drove horse-drawn wagons westward in search of California gold, rich farmland, and peace. In 1850, early pioneers settled in El Monte, known as the wooded place, at the end of the long and dusty Santa Fe Trail.

Over one hundred years later, in 1955, people still sensed that spirit of adventure along the paved highways of America. Route 66, also called the Mother Road, paved the way for travelers to drive more than two thousand miles from Chicago, Illinois, to Los Angeles, California. Weary drivers could fill ’er up at gas stations or in air-conditioned cafés.

Near El Monte, California, teenagers cruised Route 66 with lots of horsepower under the hoods of their hot rods. Pete and Carol Ann cruised along with them in July of 1955. It was a time of patriotic fun and trips to places all over the Southland. Adventure and danger lurked both on and off of America’s roadways for the two friends.

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The go-cart putted as it surged forward while my hands gripped the steering wheel of this cage on wheels. Buddy, my seven-month-old beagle puppy, barked as he scrambled to keep up with me. I stepped on the gas pedal, and the go-cart raced like a hot rod at the drag races.

A warm July breeze ruffled my brown hair as I approached Pete’s house on La Madera Avenue. A crowd of kids waved and cheered me on when I sped past the driveway.

Go, Carol Ann, yelled eleven-year-old Pete. Hold on tight.

I am going, I yelled back to him. And I am holding on.

Give it more gas, Carol Ann, yelled Pete’s friend Bob Bailey, who co-owned the go-cart with his younger brother.

The metal bars surrounding me on the go-cart rattled like a can of nails. I pressed down further on the gas pedal, and the Baileys’ cage on wheels putted with a popping noise. The cart sped up then slowed, sped up then slowed as I applied my inexperience to the gas pedal and brake.

I veered onto the road’s grassy edge and there it loomed. . . a giant walnut tree that grew just past our driveway. It stood directly in the path of the go-cart. Yikes!

Watch out, Carol Ann, warned Pete. Turn the wheel, and hit the brakes. Buddy the beagle hound warned me with a howling noise.

O God, help me, please, I prayed as my feet fumbled between the gas and brake pedals. My body bounced around in the gocart’s cage. I tightened my hold on the steering wheel when the vehicle slowed, rolled up the tree’s roots, and stopped at its trunk. Then the go-cart settled on its back tires while the engine putted, sputtered, and shut off.

Man, oh man, Carol Ann. Are you all right? asked Pete as he sprinted up to me.

The go-cart leaned against the tree at an awkward angle. My feet pointed up at the tree trunk. I patted the pocket in my shorts to make sure my little red three-inch by five-inch, spiral-sided notepad and stubby pencil hadn’t fallen out on the road. It contained notes and Bible verses I wanted to memorize. Buddy stood up against the go-cart’s side and barked gruffly.

Don’t get too close, kids, said Bob Bailey as kids crowded around me. My go-cart could fall on you. Get back, Buddy. Don’t move, Carol Ann, until we hold the go-cart. What a boss ride. Buddy lifted his head and howled a long, doleful cry.

Wow, Carol Ann, said Pete. You crashed Bob’s go-cart. Are you okay?

The Bailey boys held their cart as I eased out of the seat. I stood up on shaky legs. I tucked a brown strand of hair behind my ear. With a shaky voice I said, "I’m okay, but yikes, that was not a boss ride."

Bob Bailey said with a grin, It sure looked boss from our angle.

"Hanging at a funny angle in a vehicle is really scary, I said. Hanging in a real car in the air with only the back tires on the ground would be even scarier. I hope that never happens to me."

Pete said, You’re a lucky girl that you didn’t get hurt.

I swiped my sweaty forehead and noticed some small scratches on the go-cart. I said, I’m so sorry I scratched your go-cart, Bob. I’ll help you buff them out. It was too hard to steer, push the gas, and bump the brakes. I’m a bad driver.

No you’re not, Carol Ann, said Pete. You just need more practice. Next time, you’ll drive up and down our street doing circles around us guys.

No thank you, I said. I’ll stick to being a passenger or riding my bike. You guys can drive in circles if you want to. I thought driving the go-cart would be a fun adventure, but it was too much adventure for me.

Pete looked at the go-cart still leaning on the tree trunk and scratched his head. Gee, Carol Ann, said Pete. I thought you’d like driving. Since your mom started taking driving lessons from Uncle Charlie, I thought you’d want driving lessons, too. Driving Bob’s go-cart was a great beginning to boss summer adventures.

I brushed grimy stuff off my shorts then bent over and picked up Buddy. He licked my sweaty face until I put him back down. I don’t want to drive anything but a bike. I’m only eleven-years-old, so I have years before I get a driver’s license.

Hey, Carol Ann, said Bob Bailey as he pointed to our driveway. "I thought your mom was taking driving lessons. Why is she riding her bicycle?"

Is your mom still shaky behind the wheel of her car? asked Pete.

I looked at Mom. Yeah, she’s still shaky. She’s learning to drive the Hudson Jet-Liner car that Dad bought her, I said. But until she gets her driver’s license, she rides her bike everywhere. Today, she’s riding to the ceramic studio where she paints figurines and bowls.

Mom pedaled her bike onto La Madera Avenue and rode over to our group. Are you kids okay? Mom asked in a concerned voice. Did someone crash?

I’m okay, Mom, I said. The go-cart stopped at the tree. I didn’t even get a scratch. I held out my arms. I barely scratched the go-cart.

Yeah, Mrs. H, said Pete. Her crash was cool.

You kids need to be careful out here in the street, said Mom. Carol Ann, I’m going to paint pottery. Mark and your sisters are with Granny Mary. Aunt Ruthie wants you to go to the market with her after a while.

Mom. . . eee, cried seven-year-old Gail as she ran down our driveway. Two-year-old Mark bounced on Granny Mary’s hip as our gray-haired grandmother chased Gail. Mom quickly pedaled her bicycle and escaped up the street. She glanced back and waved goodbye to all of us.

Bye, bye, kids, called Mom from a distance. Listen to Granny Mary.

Gail ran onto the street and chased Mom’s bike up La Madera Avenue. She chased Mom past several houses until the bicycle disappeared around a corner. Finally, Gail stopped, turned, and stormed back down the street kicking asphalt chunks on the edge of the road while tears streamed down her face.

Mommy left me, wailed Gail. I wanted to go wif her and paint cermamics.

Mom will be right back, I said. Go ask Granny for a cookie.

Gail sniffed and wiped her runny nose on her sleeve. She took Granny’s hand, and they moved up our driveway into Aunt Ruthie’s house where Granny lived.

Man, said Pete, why does your sister always chase your mom?

I guess ’cause Gail’s attached to Mom’s apron strings or something like that, I said. That’s what I heard Dad say.

A midnight-blue Mercury car, with a chopped top and flames on its sides, rumbled next to us and stopped. Someone had cut the car’s top off, chopped down the window walls, and welded the top back onto the car.

The teenaged driver with a brown, greasy jellyroll hairdo leaned out of the rolled down window and hollered at Pete, Hey, shrimp, where’s your brother? I wanna talk to him about four tires he has for sale. I need them for the race car I’m building.

Pete said, Hi, Butch. Hawk is out back. I’ll get him.

The Merc’s driver revved up his car’s engine with an earsplitting and prolonged ROAR to show off.

Pete disappeared up his driveway to find his older brother. The neighborhood kids abandoned the go-cart and crowded around the Mercury. Buddy sniffed at the Merc’s tires. On the driveway, Pete reappeared with Hawk beside him. They stepped over to the dark blue automobile. Maybellene by Chuck Berry, blared out of the car’s radio.

Handsome, dark-haired, sixteen-year-old Hawk said, Hi Butch. Your Merc sounds hot since you changed out the engine. What can I do for you?

Butch said, We heard you’ve got tires for sale. We wanna see them if ya still got them.

Sure, Butch, said Hawk. They’re back there. He pointed up the driveway.

Butch and his two friends climbed out of the Merc. The tough teens wore white T-shirts and jeans with rolled-up cuffs. Their muscles bulged under their rolled-up shirtsleeves. Those are the same teens who scared Pete and me last spring at Dan’s Diner, I thought to myself. The tallest teen, named Sam, is the meanest one.

Scary Sam shoved a comb through his blond jellyroll. His hair swooped up on the sides and formed a roll of hair on his fore-head. He blurted out a curse word when his friend Davey Boy bumped him. Sam’s angry, narrowed eyes looked at us.

Hawk said, Hey, Sam, watch your language in front of the kids.

Without apology, Sam said, Show us the tires. We ain’t got all day.

Mom would call these guys hoodlums, I thought as they moved behind Hawk into his backyard.

Do you remember The Cruisers from Dan’s Diner? asked Pete. "That’s them and they’re bad news. Hawk says they fight, race, and cause trouble all over town. The only thing good about them is Butch’s cool car. His 1951 Mercury is cherry. It’s a good-looking machine."

I do remember them from the diner, I said. They should call their car club, The Jellyrollers, because they all wear their hair in those greasy jellyrolls. Are you sure that Hawk will be all right with them?

Hawk’s tough, said Pete as he punched the air. If those mugs are cruisin for a bruisin, Hawk’ll give them a knuckle sandwich. Pete kept punching and smiling. Hawk’s a ‘cool cat.’

At Pete’s house, the screen door slammed with a BAMM behind his two sisters. Thirteen-year-old Mary Jane led the way across the porch. Her blonde curls bounced on her shoulders as she marched down the steps. She wore a pink printed blouse with white pedal pushers and sandals. Seven-year-old Mandy followed wearing a cute, printed sundress.

Is that Butch’s Merc? Mary Jane asked Pete. It’s nice looking.

Yeah, said Pete. It was broken down until Butch put a new engine in it. Pete pointed up the driveway. He’s looking at the tires Hawk has for sale.

Mary Jane glanced down the street. The Bailey brothers struggled to get the go-cart off the walnut tree. Who crashed? asked Mary Jane. What a dumb driver.

Aw, Sis, it wasn’t a real crash. Everyone has a bad ride sometime, said Pete.

"Yeah,