Month: March 2017

“Parlez Vous Francais?”

~ Elizabeth ~ Leave a comment

perce

In the spring of 1969, a good friend and I took a road trip to Quebec. At college, there were three full weeks of what was called “reading period” to  allow time to study for end of the year exams. That year the reading period was in May for the late May exams. My friend and I had one course in common, and we each had only one other final. At that time, a full load was four demanding classes, but two of ours did not have finals scheduled.

Reading period was usually extremely intense. That year was even more nerve racking. Students had gone on strike at Harvard to protest the Viet Nam War and had occupied University Hall. Harvard had called in the Cambridge City Police, an unusual cooperation between town and gown. Tension on campus was high and everyone was expected to have a stance about the political situation. Sally, my friend, and I were ready for a break and decided to hit the road in my beloved Ford.

Sally was from Montreal so she suggested we start there, then drive out the Gaspe(forgive my English keyboard) Peninsula, then drive a loop through New Brunswick, Maine and New Hampshire back to Cambridge. This sounded wonderful, so we set out. We had the settlement money from the Cambridge Small Claims Court which we figured would be sufficient. We had no other plans.

In those days, Quebec was solidly French and few people spoke any English. We each had schoolyard French, so we muddled along all right. The rock above is in Perce, a lovely town on the north side of the peninsula. We had lunch in a little hotel there, then drove on. Gaspe at that time was very isolated and not designed for tourists. Each little town announced itself around a bend with a church steeple. Outdoor bread ovens abounded. We stopped at one farm and bought some from the housewife using our broken French. We spent that night in the car, stretched out on the very comfortable seats.

Driving further on the route, we stayed at Acadia National Park, which was warm for May and we studied for our mutual exam at a picnic table. Later we bought lobster from a Maine pound and ate it by the ocean.

By the time we returned to Cambridge we were rested, well prepared for our exams and had a perspective of a larger world than that of the insulated university. What more could you ask from a road  trip?

“Where’s My Car?”

~ Elizabeth ~ Leave a comment
Boston 1969
Boston 2015

In February 1969, Cambridge had a massive blizzard for three straight days.(The picture on the left was from 1969 in Boston). It left an average of 22 inches of snow, but more in some places. It covered the bottom steps off the porch of our housing. The first two days were on the weekend, so we didn’t have to worry about going anywhere. The third day, we had classes, so we put on boots, tights, coats, gloves and hats and set off on the 20 minute walk to our lecture hall. (Girls were not allowed to wear skirts to class.) To our astonishment, our lecturer didn’t arrive. So we tromped back home, the only time we didn’t have class in my four years at college.

Needless to say, it buried my car.(The right hand picture is from a more recent Boston blizzard, but looks identical.) I dug for a long time, only to find that the street was now higher than my car. So I made little ramps in the snow to get up to the height of the street. Of course, when I left, I put chairs in my little spot so that no one else would take advantage of my stellar work! Recently I guess Boston has tried to prevent this, but old habits still prevail for many.

After a few days, a Cambridge garbage truck failed to navigate our little street and hit my car. The only way to get reimbursed for the damage was to get two estimates and show up in Small Claims Court. I went to one body shop and got an estimate. The owner asked me what had happened, and when I told him, he said:”The City hit you?” When I affirmed that, he tore up the first estimate, opened his desk drawer and took out two totally different body shop pads and wrote me two estimates.

I took them both to the Small Claims Court and was awarded the smaller(still inflated) estimate. I never did repair the car, but used the money for my spring road trip. More about that later.

 

 

“A Car of One’s Own”

~ Elizabeth ~ 6 Comments

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Virginia Woolf wrote a wonderful book A Room of One’s Own about the space a woman needed to be a thoughtful writer. I amended this to suit my automobile theme which continues today.

Above is pictured a 1965 Ford Fairlane 500, 289 with a dual carburetor, blue and white, with four doors. It is, regrettably,  not the original car of my own. But it is a remarkable likeness to mine, save the fancy wheels which I didn’t have.

In the autumn of 1968, when I was about to return to Cambridge, Massachusetts for my senior year in college, my parents surprised me with the gift of my father’s car. He was going to buy a new car and thought I might enjoy having one for my last year of school. The only major problem was that the car and I were in Oregon, 3084 miles away. But I, the intrepid(or loony) 21 year old said yes to the cross country solo trek.

Armed with a map of the United States and a Shell Oil credit card, I set off on the interstate. In those days, I could use the Shell card at motels as well as gas stations. I also had traveler’s checks for meals. I drove each day until I was exhausted and then checked into a handy motel. One morning I woke up to see a large water tower with WSP on it. I had, unknowingly, slept next door to the Wyoming State Penitentiary!

Wyoming had no speed limit and I had the thrill of blasting the AM radio and careening down the road at 110 mph. The previous day, as I drove the hill down into Ogden, Utah, I had heard the Beatles song Hey Jude for the first time. It astonished me and is forever linked to my long trek.

By the time I got to New Jersey, on the way to stay with friends who lived in Washington Heights in New York City, I was exhausted. I could not figure out how to get to the George Washington Bridge. I could see it, but pulled over and wept at my inability to get on it. I pulled myself together, tried one last time, and successfully crossed the Hudson to the safe arms of my worried friends. There were of course no cell phones then, and they couldn’t figure out what was keeping me.

Well, I wasn’t Charles Lindbergh on his solo flight across the Atlantic, but it challenged me deeply. I made it across the country by myself. That was a true accomplishment.

“Parking”

~ Elizabeth ~ 2 Comments

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When I served on the City of Portland Planning Commission, we were selecting “view corridors” to preserve in the city. These were vantage points from which a wide panorama could be seen without interruption of buildings or trees. The Commission wished to designate these to preserve them from future intrusions. When the staff finished outlining the choices for the Commission, I blurted out,”You have just identified all the places we used to park as high school students.” (Need I add that I often blurt before I consider the appropriateness of the comment?)

When I was in high school, any displays of affection had to take place in cars. Today, many parents are at work during the day, so the house is available. In my days, someone was almost always either at home or about to be back home. So cars were the venue. Of course, we needed to park the car for such activity. And for some reason, it was important to park in a place that had a great view, such as Council Crest Park, pictured above.

This being a G-rated blog, I will be discrete here. I just need to state that it is difficult to see any view out of a steamed up window! Importantly, there were many accepted standards in place in that time that protected girls. One was not expected to go beyond set limits that everyone seemed to acknowledge without discussion. Yes, occasionally, I knew of a girl who went “all the way,” but this was rare. Mostly, it was a lot of kissing.

So here’s to “parking” and the joy I have remembering it. I wish that teenage girls today could feel as comfortable saying “no” as we did. And, when we did, the boys still asked us out again!

Non Parallel Parking

~ Elizabeth ~ 2 Comments

parking3

First of all, how funny is this caption on the bottom on this image?  Apparently, you are very manly if you can parallel park.  Maybe that was my problem back in 1964 when I first tried to get my driver’s license.

I had learned to drive at 17, but I had to pass the Oregon driver’s test to get my license. I had studied the book and passed the written exam easily. However, before I could even get on the highway, the examiner had me parallel park between two orange pylons. I relied on luck when trying to park, looking for an end spot I could pull into. No one had taught me to parallel park, but I wondered just how hard it could be. Right?

I carefully pulled up next to the front pylon, turned the wheel, backed up and ran over the back pylon. Then to finish my exhibition of skill, I pulled forward and knocked over the front pylon.

So many points were deducted for that show of expertise, that even if I drove perfectly on the highway, I would still fail. So to save us both some time, the examiner said “thank you” and got out of the car. I didn’t try for a license again until I was 20 and had practiced and practiced my deft parking skills.

I wonder if parallel parking is still a part of the requirement for getting a license.

A Very Bad Idea

~ Elizabeth ~ 7 Comments

scotlanda014

In the summer of 1963, my mother drove the four of us, now aged 16,13,10 and 8 from Oregon to New York to visit our East Coast relatives. We were all in the “B-Mobile” of course, and my mother was the only driver, so we took it somewhat slowly. She took us to Yellowstone National Park on the way where we stayed in an old hotel which looked out directly at the Old Faithful geyser.

We were most excited about the bears that roamed freely. Here I took a photo from what must be outside of our car of people interacting with the bears. The driver of the Chevrolet behind us is screaming at the passenger to roll down the window! I thought that was insane. But who was I to talk? I was, after all, outside of the car myself.

Later, while exploring the hot pots of boiling liquid, we spotted two little cute bear cubs. Before we could approach them, my mother yelled at us to stay put. She accurately knew that there must be a mother grizzly bear near by and knew we should not be between the mother and the cubs. It makes me wonder now how she, growing up in Buffalo, knew this true bit of wisdom. Fortunately, she did know this, and we caught a glimpse of the mother as the cubs scampered away into the woods.

As for the accommodations in the “B-Mobile” for traveling cross country, we all begged for the ” way back.” That area was padded with sleeping bags and pillows and allowed us to stretch out in comfort. Of course it also allowed any two of us ample opportunity to squabble, which ended with one of us in the dreaded front seat alone with our mom to keep an eagle eye on the offender.

Only children have no idea what shenanigans siblings can get into in the “way back” of a station wagon!