Falling to Earth Read Online Free PDF Page A

Hugh. By then, that car looked really slick. It had black paint with white sidewall tires, a white top, and white running boards—just perfect. We drove it to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, where we camped out for a week. On the way back, while I slept in the rumble seat, Hugh noticed that the engine started to make a pinging noise. He didn’t know what it was, so he pushed the gas a little, made it go a little faster, and the pinging stopped. Eventually, however, the sound came back again. So he went faster and faster to make the noise disappear, until he was tearing downhill at about seventy miles an hour. At the bottom of the hill, the engine froze. That jolt woke me up in a hurry, and we found we couldn’t start the car again. It turned out that there was a leak in the oil pan gasket, and there was no oil left. Without any lubricant, the engine seized up. So that mishap was the end of that car; I had little choice but to just leave it there. I don’t remember how we got home, but I do recall the pain of losing that beautiful machine.
    Even when a car broke my heart like that, I still loved it. You can take the engine out of a car, tear it all apart, rebuild it, and put it back. Then you hit the starter and, like a miracle, the engine you rebuilt kicks over and rumbles to life. It feels so fantastic that mechanical things, and fast cars, have fascinated me ever since. If you are ever on a coastal road in eastern Florida and see a guy in a Tommy Bahamas shirt driving a convertible sports car and zooming by you—strictly obeying the speed limit, of course—there’s a fair chance it could be me.
    Back in the forties, I didn’t give myself much time for other high school pursuits, such as drinking and dating. We all smoked, but I didn’t have my first taste of alcohol until after high school graduation. I did spend time running around in cars with my friends, and often girls came along. When I was president of the student council, I dated the vice president for a while, but we never got hot and heavy. I never wanted to push myself on anyone. Although I thought about girls a lot, I never took it further. In truth, with the farm to run, playing in the band, and fixing my car, I was too busy to date.
    Farming was a good life, but it was hard work, and I had to get my school friends to help me when it was time to cut the hay. If I could have earned a lot of money as a farmer, I would have done it. But as I grew older, I realized farming would never get me anywhere. As much as I enjoyed it—and I loved it—there was just no money in farming. It couldn’t be my future. My world would be bigger than the farm.
    I also knew early on that I wouldn’t get caught in that little bitty town for the rest of my life. Jackson had always been an automotive supply town: some plants made upholstery, some made tires—all kinds of car parts that nearby Detroit needed. While I was in high school, the companies started to have problems with the labor unions. When they couldn’t come to an agreement, many of the manufacturers simply moved out of the state, to places in the South that had no union issues. It was sad. I watched Jackson become a ghost town. I returned for a visit in the late 1960s and it seemed like all the stores downtown were shuttered. They tried for years to revitalize the place, but nothing worked because there just weren’t many businesses left.
    Most of my classmates planned to work for the auto companies, and they had a tough time ahead of them. The group that I ran with in school was a little different. Their parents were managers and owners, doctors, and lawyers. They were expected to go on to college. I knew I had to do the same. My parents were supportive but, of course, they had no money.
    A scholarship was my only option, and luckily I did well in high school. President of the student body in my senior year, I also received some awards when I graduated. Perhaps most importantly, the principal, Earl Holman,