When the old fellows gather at Fred Meyer, they tell stories over a cup of coffee and maybe a donut or a cupcake — if they’re not too diabetic. You may hear shouts of laughter.
They aren’t telling dirty jokes. These guys have more class. They usually have choices of things to talk about such as politics, sports or what Vancouver was like during World War II and the 1950s. The inspiring, sentimental side of war is easier to remember than the pain. Light-hearted subjects such as cars are feel-good memories.
All it takes to sit in on one of these sessions is to be old and able to talk. Once people become aware that I can talk, they accept me. My medical equipment might intimidate some people. I look a little like Steven Hawking in my power recliner wheelchair. My ventilator dictates that I can blurt out speech 14 times per minute. When I tell people I had poliomyelitis in 1948, they often tell their own memories of the polio epidemics.
Cruising in 1950s Fords and Chevys are better memories.
The old-timers were reminiscing about the 1950s in Vancouver, and “Cruisin’ the Gut.” It was interesting how they cruised Main Street in customized 1950s Chevys and Fords. Apparently, Dairy Queen was the turnaround point. I just listened to their stories, comparing it all to my 1950s in Long Beach, Calif.
My memories are filled with mixed emotions. While the other boys were learning how to socialize with girls, I was the nerd at home with my mom, building model airplanes and cars. It was therapeutic for my paralyzed hands, and I did learn to play the harmonica, as suggested by my pulmonary doctor. Muscle recovery was very limited.
I just hope I expressed to my dad sometime before he died how grateful I am for all that he did for me. He wanted to do more after the physical and occupational therapists were through. He put me on my J.C. Higgins bike one time to see if my legs would work well enough to ride it unassisted. I was whining, saying I would fall, as he ran along beside me. Down I went, skidding out on my face. He scooped my up and carried me home. That was enough of that.
Dad was a career Ford employee, starting out as a spray painter on the Model A. He worked his way up to superintendent of the paint department at the Long Beach, Calif., Terminal Island Ford assembly plant. He would tell how the Ford-baked enamel paint jobs were better than the Chevy lacquer paint.
He brought home a light green 1949 Ford four-door. It had a wider body and lower center of gravity, so it made it easier for my parents to lay me down in the back seat. But there was something about it I just didn’t like. It wasn’t very “cool” — but for a long time I wasn’t aware why I considered it such a homely color.
Dad quoted Henry Ford, saying, “You can have any color Ford you want, as long as it’s black.” Then one day, while in the rehab hospital, confined by a big body cast and surrounded by big tank respirators, I had a moment of clarity.
The iron lung I spent six weeks in at Los Angeles County General Hospital was that same boring, depressing, institutional green. To me it represents extreme confinement and pain. Those iron lungs came in three colors — light green, yellow and a more pleasing light blue.
That tank respirator sucked. That’s how it worked to ventilate us. When I got to feeling better, I wondered how many people had died in my respirator. Many of us kids and young adults developed a morbid sense of humor. It was a way of coping.
I was proud of my dad for being a Ford assembly employee. Working in the auto industry was good employment in the 1950s. He had no layoffs and worked a lot of overtime in the late summer and fall, when they were preparing for the next year’s model. People got excited over the new models. They had a new body style every three years.
Ford became more hip in 1951 when they came out with a rich metallic green. In 1952, the Terminal Island plant had an open house to show off the completely new body style. I will never forget how Dad took me through the plant, introducing me to his work buddies. That plant with the assembly lines was no place for a wheelchair — but he whipped my chair around fast, annoying me.
It felt good that Mom and Dad were proud of me. In 1953, big plans were being made for me to attend regular high school in my chair, and I graduated on time. It was tough, and I still didn’t know how to talk to girls.
Now, my wife of 42 years sometimes tells me I still don’t know how to talk to girls.
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