It was late September 1949 when my 37-year-old dad found that Rocky Mountain driving was very challenging. He had been a good driver in Kansas, but this was a whole different ballgame. The steep grades and sharp curves made our navigator — Mom, map in hand — quietly nervous. My 7-year-old brother, Tom, craned his neck, trying to see all the lofty wonders from the seat between them.
Our 35-year-old mother was eager and happy to venture west, to leave “that farm,” but now she was distracted by the deep canyon to our left. “Don’t they have guardrails in Colorado?” she asked. Feeling a little warm, she inched her right-side window halfway down.
Dad dared a quick glance to the left and said, “can’t see bottom.” Neither could I.
I was 9 years old and lying on my stomach atop our well-packed load, everything we owned, level with the seat tops in our 1942 Chevy two-door sedan. Back before any U-Haul trucks, trailers or vans, this was it — the sell-everything-at-auction, pack-the-barest-of-necessities, go-for-broke-with-$1,400-sale-money-and-hope-for-the-best sedan. To make better time, we even left our two high school-aged sisters behind. They would join us at Christmas break after we found a place to live.
We had everything to gain and nothing much to lose. It had been a long and difficult summer. Dad suffered a nervous breakdown in June and spent 10 weeks in a Wichita hospital. The doctors there advised him to “Get as far away as you can from your grandfather’s farm and start a new life for yourself, your wife and children.” Dad didn’t much like the sharecropper arrangement anyway, so this was the opportunity of his lifetime. Mom was champing at the bit, too. Our ancestors had homesteaded the farm in 1868, and everyone except my dad’s 85-year-old grandfather had either died or relocated. Now, we too left.
But before we said our goodbyes, Dad retired his well-worn, sweat-stained Stetson and replaced it with a brand-new one. “A man needs a new hat for his new life,” said he. Now, the new man drove his “new” car in new country with his new hat setting beside him, next to me, on top of our load.
Mom’s half-open window was not helping me cool off. I needed fresh air, so I opened my left-side window in back. ZIP! My dad’s new Stetson hat went flying out the window like a flying saucer, across the highway and over the edge of the deep canyon.
Dad pulled over and shut off the motor. He got out, crossed the highway and disappeared into oblivion.
The three of us sat there in the warm sunshine, listening to an invisible river far below. Nothing was said, even after our huff-puffing sweaty family head returned in about 15 minutes, hat in hand, from the abyss. After wiping his brow, he place the Stetson upon his head and lit a cigarette. Inhaling deeply, he relaxed while leaning on the Chevy’s front fender, enjoying his reward.
Only then did we continue our version of “Oregon or Bust.” Westward bound, the new man’s hat rested safely on his wife’s lap and Tom and I kept a sharp eye out for — who knows what?
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