The calendar says it’s still autumn, but I know winter when I see it. As I write this, there is snow on the ground, it’s 30 degrees, and the weather station says there’s a 30-mph westerly wind gusting to over 40. There are whitecap rollers in the bay and I’m loving Maine being Maine. But, for some reason, today’s weather makes me think of a time long ago when Maine weather taught me a life lesson that I’ll share with you.
I was a young man living a couple of hundred miles away. As young men frequently are, I was gifted in many ways, including but not limited to pride, brilliance, audacity and a total ignorance of the ways of people from away, even as I dwelt among them. That was and remains especially true when it comes to women from away. I don’t have a clue and, at the time, it cost me a serious romantic entanglement. I’ll call her Anna.
December 1966. Barely 21, and I was in love. Anna’s well-to-do parents were pretty sure their precious daughter could do better than get mixed up with a shiftless motorcycle rider. Although I exhibited decent manners, I was without any other qualities they deemed essential in a potential son-in-law. For example, they put unreasonable emphasis on steady employment and higher education. Seeing their pride and joy disappear down the street on the back of a noisy motorcycle was almost more than they could stand. Their obvious disappointment in her choice made for cross-armed and steely lipped silences when I visited.
As Christmas approached, she and I made plans to travel to Orr’s Island to meet my parents. We would drive up in my car, meet the family and stay for a couple of nights before driving back.
I had made the trip many times and had total confidence in my choice of transportation, a 1955 Volkswagen Beetle convertible. Being a ragtop with 135,000 on the odometer was testimony to its reliability and simplicity of design. Aiding the simplicity were a good number of things that might have malfunctioned on this trip if they had not already done so. To foul up our trip, something critical would have to quit, and I thought that was unlikely.
Several components had stopped working years before, leaving its vital systems unencumbered by fancy accessories like electric starter motors, heaters, turn signals and gas gauges, among other things. Free from the worries of mechanical failure, I was certain the little car could easily make another round trip to Orr’s Island. Anna’s parents were somewhat less optimistic — a bit hostile, even.
Anna was ready and enthusiastic about the trip to Maine. I had my eye on the weather, which had turned cold and threatening by mid-December. But my VW had snows on and was as sure as a tank in the white stuff, so off we went.
Knowing there would be no heat in the car, she was dressed in her warmest ski gear and wrapped in a blanket, but our breathing had formed ice on the inside of the windshield before we got 20 miles. Still, she didn’t complain. Aloud.
When I talk about “jumping” the car, most of you think I mean using jumper cables to start a car with a dead battery. Some of you may believe I could literally jump the car with a running start, bless your hearts. In fact, it’s the latter group that is closer to the truth. In the days of manual transmissions in automobiles, it was common practice to start a car with a dead battery by getting it rolling in neutral. Then you would jump in the rolling car, push in the clutch, shift into low or second gear and, with the ignition switch on, let out the clutch and listen to the engine come to life.
That is also the procedure for a car with a manual transmission and an inoperative starter motor. It did not occur to me that my girlfriend might never have heard such basic information. That came to light somewhere off Route 128 when her shivering began to be a distraction and I pulled into a Howard Johnson to get her warm.
Looking for a grade or small hill I could roll down for a gravity-assisted restart, I found none. The bug would have to be pushed. I parked where I could get a rolling start and took my frozen passenger inside for some hot food and drink. In time, the color returned to her blue lips and the shivering subsided, but she was noticeably less enthusiastic about our trip than before. Moreover, she was not willing to be the driver for our restart. There was only one other option, and she took it.
Now warm and in a better mood, we both pushed to get the little car rolling. I jumped in while Anna kept pushing, and with practiced movements, I popped the clutch and the VW came to life. I gassed up and we arrived on Orr’s Island, cold but in one piece each.
I helped Anna from the car and half-carried her into the warmth of my parents’ home. My mother threw a hissy fit about Anna pushing the car, my decision to come up in that “rolling junkyard,” and, of course, the car itself. For our return trip, she made Anna wear her long johns, heavy socks, Bean boots with felts, and a down vest under her parka. Wrapped in an old comforter and with sparse conversation, we drove home nonstop.
As it turned out, this winter adventure was not the foundation upon which to build a lasting relationship with Miss Anna. She was a good woman, and I’ll be honest; I really loved that car.
