I do not remember where we found it,
but when my middle daughter, Chelsie, turned 16 we
purchased a 1967 Volkswagen bug for her
transportation back and forth from school. I chose
the bug for three reasons: First, it was slow; in a
crash it could just barely kill you. Second, Chelsie
would gain valuable stick-shift experience before I
sent her up the mountain the following spring
pulling a trailer load of horses with my pickup.
Third, my brother, Blaine, drove one during the
“impending ice age” phase of global warming in the
‘70s. When loaded with four bottoms and the rear
wheels chained, you could rocket through snow drifts
twice the size of the car. Global warming was a
blast in a beetle with chains.
Chelsie had been driving a couple weeks when Mother
Nature blanketed Laurel with six inches of light,
fluffy snow. Tyler had the brilliant idea Chelsie
should drag his sled up and down the street with the
Volkswagen. Realizing this was a good opportunity to
build experience driving on snow, I nodded approval
if they limited their sled dragging to the pasture
behind the house. All agreed. While the car warmed
up, which never happens in a bug, Tyler lashed his
sled to Chelsie’s bumper, opened the gate and they
zoomed into the three acre pasture. Like chumming
carp, a dozen or so laps around the pasture prompted
Tyler’s buddies, Willie and Justin to come running
with their sleds.
After a half-hour, Chelsie became bored, walked in
the house and asked if Tyler could drive. He was
probably ten, unlicensed and uninsured, but other
than those small bumps in the road, I could not see
the harm. Chelsie gave Tyler a very brief
orientation about stick-shifts and wished him luck.
Tyler slipped into the driver seat and popped the
clutch just as Willie and Justin hit their sleds.
The dark blue bug lurched forward. For ten-year-old
boys, this was the perfect storm. The next time I
looked out the window, two heads were bobbing up and
down in the front seats of the bug now dragging two
empty and one occupied sled. Very shortly, all three
were riding in the circling car while three empty
sleds skipped and danced in their wake. Each boy
took turns clicking the blinkers, the windshield
wipers, the head lights and periodically, the
parking brake, but eventually, the fun wore off.
Willie and Justin untied their sleds and Tyler drove
the car back into the driveway. End of story.
With the first snow of every year, I fondly think
back to that October morning drinking my coffee
while watching three, ten-year-old boys discover
driving a Volkswagen, or fiddling with the switches,
was far more exciting than sledding. Life was much
simpler then and I so yearn for the days when my
concerns were always within an arm’s reach or a
whistle and a holler. My children are raised,
married and actively giving me grandchildren. I have
nine on the ground, one in shipment for delivery in
February, and two or three more on manufacturer’s
backorder. In a couple years, I will buy an old
Volkswagen bug for when my grandchildren reach the
stick-shift age. You see, in addition to wood fired
cook stoves, I think youngsters should be skilled at
running a clutch, another trait rapidly approaching
extinction.
My point is to concerned grandfathers. We have
allowed America to progressively become a Marxist
nightmare which is enslaving our grandchildren with
debt and dependency. The recent election reveals our
numbers are too small to alter our tragic course, so
America’s restoration along with our enormous debt
will fall to our descendants. Teach them what our
generation never learned.
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