THE CAR THAT ROLLED BACKWARD DOWN THE HILL

Liz Kollar

The year was 1929 and I was six years old. It was also the year that my father brought home a new car which he needed to take him on his business calls as a traveling salesman during the week. On Sundays, however, after church, our entire family would go out for a drive to get fresh air. It could be a short ride to the park where we all played ball with each other until we were tired, or if we were lucky, we’d go for a ride to the Orange Mountains in New Jersey where father always pretended to get lost. What fun we had telling him the way back home, and we’d always get there just on time to hear our favorite radio show, The Lone Ranger.

I’ll never forget that car… a Ford, shining in the sun like black lacquer had been poured over it, with four creaky doors, silver metal door handles and a long running board on either side. The way to start it was for someone to turn a large crank in the front of the car. This was my brother Theodore’s job which he did with a vengeance while papa held on to the wheel and pressed his foot up and down on the starter. Once the motor started, we’d take off down the street, the car bucking and swerving from side to side like a bronco at a rodeo and papa laughing at our shrieks.

Papa had never taken a driving lesson and did not possess a driver’s license because when he first started driving years earlier up in the backwoods of Wisconsin, it wasn’t required. In all honesty, he was really a good driver; he had to be. I can still see mama keeping a stern eye on the speedometer and sticking her arm out the window every time we made a right turn. On this particular Sunday, as he wove from one side of the street to the other, honking a horn that sounded just like a braying mule, we took off on a trip I’ll never forget and hope never to repeat.

The car was built to hold two people in front and three in the back. There were no headrests or seat belts for safety. However, the running boards at the base of the doors allowed us to step gracefully into the car and there was a bit of leg room on the floor in back where my sister Tilly and I could sit… no view of course except for the cotton bloomers, long black skirts, argyle knee socks and knickers belonging to the other occupants of the car.

Today’s excursion was to the Orange Mountains to fill our jugs at a spring near the top where fresh water came out of a pipe in the rocks. The road was very steep and long. My father was behind the wheel, of course, and my oldest sister Julia was squashed between him and mama who held on to the door handle with all her might just in case there was an emergency of some kind. Two rolly-poly visiting aunts sat in the back with my two older brothers, one sitting on top of the other, between them. My sister Tilly and I sat scrunched on the floor staring at their black cotton stockings and heavy black shoes.

Suddenly, to our horror, papa, gripping the wheel with white knuckles and pounding his foot on the brake pedal, began to holler. We were in trouble with a capital ‘T’ because mama’s premonition of a dire emergency had come to pass. The car stopped going uphill, sat still for a moment while we all held our breaths, gurgled and sputtered, and then slowly, began to roll backward down the hill. Poor over-crowded car…the brakes weren’t holding; it just couldn’t make it to the top of the mountain with such a heavy load.

"Everyone out!" Papa shouted, as he pulled at the emergency brake with all his might. "Jump out! Quick!" But that brake didn’t hold either and the overburdened car continued to roll backward, faster and faster down the steep hill.

The doors flew open and both my brothers jumped out. After them came my two aunts, skirts flying, shoes scraping the road. My sister and I were next, rolling head over heels to the side of the road, feeling every bump along the way. Even my mother jumped out but my father courageously stayed behind, glued to the wheel of his precious car. My sister Julia clung, hysterically, to papa’s neck because by now the car was speeding backward much too fast for her to get out. Both of my brothers ran alongside and jumped back onto the running boards to try and slow the car down but to no avail. They hung on wide-eyed, mouths open, hair flying, fingers gripping the edges of the open windows. The car rolled faster and faster. Other cars screeched to a halt and their drivers yelled, and waved angry fists at my father until the car with Julia and the boys, still hanging on for dear life, finally rocked to a stop at the very bottom of the hill.

Needless to say, there were many bumps and bruises among us but my two aunts were delightful ladies and laughed all the way home. My brothers loved every minute of this adventure; Julia calmed down enough to stop crying; mother finally stopped screaming long enough to catch her breath and tell father he had better go take some driving lessons, and Tilly and I sat on the floor and giggled as we counted the runs in our aunt’s stockings all the way home.

©2003 Liz Kollar.