When I returned from Virginia to Wichita in 1981, it was merely a
brief stopping point on my way to a new tenure-track job at Iowa State University,
and I should probably note also that this pitstop provided an occasion for me to
marry Marlis. Since she (now we) had three tall
children who hadn't yet topped out, growth-wise, we needed a new car—preferably
a station wagon. To get one, Marlis
enlisted the aid of her “second father,” Frank Lies.
As a former national champion race-car driver (of super-modifieds,
which at that time looked like slightly smaller versions of a 1950s Indy 500
racer), as a successful Wichita businessman, and as a very gregarious guy,
Frank knew lots and lots of people, including somebody who had a fenced-in lot
full of old cars for sale. Repos? Possibly, and one of these cars was a station
wagon. Frank thought
it was a good deal, so we went to look it over with him.
It was a big old boxy, decades-old gas-guzzler. Another Dodge?
A Chrysler? Something like
that. Huge. When we first saw it, Marlis and I may have
gasped, or in my case may have half-whispered a very impolite but heartfelt
phrase. For the car that Frank had
described as gray turned out to be pink—not actually a super-bright Mary Kay
shocking pink, but a sedate grandma’s-going-to-church-this-Sunday-and-she-needs-a-car-that-will-match-her-pastel-hat
pink. Marlis said softly, “Did I tell
you that Dad is color-blind?” As middle
daughter Nancy said frequently in those days, no duh.
Unfortunately, the car was very, very cheap, and so was I, so we had to buy it. It had lots of leg room for the lengthening kids,
who would need to be able to stretch out whenever we drove down to Wichita from
Ames, which turned out to be once or twice a week. Okay, I exaggerate slightly.
When we drove the car over to Frank’s after picking it up, he motioned
to me for the keys and said “Let’s go for a drive.” At that time, Frank lived on the very edge of
east Wichita, so we were quickly on a rural gravel road, at which time Frank
said “Let’s blow out some carbon,” and put the pedal to the metal as I suppose
he must have done hundreds of times on quarter-mile dirt tracks in his long, successful racing
career. [Frankie Lies. Yeah, that guy.]
A huge black cloud immediately
billowed up behind the car. “That carbon
can really build up in these older cars,” Frank said, perhaps as a philosophical
musing, or more likely as a terse explanation for non-racing simpleton college professors. By that time, I could see out the corner of
my eye that we were going somewhere between 90 and 100 miles an hour on this
crappy gravel road, and I think that’s when my panicky right hand formed a
lasting impression in the right-side door panel where it meets the window. In later years, I would occasionally wake up
screaming in the middle of the night, but I can truthfully say that we never,
ever, ever had a problem with carbon build-up.
Driving a big old boxy, decades-old, pink gas-guzzler station wagon around
any town does not earn you many bachelor-of-the-year awards, so I definitely
knew I was married.
When we got to Ames, we found that there was still a functioning Welcome
Wagon in that sleepy college town. Among
the goodies in the Welcome Wagon Gift Basket was a certificate for a free
haircut. Marlis thought that it would be
good for me to get a trim before showing up for my first day of work at Iowa
State, so I drove the pink beast into downtown Ames and parked in front of the
free haircut venue, which turned out to be a beauty salon called Madge’s of San
Francisco. I kept telling myself, “You’re
a 38-year-old married man on a strict budget.
You can do this!” So I got out of Pinky and casually strolled into
Madge’s of San Francisco, free-haircut certificate in hand.
I may have felt more compromised in my lifetime, but I couldn’t tell
you when.
The pink beast rendered useful service for a couple of more years, but
eventually was replaced as the family car by a new minivan. Even so, we got yet more mileage out of it because
the eldest, Linda, drove it to high school throughout her senior year. Or perhaps I should say “drove it near her
high school.” Many, many years later,
Linda remarked with something approaching sarcasm that she was so embarrassed
by the car, she would park it a couple of blocks from the school and walk the
rest of the way.
I’ve never fully understood her
fussiness. I mean, geez, the wipers
worked fine.
I've certainly had a few more cars since Pinky, but they were just cars. No drama, no fun, simply transportation.
