Butch Recalls ‘Unsafe at Any Speed!’

   My youngest son, who is a police officer in Frankfort, Ind., brought his three kids to visit last week. He spent quite a bit of time with the child safety seats and belts getting the children out and then back in when they left. It’s great that kids have that extra protection. There were no child seats or safety belts in cars when I was growing up in the ’50s. We were wild and free in the backseat!

   Our car was . . . I hate to even think about it . . . a big old pink and white Buick Special. When it was time to take a trip to town, my little brother and I jumped into the back lickety-split so we could claim our seats by the windows . . . little sister wedged in between my parents on the front seat.

“Shotgun! I called it first!” The rear window on the passenger side was preferred. Why, you ask? Because I could stick my arm out that window, curve my hand just right, and it would move up and down like an airplane wing as Dad drove down the road. Dad wouldn’t let us stick our arm out the driver’s side rear window . . . just in case it might ripped off by an oncoming car. Wise thinking I’m sure.

   That backseat was our playground. Dad drove about 35 mph all the way to town, so we had to think of things to do to bide our time. We came up with “I see” games, such as “I see something red and you can’t find it” so the other person had to look out the window to try and spot it. If they found it, then it was their turn. A variation of this was the alphabet game . . . first one to see something that starts with “A” then “B” and on and on. Sometimes we would guess the make of each oncoming car. Other times we counted anything we could think of . . . cars, birds, horses, cows, mailboxes, barns . . . even telephone poles.

   Thumb wrestling was a great sport, along with arm punching. Punch each other’s arm . . . lightly at first, and then progressively harder until one can’t take it any more . . . “You lose . . . ha, ha, ha!” Then it was time for a break in the action. Have you ever tried to spit out a window and hit a passing car’s windshield? Hard to do, and it often backfired. OOPS! “Dad, he spit on me!” General horseplay was standard operating procedure. I don’t know how many times Dad threatened, “Do you two want me to stop this car and get out my belt?” Then we had to settle down until a new idea popped into our heads. If Dad got riled up enough, we knew we had better be prepared to duck, as he might reach back over the seat with his right arm and take a wild swing in our direction. “Whew, that was a close one!”

   Well, after our drive through the winding twists and turns of Old State Road 47, we eventually made it to Crawfordsville. Dad parked the Buick, and my brother and I were free to roam the downtown while Mom shopped for groceries at West’s supermarket and Dad had a cup of coffee at the Silver Shanty. After an hour, it was time to head home.

   We had survived the backseat ride for another day.

John “Butch” Dale is a retired teacher and County Sheriff. He has also been the librarian at Darlington the past 37 years, and is a well-known artist and author of local history.