16 • MAY 2015
THE PETALUMA POST
Ana Manwaring writes, teaches
creative writing, and edits manuscripts through JAM Editorial
Services and Manuscript Consultation. She’s branded cattle,
camped in Mayan ruins, lived
on houseboats, worked for a PI,
swum with dolphins, and writes
about it all. Information about
editing or the summer schedule of
creative writing classes is available at www.anamanwaring.
com.
I
t’s no secret Americans, especially Californians, love their
motor vehicles. Cars equal
freedom, the foundation
of our proud country. Statistics
estimate 253 million cars, trucks
and motorcycles in operation today and 13,250,000 of them are
in California. No wonder in May,
alone, I’ve found over 100 car
shows listed on the internet statewide. But Petalumans love cars
the most. Petaluma is the setting
for the film, American Graffiti,
and our homegrown Cruisin’ the
Boulevard, Petaluma California’s
Salute to American Graffiti proves
our devotion.
The last time I attended a
car show it was with my friend
Darleen, a former nun. I may love
my Prius for its reliable transport
and great gas mileage, but Darleen
was a true car aficionado. In a
world I’d believed to belong to
the men folk, she held her own. I
trailed her through the vintage car
exhibit in Plaza North and tried to
pay attention to her conversations
with the motorheads, my brain a
tilt-a-whirl. I enjoyed the spring
sunshine and the gleaming paint
jobs, but the gab flew by in a
whoosh of displaced air. How
had Darleen come to love cars
and know so much about them?
Turned out if she wanted to visit
with her dad, she’d have to work
on the car with him.
My Dad wasn’t a home
mechanic nor was my brother.
My husband would rather “chew
off his arm” than wield a wrench.
However, I have loved a car or
two. My first car-crush was with
a 1953 Buick Roadmaster Skylark
convertible. Why Dad sold the
sexy symbol of the good life, I’ll
never know. The next? True love:
a 1961 Jaguar Mark 2 with a grey
body and red leather interior.
Even though the car broke down
about every two miles, it’s never
been replaced in my affections.
I still pine for the perfume of the
leather and mahogany interior. If
only I could find a bottle of that
scent…or perhaps the scent of
my college beau, Russell. I didn’t
love his black and white ’57 Chevy
nearly as much as I loved him,
still, I rode proudly by his side the
few times the car actually ran. It
wasn’t until I drove my 1969 VW
Westfalia Camper to Mexico
that I learned something about
engines. Unfortunately, only in
Spanish. BTW I hated driving
that bus.
I envy people who love
PETALUMAPOST.COM
SHADOWCommunity
OF SONOMA MOUNTAIN
One More Spin
and understand cars. In honor of
Cruising the Boulevard, I invited
my friend Dina Corcoran to share
her story of a friend in thrall with
the allure of freedom only a car
can provide.
Earl and The Beast
Dina Corcoran
“As I pass on through life
I will always remember Dina as
that gal who was a little different
– sometimes for good, sometimes
for bad.”
Earl wrote this in my 1954
high school yearbook. I took it
as a compliment because Earl
himself was “a little different,” and
I admired him greatly for it.
If I close my eyes and think
of Earl, the first thing that comes
to me is the sound of his happy,
gravelly voice, often just on the
edge of laughter. He had a habit
of raising the pitch of his voice at
the end of his sentences, so that
simple statements of fact came
out like excited questions.
Earl’s elderly parents
thrilled to his birth. He became
their treasure, yet they did not
spoil him. They taught him to be
responsible, kind, careful, and to
work hard for what he wanted.
One thing he wanted
was The Beast, a battered, 1929
Model-A Ford. After earning
enough money from odd jobs, he
owned it.
He spent a large part of his
time lovingly bringing it back to
life with trial and error tinkering.
Every nut and bolt was paid for
with his own earnings.
Together, Earl and his
dream car travelled the lightly
forested hills above our town of
Los Gatos, sometimes on the
fire trails and sometimes off trail.
If she broke down, Earl knew
just how to deal with her many
personality quirks to keep her up
and humming happily. She gave
him the freedom to wander.
He was truly a loner, so his
explorations of “the wilderness,”
as he called it, were ideal times for
him. But sometimes a few of the
guys and I could talk him into
by Ana Manwaring
letting us pile into The Beast and
come with him on “safari”.
What adventures we had!
Sometimes we felt the car would
tip over, so we all leaned far to the
other side. Tires became trapped
in ruts. When bushes would get
stuck under the bottom, we had
to get out, lie on our bellies in the
dirt and reach to pull them out.
There were sweet times when
we would collectively gasp at the
beauty of a vista or the sight of
wildlife. At these times we would
stop The Beast and sit quietly
together in appreciation.
Back at school my relating
of these adventures disgusted
the “in” girls. Groveling in the
dirt while wearing pedal pushers!
They would never deign to shed
their bouffant skirts, held in
perpetual fluffiness with multiple
petticoats, to don a pair of pedal
pushers. They derided me further
for being the only girl at school to
ride a man’s racing bicycle. I wore
pants for that, too.
I guess it was natural that
Earl would come to the Senior
Prom and Dinner without a
date. All the rest of us came as
couples. At the fancy restaurant
he graciously moved from table
to table visiting many of us, and
helping himself to a celery stick
or whatever he could latch onto.
We suspected he hadn’t paid for a
dinner.
Always a bit of a skinflint,
he put most of his money into
The Beast.
After dinner the couples
lined up for the professional
photographer. Earl had his
picture taken alone, crouching
down to grin menacingly at the
camera, eyes twinkling, and a rose
clenched in his teeth. I still have
that picture. It’s tucked into my
yearbook next to his inscription.
We missed seeing him at
the 50th reunion, because The
Beast broke down, as was her
wont, halfway between his home
in Oregon and Los Gatos. He
had hoped to drive her to the
reunion. After hearing the news
that he would not be joining us,
I gazed sadly at his unclaimed
nametag, not knowing which was
causing me greater heartache--the thought of missing Earl or the
loss of an opportunity to take one
more spin in The Beast.
***
I’ll meet you at one of
Cruising the Boulevard’s events,
maybe on “memory lane.” We’ll
take one more spin together in the
shadow of Sonoma Mountain.
BALLARD STREET
by Jerry Van Amerongen