Falling Out

We always had a good time traveling in the blue Ford, with one exception.


March 1958


The 1962 Ford Galaxy was two years old when Dad bought it. He told the story of how he saw the Galaxy displayed high on a platform in front of all the other cars in a car lot in North Hollywood. He fell in love with the car but he thought it was beyond his price range, so the next day he brought his mother to see the car and she liked it so much she told him to go ahead and buy it. She might have even chipped in a bit to make it affordable. Dad battled fiercely with the salesman and when it was over, he brought the car-- which stood high above and far apart from the others-- home. The story of the ’66 Studebaker was less intriguing: he bought it from a from a tax client. That car had an antiquated look, but we had learned that purchasing big ticket items, which to Dad would have been anything over $100, were an annoyance to him, and so we were pleased with it but in a reserved kind of way. Something about it was untrustworthy. And the story of the ’65 Impala was a purchase from his daughter-in-law’s sister’s husband, and we all pretended that it was a high school graduation gift for me, or at least I did anyway.
But the ’55 Ford Fairlane was different. It was there before I was born. There was something in its design that gave it an amiable countenance; the blue Ford was part of the family. Mom and I roamed all over Burbank in that car. From King Cole’s grocery store to the Laundromat on Magnolia, where she would-- for no apparent reason-- buy me a 7up. We on occasion go to Sears and May Company in North Hollywood and there was a smorgasbord out there where we would have lunch but only when Grandma Chavoor was with us. Mom and I never traveled in silence. We never ran out of things to discuss, ponder, imagine or remember. There was never the feeling that either one of us was stuck with the other. We always had a good time traveling in the blue Ford, with one exception.
We were coming back from Dad’s office. We came up a side street from Alameda heading toward Oak Street. Mom had advised me not to hold the door handle because I might accidentally open the door. I was four years old and ready to set Mom right.
“The door won’t open because the lock is down, see?” I pushed the button over and over to prove my point.
“No” she returned calmly, “that will lock the outside but not the inside.”
Now I was annoyed with her. Why wouldn’t she believe me?
“No” I declared firmly, “the door won’t open on the inside, too. Watch!”
She was starting a right turn onto Oak Street while I offered her my empirical proof.
The door swung open. I saw the open door, the street, and the curb. “I’m wrong” was my last thought. There was a blank space, then the next thing I knew, I was looking at the sky, then I saw people standing around and I was wondering what are all these people doing here, what’s going on? I was looking at each person when a man very carefully picked me up and set me down on the cool and soothing lawn. I still hadn’t figured out what happened. I tried to get up.
“Just rest there for a while” the man said. It sounded like a good idea. I couldn’t see Mom anywhere. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again I was sitting on a doctor’s table in a doctor’s office I didn’t recognize, answering questions from a doctor who wasn’t my regular doctor. I saw Mom standing to the side, but I didn’t greet her and she didn’t say anything.
Finally I was home, in my room, on my bed, trying to sleep. It was a bright day with crystal blue sky. I heard the buzz of a small plane. I closed my eyes.