Spare Moments at My Folks' Farm 2

Attica, Indiana, was a frequent destination for my parents. My father’s father had graduated from high school there, and it was just across the Wabash River—and the county line—from our home. For several childhood years, I visited a dentist (Dr. Sullivan?) whose office stood at the top of a series of creaking stairs. His building was near the dime store. I still have a tin jet on wheels that came from the dime store after a trip to see the dentist. I think my parents, both of whom wore false teeth, understood that dentistry could be painful and wanted me to have a reward after sitting in the dentist’s chair: hence, the purchase of a toy at the dime store. I will add that, as a child, I considered such variety stores the best stores on earth—with their tables crowded with trinkets, their shelves laden with toys.

Attica, Indiana, As I Remember It

Afternoons in Attica found us at Sam Newmark’s, a clothing store. As I recall, most of my wardrobe came from Newmark’s, including the leisure suits I proudly wore on special occasions when I was in high school. My polychromatic shirts put the “poly” in polyester!

Back when I was in junior high, I participated in an art show at the Carnegie Library, one of Indiana’s fine buildings instituted by funds from Andrew Carnegie. My art was juvenile. Come to think of it, my art today remains juvenile, despite my having enjoyed a side career as a freelance illustrator for over forty years. I guess I am “among the very young at heart,” as Frank Sinatra sang.

While I was growing up, my parents often took in a movie at the Devon Theatre. In those days, great movies that had not been seen for several years returned to theaters. I saw Ben Hur when it played again at the Devon.

Before heading home, visits to Attica frequently included a stop at the IGA to pick up supper ingredients. The grocery was located near the bridge back to Warren County.

One of my favorite memories of Attica was formed after I had become a pianist and was about to graduate. I played in the pit orchestra for a follies performed on the stage at one end of the gymnasium of the high school in Attica. There were numerous rehearsals. As a high school senior, I felt very grown up when I drove my 1953 Packard from Pine Village High School (my school) to Attica High School, grabbed a quick dinner at a restaurant nearby, and practiced the show until late at night. I could not have foreseen how often I would find myself practicing for other performances as a piano major at Indiana University down the road.

If I had a time machine, I’d like to revisit Attica’s darkened gymnasium and brightly lit stage, take my place at the piano, find the tempo in my mind, and begin the opening production number.

Vehicles I Remember: 1953 Packard

One morning over our breakfast of cornflakes, my father mentioned that a Packard Clipper automobile was for sale in nearby Attica, Indiana. I was a high school junior who was suddenly alert. Could I own my own car? The concept was dazzling! Freedom! Mobility! Taking the keys and going for a spin whenever I felt like doing so! Of course, my parents would quickly rein me in, but the idea of having my own car was about the most exciting idea I had ever had. My father added that the seller was a widow and that the sale price was $125.00. I could afford the vehicle! “When can we take a look at it?” I asked. We could go that very morning!

1953 Packard Clipper Like Mine (Only Green, Not Silver)

When my father pulled over to the curb of a pleasant street in Attica, I immediately spotted the car that I hoped would be mine. It was parked in front of a tidy house. The Packard was a 1953 model with silvery gray paint. I wanted the car at once! My father and I rang the doorbell, and a small, neatly dressed woman with white hair and a happy smile answered. After some conversation, she handed me the key. My father and I took the Packard for a test drive. It ran well. I liked the fact that I sat up tall in the seat and could see all around without restriction. I had feared that the car might be similar to the 1951 Hudson that featured in my previous blog; the windows in the back of the Hudson were so small that I felt I could not see everything that needed to be seen for safe driving. The Packard was the opposite; I had an unobstructed view in all directions.

I loved the car! I readily handed the seller my hard-earned $125.00, and I was never happier to part with money at any time in my life. My father followed me as I drove the Packard home.

The car was by no means perfect. The bottom of one taillight cover had been broken out. It had been made of red glass. I found a red plastic container, cut it in two, and taped half of it where the glass had been. (In those carefree days of long ago, a taped piece of plastic was considered a legitimate repair by a high school student.) Rust had bubbled through the sides of the body just behind the back wheels and just above the headlights. Whenever I waxed the car (which I frequently did), I had to be careful not to cut my hand on the sharp edges of the rusted areas. The upholstery of the front seat had been torn, but a seat cover made of a rather flimsy gray material served the purpose of hiding the tear, even though it could be felt through the cover. Unlike the Hudson, which my grandfather had loaded with options, the Packard had no extras. It was as basic a Clipper as it could be: truly a no-frills car. All the same, it took me faithfully to school on those rare mornings when I missed the bus.

I drove the Packard to the Hoosier 4-H Leadership Center for Ouibache, a summer camp for which I served as a counselor, and I took my car to the nearest towns, such as Oxford and Williamsport, for errands. I never drove it a long distance. It continued to run smoothly, as it was never run for long at a time.

Years later, when my father passed away, the Packard was one of two cars parked in a garage. (The other was the Hudson.) I felt emotionally attached to the car, but I knew that I could not restore it or keep it. It was sold at the estate auction for $200.00, somewhat more than I paid for it originally! As it turns out, the 1953 Clipper was arguably the least desirable car that Packard ever made; for that reason, mine, which was rusted out, was worth no more than the amount the buyer paid for it. As undesirable as it was for a collector, the car occupied a lasting place in my affection. To this day, I recall it with tremendous fondness.