Miss Ethel: Chapter 2

The Race Car Caper

This is the continuing story of Josh and Harv, two young boys who inspite of their different races, become good friends in the Old South of the 1940's and 50's.

Through the years Josh and I remained friends. We attended different schools and churches, but since we lived close, we were often together. That is not to say we did not have friends in our own respective worlds, but there was something that drew us together and I am not sure what it was. True, my white friends lived a couple of miles or more from me while Josh was only a half to a quarter of a mile through the woods, but it was more than that. There was a time at about 12-13 years old when I spent so much time at Josh’s house that one day my father ask me if I was planning to join the NAACP? The implication was I was becoming more identified with black than white.

Those years, the 12-14 age years, were what I called our in-between years. We were too old to be playing children’s games, like cowboys and Indians or other make believe games, but we were also too young to be in the dating and cruising scene where you drove around town to see who else was in town. So, we mainly hung out and talked or played toss with a baseball or football.

At the time it seemed natural, but looking back on those years I now have a different perspective about the customs that permitted us to be equals at Josh’s but not at my house. At his house we interacted as equals competing as to who would go first or second, sit at the dinner table together and share whatever we had. There were no restrictions at his house. But, because of the times and customs of the Deep South, when Josh came to my house, a rigid set of rules came into play. We could not sit down at the dinning room table and eat together. I could make us sandwiches and we could sit outside under the tree and eat together, but it was not proper for a “colored” person to sit at the dinning room table of a white person. Josh also would always go to the back door to enter our house and wait for approval from my mother. To my knowledge, no one in my family ever told a black person they had to go to the back door to enter our house, but because of the customs and the unwritten, but understood rules of the old south, Josh always came to the back door and waited till my mother invited him inside. On occasion we played board games in my room, but more often, we played outside because there were fewer restrictions.

My grandfather’s property had a creek that flowed through and several ponds where we both enjoyed fishing. Sometimes we would get a sandwich or other foods and go fishing all day on the creek. Sometimes, Miss Ethel and some of the other kids would go with us.

We also enjoyed hunting rabbit and squirrels. The usual method for country boys to hunt rabbits was to spotlight and shine their eyes at night. Though I was told it was illegal, many country folks hunted rabbit that way and since they were not an endangered species and more than enough around, I never knew anyone to get caught or fined for hunting rabbits at night. The only thing about which we had to be careful was to be sure the eyes we spotted did not belong to a cow, because it was easy to mistake them.

One day we decided to build a block-wheeled wagon. We had found a little pedal car body we planned to use on the wagon. It was a toy car big enough for a child to sit in that used pedal power to make it go. The steering mechanism was gone as was the pedals, but it didn’t matter since we had no intention of using pedals for power.

The block-wheeled wagon was usually made with a 2 x 6 board about 4 feet long. A 2 x 4 board was attached across one end with a bolt for the wheels and a rope attached to each end of the 2 x 4 with which to steer. On the other end a 2 x 4 was nailed for the rear axle. The wheels were made by cutting down a tree and then cutting blocks about 2 inches thick. A hole was drilled in the center and the wheels were nailed to the ends of the 2 x 4’s with a large nail. How big the wheels were depended on how big a tree you could find that was round and not “whop-sided.”

We found a cherry tree that was about 12 inched in diameter. Cherry is good because it’s a hard wood. I hoped no one was planning to harvest that cherry tree to saw it into lumber, because they were going to be disappointed when they discovered it on the ground.

We had only one problem with our wagon; we could not find a bolt with a nut and washers with which to attach our front axle. After a long discussion, we decided to nail the front axle so it would not turn, but use two brakes on the rear wheels for steering. If you wanted to go right, you simply pulled on the right-hand brake, which was another 2 x 4 nailed on the side of the wagon. When it made contact with the right wheel, the friction slowed it, causing the wagon to turn right. For a left hand turn, you did the same with the left-hand brake.

With the wagon completed, we headed off into the woods looking for a suitable hill on which to make our track. On the backside of Papa’s land, we found the hihll, and it was almost perfect. It had a steep descent to gain speed and few trees or bushes in the raceway, plus a nice sand bed at the bottom. The only problem was a four-strand barbwire fence about 20 feet from the bottom of the hill. We debated if that was going to be a problem and decided we had enough space to turn before hitting the barbwire. After getting the track cleared, we flipped a coin to see who would be the first to test the hill. I won.

On the first run down the hill, I braked a little early on my turn, but everything went well and soon we were taking turns going down. After a while, it became too easy and commonplace to make the run and so we decided to see who could come the closest to the barbwire before making our turn, without going into the fence. Each time one of us went closer, we put a small rock to mark the target for the next driver. It was getting late in the afternoon and I decided I was going to win this contest with a bold move. I would touch my brake till right at the turning point, dangerously close to the fence. This was what we called the “suicide move,” but which should have been called the “stupid move.” Near the bottom of my run I was flying, but stubbornly refused to brake. Josh was yelling for me to brake, but he couldn't fool me, I knew he was just trying to make me chicken out so he would win the contest of nerves. Then my nerves told me it was time and I pulled on the brake lever, which came off in my hand. Too late to think, my reflexes took over and I tried to stand up and bail out the back of the car before I crashed into the fence, but my knees were stuck inside the small car that had been designed for 4-6 year olds, not thirteen year old boys. I knew I was in trouble headed for the barbwire and instinctively pulled up my hands across my face to protect myself as best I could. Then the wheels hit a partially covered rock and instantly the car became airborne. The little car body partially separated from the wagon body and giving me just enough room so my legs, which were already pushing hard against the wagon, shot me out of the car. The car and wagon went between the third and fourth strand of wire and I went over the top of the fence and into a clump of bushes. Josh was afraid I might be dead and he might be blamed for killing me. He was praying that I wasn’t killed.

When he reached me he said, “Thank God, you’re not dead.”

“You weren’t worried about me being killed were you?” I asked.

“Yeah. If you got killed, sure as shooting I’d git the blame from momma and all them white folks,” he laughed.

“Thanks a lot,” I said. “You really know who your friends are when you have trouble!”

“Yeah, Harv,” he joked, “I was prayin, ‘Dear Lord, let ‘im jest be injer’d, or disabled, or mutilated, or whatever, but pleez let his brain and mouth be working so he kin tell ever’body it wudn’t my fault. Then if you wanna kill ‘im, hit’ll be alright!’”

I was lucky because with everything that happened, I only had a lump on my head, a ripped forearm from a dead limb and a sore leg where I landed. No broken bones, thank God.

“Hey, Josh, I won the bet,” I said.

“No you didn’t,” he responded. “You didn't made the turn.”

“That’s wudn’t the bet,” I explained. “The bet wus who could come closest to the bobwire.”


“Well, I guess you won, cause you cleared that bobwire jest about three inches,” he conceded. “You wanna git our wagon out o’ the fence?”

“Nah, leave it.” I said, “If I had some paint, I’d put a skull and cross-bones on it.”

“Yeah,” he said, “Beware ever’body who wanna ride down this here hill on a block-wheeled wagon!”

We walked back home. Actually Josh walked and I leaned on him and limped. Miss Ethel saw us coming and I guess saw me hanging on Josh limping and she came running out saying, “What’s done happened tu you. You got a broke leg or sumpin?”

“No mam,” I responded,” I just had a little wreck with our block-wheeled wagon.”

“Lawdy mercy, you done got a bad cut on yo arm. Come in dis house le’ me doctor it.”

“Wudn’t my fault, momma,” Josh volunteered before anyone could ask or accuse.

“That’s right, Miss Ethel.” I agreed, “My brake come off and I hit a bunch of trees.”

“My goodness,” said Miss Ethel, “You boys gonna kill yo’self a fore you big enough to know what’s what.”

She finished doctoring me with coal oil for my cut and when I said I’d better go on home, she would have none of it.

“Nope, you ain’t gonna walk home wit yo leg hurt. Josh, you run on over and tell his momma to come git him inner car. Now, you be sure and tell her that he ain’t hurt bad, just banged up a little. Now go on!”

When my mother arrived, she was not upset, cause Josh had done what Miss Ethel had said, and made sure she knew it was only minor hurts.

Miss Ethel met the car and said, “Lawdy, Ms. Williams, I don’t know what we gone do with dees two boys. They off a ripping and a running and I just worry what kind of devilment they gone git into.”

“Yes, Ethel, I know what you mean. But, you know we did the same when we were kids, too.”

“Yasum, you right about that,” Miss Ethel agreed and covering her mouth in secrecy said, “But I don’t wanna be confessing fore them. They got enough i-dees without me feedin’ ‘em eny mor,” and she slapped her knee and laughed.

“Thank you, Ethel, for doctoring 'im up and letting Josh come get me. Do you have any idea how this happened?”

“No’m, I don’t. They said something about building a wagon and the brake tow up or something and he hit a tree. Likely that’s ‘bout all we’ll ever know about it.”

“Thank you again, Ethel.”

And we drove off to our house. I guess she agreed with Miss Ethel, cause she never asked me about it. Josh and I always referred to it as the great race car caper.

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ID: 297029   (Rated: ASR) The Southern Tongue  Momma, why can't I understand what Bubba is a saying? by Writer of the Winds

ID: 297058   (Rated: ASR) Miss Ethel: Chapter 3  The continuing story of Harv, Josh and Miss Ethel. by Writer of the Winds

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