TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE!

There is maybe no sadder sight than to see a fellow human being who has been beaten up and then beaten down by life. Kicked in the stomach, dealt a raw deal, hit over the head, call it what you will. Left by the side of the road.

My Grandfather Norbo was one of those people. You could see it in his hollow eyes, hear it in his voice, observe it in the way he walked and carried himself. Sometimes you could catch it in his vacant stare as he sat in his old brown rocker in the living room. You could almost smell the fear. An unspoken desperation hung like a cloud over the very fabric of life itself. His gaunt face and twisted body told a tale. There was an underlying, unspoken sadness that permeated his very being. It was like he was always looking over his shoulder. For what or whom I didn't know, but I had the sense even as a young boy that there was more to the story. Much more. You see, my Grandpa Norbo had a past life. A past that would haunt him until the day he died . . . to be continued . . .

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THE CASE OF THE RUNAWAY VAN

I'm not sure if driving habits can be hereditary or if there's some possibility that automobile DNA is somehow transferable. With a less than stellar driving record, my Grandpa Norbo must have had at least some impact on my family and our driving.

One Christmas vacation in 1990, Jonathan was 2, Rob was 3 and Christy had just turned 5. We decided to go out to Abbotsford and visit Cathy's brother and his family. With a 600 mile drive ahead of us, we didn't get away until later in the day. Cathy's folks were driving their car and we were traveling together. We owned a Ford Taurus at the time and because the kids were all so young, we had 3 car seats lined up across the back seat. Driving long distances with 3 small children can tax anyone's patience and we made some effort to make these trips as smooth and painless as possible. This was long before DVD entertainment systems in vehicles was the norm. We loaded up with Adventures in Odyssey cassette packs from the library, brought along some of the kids favorite music, books, drinks and snacks and hit the road.

Canadian winters can be brutally cold and this winter was no exception. Driving through the mountains can be even more treacherous. Just west of Canmore, in a small hamlet ironically called Dead Man's Flats, we decided to stop for gas, potty break and to switch drivers. I filled up the Taurus and went inside to pay. Cathy and Grandma were in the bathroom with Christy and Rob. Grandpa was filling his car at the pump and keeping his eye on our car where Jonathan was sleeping.

As I was paying the attendant, he looked out his window and said, "Isn't that your car driving away?" I glanced up and sure enough, there was the blue Taurus heading out of the gas bar. Looking again, I saw Grandpa in full pursuit, arms and legs flying as he gave chase. I rushed outside and the car was now heading out of the parking lot. In an instant the car came to a halt as it went up over a curb and crashed into a giant snow drift on the service road. Grandpa and I reached the car at the same time. Opening the door, we found Jonathan sitting in the driver's seat screaming.

While everyone was busy, he had unfastened his seat belt, climbed out of his car seat, up and over the front seat, and put the car in drive. This was before you had to have your foot on the brake to put the car in drive. He was then able to steer the car as he stood at the wheel. Narrowly missing a large fuel tank, he landed relatively unscathed in the pile of snow at the end of the road. I carried him, still screaming, back into the station where Cathy was able to calm him down. We then went back to see about pulling the car out of the snow drift. We were very thankful as it could have been much worse. Good for the car companies for adding the "step on the brake" feature, before a vehicle can be placed in drive!

Flash forward to when the kids were quite a bit older and we were getting ready to head out on our summer vacation to the Shuswap Lakes in British Columbia. This was an annual pilgrimage for us and we spent many good summers there with our kids and several other families, at a couple of cabins on the water. It seemed that before a vacation I was often under a lot of stress, trying to get everything done before we left. Calls had to be made, faxes sent, record company deadlines met, Fed Ex packages dropped off in Calgary, all the while making sure the vehicle was serviced and countless other tasks.

The afternoon before we were to leave, I stopped at the post office to drop off a couple of letters and pick up the mail. Parking right beside the building, I figured I could just leave the van running, duck into the post office quickly and be on my way. I greeted a couple of people as I bounded up the stairs and hurried to the back to check our mailbox. As I was exiting the building, Wentwoth Pike said to me, "Isn't that your van driving away?" Wentworth (or Wentforth as we humorously called him) and his wife Dolores were standing out on the steps visiting with another couple. I looked in the direction he was pointing and sure enough there was the green Transport heading directly north on 3rd avenue. I knew Jonathan wasn't with me, so it couldn't have been him driving! Perhaps it had been stolen right in broad daylight?

By now I had taken off running at full speed, mail in one hand, mail keys in the other. This was made somewhat difficult as I was wearing my thongs, or as they're now called,"flip flops". Traveling 170 feet, the van made a sharp left turn in front of Kirk's Sheet Metal and headed across the street. I could see into the front window and there was no driver to be seen, so that ruled out the theft theory. Moving along at a steady pace, it started across an empty lot north of the Victory Church, narrowly missing two telephone poles as it rolled right between them. I was trying my hardest to catch up, but the van was not slowing down. As it motored a full block across the lot it went right between two parked cars that were on the east side of the next street. Having moved another 330 feet, it narrowly missed a parked car which was on the west side of the street. The vehicle went up the opposite curb showing no sign of coming to halt. Straight ahead was a house. With the right set of tires on the driveway and the left set on the lawn it just kept truckin'. Gaining some ground I managed to reach the van, open the driver's door, jump in and slam my thonged foot on the brake just as it was crunching through the downspout. I was completely out of breath and shaking as the van came to a stop, I was relieved to find it hadn't even grazed the house.

The unpiloted van had journeyed a total of 500 feet or 166 yards. I was a decent 100 yard dash sprinter in school, but this had taxed my limits! After I regained some of my composure, I went up the front stairs and rang the doorbell. The son of the owner was home and I tried to explain to him what had just happened. He looked at me as if I had just come from the bar across the street. I offered to pay for the damage to the drainpipe and he said he would explain it to his Dad. Thanking him, I turned to go back down the stairs to the van. Looking up I and saw a small crowd of bystanders at the other end of the field, peering across to view the outcome of my adventure.

I wish I could blame this occurrence on faulty brakes, negligence by the manufacturer or some other mechanical malady, but alas, I think the bottom line was that in my hurrying and stress, I simply forgot to put the van in park when I got out. It's a miracle that no one was hurt, no vehicles harmed and no real damage done. I called the home owner that evening and he assured me that all was well and he was able to straighten out his down spout.

I'm not sure if they keep Olympic records for races with men in thongs, but I just may hold one.

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© 2010 Stephen J. Rendall - All rights reserved.

DRIVERS, START YOUR ENGINES!

My Grandpa Norbo never met Mario Andretti, the famous Italian race car driver. I don't think Grandpa had ever even heard of the man. But Grandpa and Mario had one thing in common - they both loved speed. Legends abound in the Norbo family about Grandpa's driving exploits.

These include the many trips from Idaho to Canada where tires would blow, engines would overheat and Grandpa would pilot their old '39 Plymouth like it was some sort of overland rocket ship. It wasn't unheard of for Grandpa to head out across a farmer's field if he thought it might be a shorter route. There's one story my Mother told where, on one of the trips from Idaho, the entire wheel fell off the car. The family all got out and looked for the missing tire. When it was finally located, it had taken a bounce and was up in a tree!

When my brother and I were quite young, we would often accompany Grandpa on his various treks around town. These trips might be downtown to pick up supplies, over to the PBI carpenter shop where Grandpa sometimes worked, or to visit friends. One of his good friends was Emil Bruck. Mr. Bruck lived in a small hamlet on the north side of town called Ruarkville, named after Mr. Archie Ruark. There was another hamlet on the east side of town called Grantville named after, you guessed it . . . Mr. Will Grant!

These hamlets were curious little settlements, that by nature of their being in the county, escaped the bylaws and zoning of the town. A cross between east Tennessee and the wild west, they were a veritable explorer's dream for a young boy. In these hamlets you could find everything from goats and peacocks to the odd cow. Junky yards abounded and the dirt road made things pretty boggy in the spring rains. We would often see Mr. Marz in his old Model A coupe coming into town from Ruarkville.

One day, when I was eight, my brother six and cousin Timothy ten, Grandpa asked us boys if we would like to go with him to visit Mr. Bruck. A machinist by trade, Mr. Bruck had a small shop to the east of his house. This small green edifice held all sorts of fascinating bits and pieces to boggle our young minds. Inside was a small metal lathe along with a large assortment of tools and parts. Grandpa loved this type of thing, so he would often go out to the Brucks, have a coffee and chat about the latest project Mr. Bruck was working on.

We walked out of the house, down the sidewalk and into the small garage where the car was kept. My cousin Timothy and I sat in the back and my brother Dave climbed into the front. We began with a word of prayer. There was a long standing tradition in the Norbo household to have a word of prayer before going anywhere in the car. In retrospect, I can see why! Many times these prayers lasted longer than the trip itself. Grandpa would thank God for the protection and safety of the Norbo family on the roads these many years. He would pray for that trip specifically and for pretty much anything else that came to his mind. We would fidget, peek out from our squinty eyes and hope he would wrap up the prayer service so we could get the show on the road. Starting the engine, he would back the car out of the garage and into the alley, always narrowly missing the Prairie Tabernacle just to the north. Straightening the car, we were off.

Turning onto 6th Avenue heading north, Grandpa laid into the gas and the rocketship was launched. About a half mile down the road, 6th turned onto 7th Street or Dawn's Street as it's now known. There was no corner or intersection then, just a curve in the narrow road. Grandpa always like to take that curve like he was on his final lap at the Grand Prix. That day was no different. The big old Plymouth fishtailed on the dirt road as Grandpa cranked the wheel, clouds of dust billowing in its wake. As we rounded the curve, the door flew open on the side where I was sitting. My little bottom slid across the vinyl seat and I was headed out the open door. In a flash, my cousin Timothy reached over and grabbed the waistband of my pants and pulled me back into the car. I had just come within a whisker of flying right out onto the road! As Grandpa rounded the corner, the door slammed shut and we headed east toward our destination. Unaware of what had just happened, Grandpa focused on the task at hand which was getting to the Brucks in the fastest time possible.

After we arrived at the Brucks, Grandpa would have a coffee and a good yak with Mr. Bruck. We played outside in the trees with a couple of large black crows keeping an eye on us. Occasionally one would let out a squawk, scaring the liver out us. A block away the sound of Mr. Marz's peacocks screaming only added to the cacophony. We climbed on the mountains of wood and scrap that Mr. Bruck kept on hand for his projects. Sometimes he would show us what he was working on. I was always fascinated how he could take raw steel and make something useful out of it.

When Grandpa was ready to return, he would honk the horn on the old car. This was a signal for us boys to gather for the trip home. We would then retrace our route, hanging on for dear life. Arriving home, Grandpa would roar back into the garage. Somehow he would manage to stop the car before it went right through the back wall. Safely inside, Grandpa removed his wool cap, bowed his head and thanked the Lord again for all the travelling mercies to the Norbo family over the years.

Not only was I thanking the Lord, I was thanking my cousin Timothy that I was still around and able to take another trip with my race car driving Grandpa!

And kids . . . wear your seatbelts.

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© 2010 Stephen J. Rendall - All rights reserved.

Grandpa Norbo getting me started early in my love of speed!