On Sunday Bill Petry drove his 1917 Ford Model T, which he bought when he was 15 years old for $100—money earned delivering papers—to the Island Nursing Home and Care Center to give Mrs. Stevenson, who just turned 98, a ride. Bill has owned the car for almost 60 years; purchased it from the original owner in 1960.
Mrs. Stevenson’s daughter had called the nursing home, said that she heard a local man gave people rides in his Model T. She thought that would be a nice birthday present for her mother. She brought her son who would record the event with his video camera.
An attendant pushed Mrs. Stevenson down the sidewalk in a wheel chair and helped her into the front seat. After she was settled, her grandson asked, “Can I pay for your fuel?” and Bill said “No.” Then Mrs. Stevenson’s daughter, who was leaning against the hood chewing and snapping gum, said, “She don’t want to talk, just ride,” and Bill said “Yes.” Then she said, “About ten minutes will be plenty—she tires real quick,” and Bill said nothing.
The grandson stepped in close, started his camera. The video clip would start with grandmother in the front seat, continue with the long view as she rode away.
Mrs. Stevenson laid her hands palm down on the seat, caressed the black leather, shiny, cracked with age. She turned to Bill and nodded, leaned back, closed her eyes, inhaled the heavy aroma of grease and hot engine oil, mildew and old wood. Bill pushed the starter button. The engine grunted once, then hummed. The car jerked forward, anxious to be on the way.
Bill engaged low gear and the two of them lurched out of the parking lot, headed north onto Route 15. The Model T rattled and bumped along the narrow highway to the causeway that separates Deer Isle from Little Deer Isle. When Mrs. Stevenson spotted the suspension bridge to the mainland, she leaned forward in her seat. As they crossed, she shaded her eyes against the early morning sunlight, sharp and crisp on her face. She clenched and unclenched her fists as they bounded off the bridge and roared up the hill, smiled when the T strained and grumbled. They took Highway 175 to Sedgwick, bounced and weaved along the narrow road, past sugar maples, now fringed with crimson. They roared through Sedgwick, scooted past the Baptist church, rumbled over the causeway east of town, sent explosions of gulls skyward. They sailed up the hill, swept past saltwater farms, meandering mudflats, rambling fields speckled with sumac and wild raspberries. Just outside Brooklin they stopped at roadside stand for a quart of cider, donuts, and a basket of apples. They clattered southeast along the Naskeag Point Road toward the Atlantic Ocean, passed farmsteads and barns and rock walls and apple trees. Bill brought the T to a stop on a bluff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. He shut off the engine, opened the sack of doughnuts, poured cider into paper cups. They ate in silence, except for the murmur of waves on shore, the chatter of gulls on the pier, the far-off rumble of lobster boats, veiled in fog.
Mrs. Stevenson had been on this bluff before. Seventy years earlier, she sat there with her lover. Shared a bottle of red wine, eaten cheese and bread. Intoxicated by the essence of red clover, hot sun, two bodies held close.
An hour and fifty minutes later they crept up the driveway to the Island Nursing Home and Care Center. The grandson stood in the parking lot, video camera running, while they coasted to a long, slow stop. Mrs. Stevenson’s daughter strode over to Bill and said, “I hope she enjoyed herself—you were gone a hell of a long time.”
They helped the old woman out of the car and into the wheel chair. The attendant pushed her along the sidewalk, held her arm as she labored up the wooden steps to the porch. Mrs. Stevenson took a step toward the front door, then paused, gazed back at Bill. His hands were on the steering wheel, engine running. Mrs. Stevenson gripped the attendant’s arm, turned toward the door. The Model T shuddered, eased forward, let out one long, mournful, aaaaaooooogha.
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Most people don’t like to ride with Bill in the Model T. They’re bothered by its lack of comfort: the old car is noisy, bumpy, and slow. Those who do are often oblivious to the experience. They chatter about goings on in the community, the price of lobster, movies they’ve seen, the quality of a restaurant meal they just ate.
For Mrs. Stevenson, who is almost the same age as the T, this was more than a jaunt, it was an expedition deep into her past. It might have been her father behind the wheel, driving them to church or into town. Perhaps she was dressed in her finest and sat next to her beau. Maybe she was touring with friends, leaving for college, starting a new job. It might have been her Model T.
For some people, reminiscences can be like milkweed seeds. Every so often they burst forth, float aloft for everyone to see. But not Mrs. Stevenson. She holds her memories tight. They’re just for her.
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Andrew Miller retired from a career that included university teaching and research in endangered species and aquatic habitat restoration. Now he has time to pursue his long-held interest in creative writing. Recent work has appeared in: Literally Stories, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, The Fair Observer, Gravel: A Literary Journal, Fiction on the Web, and Microfiction Monday Magazine.
Photo: Paul Brennan
