Читать книгу Vignettes - Life's Tales Book Three - William M.D. Baker - Страница 5

The year is 1943. World War II is going at an all out rage. Rationing of everything from shoes to gasoline is being strictly enforced. Our ration of gasoline is three gallons a week, the amount allowed a family with an “A” sticker. More of that later. My circle of buddies at the time extended to Pleasanton where Dick Koopman lived and, with whom we spent as many days and evenings as we could swimming n the Kaiser Gravel Pit, which was an absolute No-No. It was a great place to swim and to shoot Dick’s .22 caliber rifle. It did, however, have one great draw back. It was about 25 miles from where I lived to Dick’s house. Our normal method of getting to and from Pleasanton was hitch-hiking since no family would use their gas rationing for a trip that could not be called “necessary”. However, I had a ration stamp and permission to use the car (1939 Buick, see insert) even though I am certain that if my step-father had known that it was my intention to drive to Pleasanton, I would not have gotten the car for the simple reason that an “A” sticker is good for 3 gallons of gas and the Buick used about 12 gallons per mile. Work it out: 25 miles each direction = 50 miles, divided by 12 = 4.2 gallons are needed. I had only three.

I can truthfully say I expected Earl or Bob, my other buddies, to come up with an “A” stamp, but they didn’t. It was not easy getting illegal stamps, although it was done. Our across the street neighbor was a traveling salesman with a “C” sticker which gave him all the gas he could justify. On occasion he would offer us a “C” stamp and we would get an extra 15 gallons of gas, providing, a gas station attendant would take the stamp which had been detached from the ration book. Back to the story.

I picked up Earl and Bob and we drove to Dick’s, swam, had our fun and headed home with all of us glued to the gas gauge which had to read 1/4 full when I got home. We coasted at every opportunity, eased ourselves over hills and watched the gas gauge a it fell below 1/4. Now what?

The first decision was that Earl and Bob would have to walk home from where I’d drop them off and the second decision was to top off the tank to 1/4 full by adding a “little bit” of kerosene which was not rationed. We reasoned, that should work. We’ll only add a little bit. With it done, the guys dropped off and the car parked in the garage at the bottom of the steep driveway, I quietly entered the back-door and went to bed without disturbing anyone.

In the morning, my step-father was late in getting up and to avoid missing his bus to San Francisco he chose to drive the car to the station thus saving the walking time of about ten minutes. I vividly recall his bounding down the stairway from upstairs and dashing out the back door to the garage, sliding the garage doors open and starting the car.

But, when he attempted to back up the steep driveway the engine tapped, coughed, sputtered and died. He rolled back into the garage. Again, he started the engine, waited a few minutes, then with the engine tapping and blowing blue smoke he made it up the driveway and to the bus station.

My step-father never asked for an explanation, but he did insist that I and my buddies fill the tank with gasoline, which we did by begging gas stamps from friends.

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