Olds called the 1912 Reo his `Farewell Car’, claiming that it was the best car that
he could design with his twenty-five years of experience, and the best that could be
built, in materials and workmanship.
I believed him, and (far more important) Brian believed him. It may Nave been the
`farewell’ Reo but, when I left Earth in 1982, Mr Olds’ name was still famous in
autos, in ‘Oldsmobile’.
Our luxury car was quite expensive – more than $1200. Brian did not tell me what he
had paid, but the Reo was widely advertised and I can read. But we got a lot for our
money; it was not only a handsome, roomy touring car but also it had a powerful
engine (35 horsepower) and a top speed of 45 miles per hour. It was never driven at
that speed, I think – the speed limit in the city was 17 miles per hour, and the
rutted dirt roads outside the city were quite unsuited to such high speed. Oh, Brian
and Nelson may have tried it – opened the throttle wide on some freshly graded,
level road out in Kansas somewhere; neither of them believed in bothering ladies
with things that might worry them. (Betty Lou and I did not believe in worrying our
husbands unnecessarily, either; it evens out.)
Brian fitted out the basic car with all sorts of luxuries that would make it
pleasant for his wife and family – a windshield, a self-starter, a set of side
curtains, a speedometer, a spare tyre, an emergency gas tank, etc. The tyres had
demountable rims and only rarely did Brian have to patch a tyre beside the road.
It did have one oddity; its top could predict the weather. Put the top down; it
rained. Put the top up; the sun came out.
It was a one-man top, just as the ads claimed. That one man was Briney – assisted by
his wife, two half-grown girls, and two small boys, all of us straining and sweating
and Brian nobly repressing the language he wanted to use. But eventually Brian
figured out how to outsmart that top: leave it up all the time. This ensured good
weather for motoring. We surely did enjoy that car. Nancy and Carol named it `Ei Reo
Grande’. (Brian and I had lately taken up Spanish; as usual our children were trying
to outwit us. Pig Latin never did work; they cracked the code at once. Alfalfa
speech did not last much longer.) We had established early in our marriage that some
occasions were for the entire family… and some were for Mama and Papa alone –
children would stay home and not whine about it, lest the middle justice be invoked.
(Mother had used a peach switch; I found that one from an apricot tree worked just
as well.)
By 1912, with Nancy a responsible twelve-gear-old girl, it was possible to leave the
youngsters at home in her charge for a couple of hours or more in the daytime. (This
was before Woodrow was born. Once he was big enough to walk, controlling him called
for an Oregon boot and a morningstar.) This let Briney and me have some precious
outings alone – and one of them got me Woodrow, as I have mentioned. Briney
delighted in making love outdoors, and so did I; it gave a spice of danger to what
was otherwise a sweet but lawful occasion.
But when the whole family went for a joy ride, we piled Nancy and Carol, Brian
junior and George, into the roomy tonneau… with Nancy charged with seeing that no
one stood up on the back seat (not to save the leather upholstery but to protect the
child); I sat up front with Marie, and Brian drove.
The picnic basket and the lemonade jug were carried, in the tonneau, Carol being
charged with keeping her brothers out of the picnic. We would drive out to Swope
Park, picnic there, and see the zoo animals, then joy ride again after the picnic,
perhaps clear out to Raytown or even Hickman Mills… then home with the children
falling asleep, to a supper of picnic remains and cups of hot soup.