Chapter XXXVI: Road Signs

ON THE AFTERNOON of March 5, 1975, I drove down to the First American National Bank in Green Hills. Everything was fine, in perfect working condition. No knocks and no evidence of overheating. While I stood at the teller's window, Mr. Uden, the bank manager, came to me and asked if that was my gray Cadillac parked in front of the bank. I told him I had one there. He said, "I think it's on fire."

We rushed out to huge clouds of black billowing smoke. Someone with a fire extinguisher tried to put out the blaze, but couldn't raise the hood. I asked Mr. Uden to call the fire department, and then I went to raise it myself.

The release latch was hidden in an unusual place such that I would have to get out and show the attendants at filling stations where to find it. Unfortunately, there were no attendants around to instruct.

Everything was blazing under the hood, but the hand extinguisher got the flames under control just as the fire truck arrived, and in the end, all the firemen had to do was make a report.

I had the car towed to Wilson's Garage. They estimated $400 to $600 to get her back in shape. Except for the engine block and ventilating wheel, everything mechanical needed to be replaced, and then she'd need a paint job. In my opinion, no old car was worth that price, especially for someone at my age, with only another year or two of driving left in me.

I sold that Cadillac as scrap for $25 and now depend upon others for my transportation. Perhaps it was a sign to get me off the road.


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