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| Five of the six siblings. Husby is the cutie on the far right. |
Family travel in the late fifties was . . . interesting.
I don’t know how we survived it.
The kids were herded, en masse, into the back seat of the
car and the door was shut.
The youngest invariably rode up front, between Mom and Dad.
No one was buckled in.
The kids rolled around in the back seat like dried peas.
Interaction between the two quadrants of the car was usually
accomplished by someone in back standing up and leaning comfortably over the
front seat.
As a sop to safety, the driver often extended an arm sideways
when braking.
Yep. Interesting.
Six-year-old Husby was travelling with his family.
Mom. Dad. Six kids.
Their sedan was hurtling over paved roads at speeds close to
60 MPH.
They passed a road sign.
Suggested speed – 60 MPH.
“Dad.” Husby was standing up, leaning over the seat. “What
does that sign mean?”
His dad glanced at the sign. “That means we’re supposed to
travel at sixty miles-per-hour,” he said. He pointed to the speedometer. “See?”
“Oh.”
Just then, another car sped past them, obviously going far
faster than the ‘suggested’ speed.
“How come that guy is going faster?”
“Because he isn’t obeying the law.”
“Oh.”
Things were quiet for a moment. Well, as quiet as a car carrying
eight people can be.
Then, “Dad. What happens if you go too fast?”
“The police will pinch you.”
“Oh.”
Husby thought about this for a long time. The police will ‘pinch’
you?
Obviously it was something to be avoided and/or feared.
Husby had been pinched before. It was momentarily painful, but not terribly so.
The police must do something really different to make people afraid of being
pinched.
Finally, “Dad? When the police pinch you, do they use
pliers?”
A six-year-old mind hard at work . . .
