MILE-o-MINUTE MoM MAGAZINE

 

THE STORY OF HIS TRAVELS

Volume 1 # 3 : June 2004

By "Hap" Hazard, aka ZR1Randy

Last Update: 10/24/2004

 

 

We rode all day and half the night.  We grew very sleepy.  Yet ZR1-MoM did not stop.  He just kept his eyes glued to the road and his foot on the go pedal.  How we did fly!  160 most of the time, and I saw a 193 on a long, straight stretch.  The road seemed to roll up behind us like a carpet.  But when we had been going for several hours after dark I sometimes feared that ZR1-MoM was asleep at the wheel.  His chin seemed to drop upon his chest.  Yet he drove.  Boy, how he could drive!  I'll bet you he was sound asleep there for a few seconds before I no­ticed it.  But then I did reach over and took the wheel.  As soon as I touched it; however, he looked up quickly.

 

"What's a’ matter, ZR1Randy?" he asked, sleepily.

 

"Better let me drive," I said; "you're goin' to sleep."

 

"No," he said; "I got her, Rand. I kin drive her all right.  What's a' matter?  You want to stop and make camp?”

"I think we better," I said.  "We are both sleepy and tired out.  It ain't safe to drive a car lest you are wide awake, MoM."

 

ZR1-MoM laughed.

 

"When you git the ZR1 drivin’ habit as bad as I got it," he said, "you kin drive wit' yer eyes shut.  I didn't run into any­thing yet, did I?”

 

"No."

 

"Well, would you believe it if I told you I really must a’ been sleepin' just now when you reached over and woke me up by grabbin' the wheel?"

 

"I believe you were, MoM.  That’s what scared me."

 

"I slipped," he said. "'T'ain't offen I let myself slip into sleep like that.  But I kin drive right on."

 

"Not with me, you can't," I said.  "If you want to sleep I'm goin' t' get out and camp.  Moving automobiles ain't no place to sleep in, MoM."

 

"No," he said, "it ain't right, and I am sorry to put you and my sweet little ZR1 in danger like that." 

 

“Hey, maybe I could take a turn drivin’ her for you”, I sort of timidly said, and very excited with hope.  “Not right now ZR1Randy”, MoM said to my dismay.  “Darkness ain’t the time to learn drivin’ on a ZR1; but I will teach you soon enough”, he added.

 

So we slowed up and looked for a nice place along the road.  We camped, as usual, under a tree, where it wasn't likely anybody would be around to ask us questions or to chase us away.  MoM took out the big canvas cover and hitched it up so that it looked like a tent, and then he got out the blankets.  I took out what was left of our lunch.  As usual, MoM was polishing and cleaning every nook and cranny on that fine automobile and I wondered why he never asked me for help.  But, as I said before, it seemed like good therapy for the old boy and he smiled and hummed a pleasant tune every second he was doing it. 

 

"MoM," I said, as we sat beside the little fire and ate, "we got to do something soon.  We can't go around the world without money."

 

He looked at me surprised.

 

"Why," he said, "we ain't had no trouble yet, have we?  We git all the grub we want, and you know we kin git gasoline when we need it."

 

"Yeah," I said, "but that ain't it.  We need some money, so as to fall back on should we come somewhere and find the people stingy.   Anyhow, we aint goin' to be beggars all the time.  We got to have some money.  I'm willin' to work for it."

 

"So'm I," he said, "but don't git the idee’ in yer head that we can't git along without money.  0' course, if we kin git some, so much the better.  But there is always some of the ZR1net folks around no matter where you go and they is the kindest and most helpful folks the world has ever see’d.  Don’t know why all the boys and girls who love the ZR1/LT5 masterpiece turn out to be such wonderful folks, but they always are – ever’ single one I have ever know’d, and I met a lot, I’ll tell you sure.  Even if they wasn’t so kind and lovable before they fell in love with this ZR1 marquee, they change into somebody nice as soon as they fall asleep dreamin’ about this bundle of automotive joy they own.  So, don't worry about nothin', Hap.  We ain't got nothin' to be afraid of as long as there’s a ZR1net crowd around – and there will always be.”

 

"No," I said, "but I want to stop somewhere for a few days and work hard, MoM. It's too much like fun, this ZR1 ridin', and it seems like a fella ought to work some at least.  Anyway, them four dollars I started away with is about gone.  I want to save the last one.  Maybe you think it's be­cause I'm stingy, but it ain't. I'll tell you why.  It was my mother who made me save.  So I think I ought to keep this last silver dollar to remem­ber her now, since she ain't here no more.  That one dollar will always remind me of her and that I must save some money and this one is dated the year she was born too."

 

MoM looked at me steadily for a few minutes.

 

”ZR1Randy," he said, "you sure are a honest kid.  I'm glad I met you, boy.  I wish I could think like you do and see things that way."

 

"You will," I said, "if you stay with me very long, MoM.  I'm going to make you think different."

 

"Maybe so," muttered MoM, as he got up and brushed his pants.  Then he turned to me.  "I want you to save that silver dollar as you said.   We won't never touch it, Hap.   You keep that and think of what yer mother told you.  Tomorrow we'll sell the pork and we kin use the money we git for that."

 

So we turned in under the spread of canvas and rolled up in our blan­kets and slept.  I noticed MoM giving several last loving glances at the little ZR1 before he drifted off to sleep.  I looked a few times at the pretty little gem too, and thought how nice it must be to be the owner of such a machine.  When first ZR1MoM started talking about people loving the ZR1, I thought it was a bit far-fetched; but every day I was with this little car, it seemed I loved her more.  I knew someday I had to find a way to adopt a little ZR1 of my own, and I dreamed such a realistic dream of that pleasant wish that I didn’t want to wake up the next morn.  I was hooked as they say, but it sure was a good feeling hook.

 

It was well-nigh noon the next day when we woke.  I heard some emphatic, half muffled exclamations and words I cannot print coming from MoM who was scurrying around the little ZR1 with some cloths and a little bottle of something white.  I offered my help, but got only a sharp “harrumph” reply from MoM who did not look up, but waved me off unfriendly like.  I saw a few little round drops of a creamy/clear something here and there on the paint that Mom would spy, make a sharp curse, and apply the white stuff and wipe furiously till it was gone.  I realized it was pine sap – we had parked under a pine tree in the dark without realizing it and the tree had dropped it’s tiny bombs of turpentine goo while we slept.  After a while, MoM turned and kicked the huge pine tree about 33 times, all the while making unintelligible exhortations that reminded me of Popeye cartoons when he was frustrated or mad at something.  After a while, MoM appeared satisfied, looked me straight in the eye and said, “ZR1Randy, you are hereby deputized, authorized, powerized, and notarized with making sure I never park under another pine tree so long as I live and no matter how tired and sleepy I get.  That is some wicked bogus stuff that I hate to see on my ZR1’s fine finish.  You can punch my arm if you have to, but don’t let me do that mistake ever again.”   He leaned down toward the front fender and whispered something that sounded like “sorry baby, I didn’t mean to let you get hurt.”  I guess he was talking to the ZR1 which made me smile a bit to myself that he could be so silly, but then I heard that sultry female voice in the back of my head again and it shocked me thoroughly.  “That’s alright my sweet boy, all’s well that end’s well, now let’s get rolling!”  Could that car communicate with brain waves or something?  I looked at MoM to see if he heard it too, and by the satisfied smile on his face, I could tell he had heard.  But he wasn’t sharing it with me, and it seemed he didn’t know I could hear it too.  So I didn’t bring it up to him either.  We hurried through the packing up,  and as we didn't have any more lunch we got in the car and drove to the next town, which hap­pened to be 18 miles away.  Six and a half minutes later, we were at our destination.  The first half minute was our usual roundy-round donut spin that I was beginning to believe MoM did on purpose.  ZR1MoM hunted up the butcher shop, a one ­horse little store,  where a greasy­ looking man stood on the porch steps.

 

"Want to buy some fresh pork?" asked MoM.  The man grinned at us.

 

"You can't kid me," he said. "Run along and play like nice little boys."

 

"Git the pig, Rand," said MoM to me.  I went to the ZR1 and took out the fresh killed pig that old Randolf and his wife had given us.  I carried it in the shop and laid it on the counter.

 

"Take off the wrapper," said MoM, and together we tore off the paper.  It was the finest looking pig I ever saw.  It was too bad we had to sell it, but how on earth was it to do us any good outside of that?  We couldn't go carting a whole pig around with us and slicing it up and cooking it and all that.  No, by the time we came to the pork chops the meat would be spoiled.   You see, an ice box was one thing we didn't have on MoM’s ZR1 auto.

 

"Where'd you git it?" asked the storekeeper.

 

"We got it honest," I said; "if you don't believe it, call up Mr. Randolf’s  house.   Him and his wife gave it to us for a present because we stayed at his house night before last."  The storekeeper looked at the pig.  It sure was a fine pig to look at.  I knew in a minute we had it sold.  He picked it up and put it on the scales. "Six dollars and eighty-two cents," he said.

 

"Sold," said MoM.

 

He went to the cash drawer and counted out the money.  MoM took it and together we went out and got into the ZR1.

 

"Business is pickin' up, Rand." says MoM.

 

"Yeah," I says, "let's go."

 

Now just so’s you all would know, MoM is a very touchy fellow sometimes.  I told him once or twice during our ride that day that I thought there was something the matter with the engine, as the gas fumes smelt awful.  He said no, his LT5 was all right, and all of ‘em smelled like that.  He said maybe I couldn't stand the smell of gasoline.  I said no matter what it was, it smelt awful, and I wouldn't be able to stand it much longer.  He didn't say anything after that.

 

But I noticed him watching the sides of the road -both sides- as we drove along, and believe me, he was sure making that little auto go like the dickens.  I bet you we went 3-mile-o-­minute for two hours straight.  It was all country interstate road.  Three or four times we passed through little towns, but they didn't amount to any thing.  And then along about three o'clock, ­"Look on the left, Rand," he says, "is that a lake I see?"

 

"It's a pond," I said, looking at the shining pool of water that lay at the bottom of a hollow.   There was a nice old time farmhouse near it, and lots of barns. Ducks were swimming around on the water, and on a log that stuck out over the bank a boy sat fishing.

 

"Well," says MoM, "I guess it's a good enough place.  Come on, you and me need a bath.  You ain't been smell­ing gasoline smoke all the time.  It's us."

 

He slowed down the car and stopped close to the rail fence.  We got out, and

took a bar of soap and a towel.  Then we went down to the hollow.

 

The boy who was fishing looked up as we came near.

 

"Howdy," he says, " be you summer boarders?"

 

"Fergit it, kid," says MoM, "say, what’ll you charge for a swim in your lake?"  "Ha-ha," laughed the farmer boy, "that's a good one, shore ‘nuff.  Say, if you want a swim, go ahead.  You think you can beat me swimmin' across the pond?"

 

"No," says MoM, pulling off his shirt; "no I guess you can beat me.  I ain't carin' much if I swim a stroke, 'slong as I git water all round my skin for a few minutes.  Come on, Rand, git yer clothes off too."

 

In a few minutes we were all in the water in nothing but our skivvies.  The farmer boy didn't have much to take off; all he was dressed in was his overalls and big straw hat.  He didn’t have skivvies on underneath neither.  So we didn’t look straight at him after that.

 

"What's yer name?" asked MoM.  "Ronald L. Hanselman Junior," says the country kid, "what'd yer maw call you?"  MoM looked at the farmer boy with a thin smile on his face.

 

"For two cents I'd punch yer nose," he said.

 

"Why?" asked Ron, in surprise.  Ain't I got a right to ask yer name when you asked me mine?"

 

"Well, you needn't ask me what my maw called me," said MoM, sharp­ly; anyway, I don't remember what my maw called me.  I ain't seen her since I was so little I don't know any more what she looked like.  Guess you think I had a good time all my life, hey fella?"

 

"Oh," said Ron; there was a little look of sadness on his face; "I am sorry; I wish I hadn't said it that way, I hope-"

 

"It's all right," said MoM, and then he laughed.   That's the way MoM could change.  First minute you would think he was going to bite your head off.  Next minute he was laughing and joking with you.  "It's all right, Ron," said MoM, "my name's ZR1MoM, and this is my pal here, this fella.  Everybody calls him ZR1Randy now."

 

"Gee? " says Ron, laughing; “I am called ZR1Rat.  I thought I was day-dreamin’ about a LT5 sound, but it must’a been your car comin’ up.  Now I know why I liked you so quick, you are THE ZR1MoM, the leader of the ZR1.net club and I am a member too.  I bet you know me now.  My black ZR1 is housed just a few miles away and you can see her if you want.  Say, wouldn't it be fun if you fellas lived out here all summer?  We would have lots of fun, I bet.  I just like kids like you.  Most boys in the coun­try don't know nothin' like I do."

 

"Yeah, I know that name now.  You didn’t see my ZR1 cause I parked up there out of sight when we came down here.  How come you to be so smart, Ron?" asked MoM. "You ain't like other farmer fellas."

"No," said Ron Hanselman, "I been away to school.  My pop sent me to the distreek school up at the county seat.  That's where I learned to be so smart.  I’m gonna go to college too, at the Air Force Academy and I wanna be a F-16 pilot for the Air force when I get big enough."

 

"Good boy," said MoM.  Then he looked at me and winked.

 

"Can you dive?" asked Ron.

 

"Sure," said MoM, and he looked at me again; but I was busy rubbing the soap over me.  I didn't know how soon I'd get a chance to take another bath.  "Sure, lead us to your diving board."

 

There was a spring board jutting out from the bank a few yards up the lake.  We all went up and tried our skill.  That farmer boy could dive.  Nothing he didn't know about diving.  MoM did everything he did, though, and I tried to do the same, but I ain't much at swimming.  Seems like I wasn't born for the water.  No.  And that jack-knife dive-well, I missed.

 

I watched MoM as he went up to the board for a last dive.  He steadied himself on the edge of the plank and began to sag it slowly.  I knew he was going to make one more dive to show up this Ron fellow.  He stood on the end of the plank like a statue, his arms folded, his chin in the air.  Then - ah boy!  and I've seen him do that fish dive many times since!  Yeah, he had left that plank and curved head first through the sunlight, his wet body shining like the scales of a fish, and struck the water with hardly a sound, going under as smoothly as a knife goes through butter.   Ron admired that dive.  I could see it by the look on his face.

 

"Yer friend knows a few things," he called to me.

 

"I'll say he does," I said.

 

At that moment MoM came to the surface.

 

"Look here," he called.  And he held up his hand.  Something shiny and bright showed in the sunlight.

"By gosh!" said Ron.  His eyes were big.  Then he said again: "By gosh!"

 

"I snatched it from the bottom of the pond," sang out MoM.  "Purty thing, isn't it."

 

Ron walked out to the end of the plank.  MoM floated toward shore.

 

“You know what you got?" asked Ron. "That's the silver horse shoe - the wishing horseshoe, my pop called it - been lost five years.  Say, boy, yer lucky sure.  You can wish fer anything now, and you'll get it."

 

"Pshaw!" says MoM.  He looked at me.  I smiled.   He looked back again at Ron. Then he said again: "Pshaw!"

 

But as we hurried into our clothes I noticed that MoM didn't let go of the silver horseshoe.  No.  He held on to it like it meant a whole lot to him.  Ron looked as if he wished he had found it.  But he didn't ask for it.    

 

We walked together up to where Mom’s ZR1 was parked and Ron admired the little red car so much – looked her up and down, whistled a few times, and sat inside and said it was the cleanest one he had ever seen. 

 

Then we walked over to the barn where ZR1-Rat’s ZR1 was housed and boy what a smooth and slick black beauty she was.  When we got real close, I noticed that I could read the backward reflections of the smallest letters from the Silver horseshoe MoM was carrying – that is the ultimate in shiny-smooth, let me tell you.  MoM said Ron didn’t have far to go to make his ZR1 as clean as his own and promised to help him learn the tricks on our way back.  But he could answer any questions he would have by email till then.   We had to get going, so Ron shook hands with us and told us not to forget to stop again when we came back that way.   He would be waiting to see us again.

 

Then a funny thing happened, just that very day­, only an hour before, in fact, MoM had wished a wish.  Yeah! he held out that silver wishing horseshoe in front of him as he drove with the other hand, and he says, "ZR1Randy, I wish to goodness we had a dog along with us!"

 

I said I wished so too.  I like dogs myself.  And sometimes a fellow gets tired of the fellow he is riding with.  I knew MoM was tired of me some times.  And I was dern tired of MoM some times too.  You know how it is if you have ever travelled two by two for a long spell.  You just get to wishing for somebody else to talk to for a minute.  Not that you like each other less.  No!  It ain't that.  It's just that you want something else for a change.

 

And before the sun had gone down behind those hills on our left, we came in sight of a little log cabin, lying snug between the slope from the roadway and the rise beyond.

 

"That's where we sleep to-night, Rand," says MoM.

 

"Good enough for me," I says.  "How you goin' t' git the car down there?"  "Watch me," says MoM, and be­fore I could say a word he had steered the dern thing through a broken part of the fence.  The ZR1 gave a jump as she went over some hidden fence rail in the grass, but after that she sailed down the hill as purty as I ever saw an auto go down any hill, but, of course, I ain't seen many.  Yet we got down to the cabin right side up, which I thought was purty good, considering how we went and what we went over.  There was no path at all.  I couldn’t believe he would drive the ZR1 in the dirt like that.

 

MoM grabbed me by the arm. "ZR1Rand," he says, "that wishing horseshoe is the real deal.  I'm goin' t' git my wish.  Listen to that."

 

The howling of a dog came to our ears.

 

"You mean-" I began.

 

"I mean that's my dog I wished for," says MoM, without waiting for

me to finish.  "Hear him howlin' fer me to come and git him?  Sure. Come on."

 

We jumped out of the car and walked toward the cabin. The min­ute we set our feet on the ground, however, there came the barking of over a hundred dogs.

"Go easy there, MoM," I says, "I ain't hankering to git my laig chewed up." "Aw shucks," says MoM; "come on Don't you know a dog what barks ain't got time to take a chew?"

 

Now I want to say right here that the man who came to the door of that log cabin was the ugliest looking man I ever saw in my life.  I won't try to describe him, because I can't.  I knew right away, though, that we weren't going to be welcome at that cabin.

 

"What’yer want?" growled the man.  "What’yer mean by waking up all my dogs?  I am protecting these animals you know.”

 

"Nothing," says MoM.  "Excuse me, mister.  We will go away quick."  Blam!        He slammed the door in our face.

 

"No," says MoM to me, "this ain't the place we sleep at tonight, Rand.  Let's go."

 

At that minute came the howl of the same dog we had heard when we were up on the road.  MoM turned around and looked me in the eye.

 

"'At's my dog," he said.  "Sure as yer born, Rand, 'at's my dog y' hear

howlin'.  I ain't goin' to leave till I git him.  I wished fer him by the Silver Horseshoe.  And you heard what Ron Hanselman said.   Anything I wished for would come true."

 

"All right," I said, "let's go and take a look at the dog."

 

"You ain't afraid, are you, Rand?  I don't want to keep you here a minute if you are."

 

"I ain't afraid of nothin' so long as you stay right by me," I said.  "Come on, let's go back."

 

We walked back to the cabin.  This time the dogs didn't bark.  Only the howling of the one dog that MoM thought was his by the wish on the silver horseshoe. We peeped through the cabin window.  It showed the back room.  The old grouchy man was feedin' a big pack of dogs, all kinds, out of a tin pail.  No wonder they didn't bark as we came back.  Then we went to the next window.  It showed the front room.  A fine looking dog, all by his lonesome, stood by the door.  He raised his snoot in the air and howled.  Then he pawed and scratched at the door, as if he wanted to get out.  MoM took one look and ran around the front of the house.  Before I could get around he was coming back.  He had the dog by the collar.  I stooped to pet the fellow on the head, and he licked my hand and whined, as if he was glad we came and took him, but as if he didn't want the man to hear him whine.

 

"Come on," said MoM.

 

We flew up the slope.  MoM held the dog by the collar - it was a fine leather collar, trimmed with brass.  We reached the ZR1 in a hurry and jumped in.  I took the big dog and placed him be­tween my feet on the floor, while MoM hurried into his seat and started the engine.  He got the old Z out on the road and put his foot down hard.  Boy! How we flew along that road then!  Yeah.  We made more than 3-mile-o-minute all that afternoon.  The man in the cabin below never had a chance.  I don't know if he ever knew we were around or not. But he surely didn't have a chance.  

 

"How are you comin', Rand?" he hol­lered at me, while he kept his eyes on the road ahead.

 

"All right," I said; "I got the dog, safe and tight between my knees."  "Find that horseshoe," he yelled; and the noise of the motor tried to drown out his voice. "We kin git a new dog, but hold onto that horseshoe, ZR1Randy.”

"I got it," I said, stooping and pick­ing the silver thing off the floor.

 

"All right then," said MoM.  "Duck your head; I'm goin' to take this next road at one-seventy."

 

"Shoot!" I said.  Which he did.

 

That very night we camped on the outskirts of a little town, close to the place where we had found our dog.  MoM was sure tickled to death with our new pet. And the dog seemed to be glad we had taken him along with us.  He was a playful big fellow.

 

"What kind of a dog is he, Rand?"  "Well," I says, "I just don't know.  I ain't never seen one just like him, MoM.  Look at the wiry hair he's got.  Did you ever see any like him?"

 

MoM shook his head.

 

"No," he says, "there ain't a dog like him in the world.  He's a fine dog, Hap.      Give him a bite to eat."

 

"There ain't nothin' left," I said, "we finished all the lunch we had.  Guess I got to go down to that house we just passed and see if the lady in the kitchen will sell us a nickel's worth of bread and a dime's worth of ham or something."

 

"Git some milk, too, Hap." says MoM; "it won't hurt if we spend an­other nickel, we got $6 yet anyhow.  This dog maybe likes milk; you can't tell.  We don't know what he's been used to, do we?"

 

"All right," I says, "give me the tin bucket to bring the milk back in."

 

So I started back down the road, while MoM began to get things ready for the night.  Of course he spent a lot of time cleaning up the ZR1 inside and out as usual.  I was real curious to see what damage had been done to the undercarriage from that trip in the dirt down the hill.  Just then it struck me that it was mighty strange that MoM would want a dog in his special car with all the dirt and scratching and so forth that dogs do.  But it was not my business to worry for him about that, so I didn’t.

 

The farm house was a good distance down the road, and it stood far back from the road.   The lady who came to the back door when I knocked looked like a nice person.  When I told her what I wanted she said she wouldn't sell me a thing, but if I wanted, she would give me bread and meat and fill my bucket with sweet milk.  I couldn't refuse her.  So I took what she gave me, the food wrapped in nice tishoo paper, and a bucket plum full of rich, fresh milk, and went back to where MoM was waiting.  He had a fire going and a

coffee pot steaming on it.  He sat by the fire petting the dog.

 

"Any luck, Rand?”   

 

"Look at all this." I replied.

 

MoM had the rear end of the  ZR1 up on some sort of jack/jack stands that seemed to come out of the undercarriage mechanism somehow.  I saw the front end coming down and the rear end going up as I walked back to where we camped – it seemed like an automatic electric sort of affair that operated without MoM doing anything.  He smiled at me as he crawled underneath the car and said, “I know you were thinkin’ I went plumb nuts back there when I took a ride down the hill and all.  Well, now you can see that it is all pretty well protected under here with this underpan setup I got, eh what?”  And I was happily surprised to see that all the dirt and grass that managed to stick to the ultra smooth surface under there, just wiped off in a twinkling with the special cloths he kept at hand at all times.  “You see, I found this special kind of thin metal in the junkyard over in Roswell, NM, when I was collecting parts to fix her back up after my Pappy wrecked her that time I told you about.  It was like a blessing in that the pieces were light as a feather, but stronger than anything ever.  See here, take this hammer and try to dent the stuff.”  I said, “are you nuts? I can’t pound on a ZR1 with a hammer.”  “Naw, it’s OK”, he said, “you won’t be able to even dent it.”  And so I gave her a good whack or two and made a big noise, but sure enough, not even the smallest scratch was made.  “How did it get to fit so perfectly if you can’t bend the stuff, Mom?  If you can’t dent it or bend it, how does it fit so well?”  “That’s a big mystery, but I don’t question it”, said MoM quietly, almost reverently.  “There were just enough pieces to fit the bottom of this little bus and no more.  I guess  I dreamed about it one night after I saw it stacked in the junkyard, and something like a little voice in the back of my head just told me to test out all the different pieces like a jigsaw puzzle until they fit.  And they did fit, without even one bolt or screw and they snap off now too if I need to work on her anywhere and go right back on slick as you please.  That is what makes her waterproof too like I told you, when I need to go across water.”  “Well if that don’t beat all”, I says.  I noticed that everything underneath the car was as clean and shiny as the top of the car.  The tires had that same sheen on the inside as the outside.  The mufflers and tailpipes shined like chrome as did the steering and other rods and connectors.  And at the end was a kind of fan blade affair that would hide away with a spring door.  MoM explained as the “screw and rudder” that made her go in the water.  We might could need that someday he told me.

 

We sat there and ate, and shared our meal with our dog and talked some more about the lucky find of the under-pan parts.  It was a cozy place there, snug behind a hedge that stood like a fence on the roadside – and not a pine tree in sight which was good.  Nobody in the world would have imagined that we were camped so close to the road.  Suddenly MoM spoke.

 

"Are you afraid of ghosts, Rand ?"

 

"No," I says, "what makes you ask such a funny question?"

 

"Look there."

 

He pointed down the road.  Some­thing white was coming along, slow but sure. For a minute my heart seemed to stop beating.  Then I laughed.

 

"A white mule," I says, "dern if it ain't a white mule MoM; look at them long ears."

 

Sure enough, it was a white mule.  Somebody was riding on its back.  At the same time from the opposite di­rection came the sound of a powerful motor, and we saw the flash of the headlights along the hedge.  The white mule balked and pricked up its ears.  I heard the farmer's voice cry, "Whoa thar, you infa’rnal critter."  I could see a lot of boxes on the back of the mule with Chevrolet and GM written on them.  I wondered what that was all about.

 

The next thing I knew the big mo­tor car stopped in front of the white mule.  A fine-looking young man with a chauffeur’s cap raised up and spoke to the rider on the mule.

 

"Hey, Peter - Peter Bernard," he said, "ain't seen my Katy anywhere, have you?"  "Nope," says the mule rider; "is she lost?"

 

"We missed her this evening," re­plied the man in the big auto; "we fear she's been kidnapped.  I've been driving all around the countryside, trying to find her.  Corey’s got her brother along hunting for her on the other side of the ridge.  She's just disappeared as if the earth opened and swallowed her."

"Shoo, that's too bad," said the mule rider; "I reckon I cain't help you none.  But I got a heap of new Corvette parts back here if you be needin’ anythin’.  Real good prices too."

 

"No, I guess not.  Thanks just the same.  I know you will keep your eye open for My Katy then won’t you?"

"I shore will."

 

With that the big auto went on, and the mule took its rider on his way.  MoM looked at me.

 

"Now that's sad," he said; "that poor man has lost his kid.  Said she was kidnapped - didn't you hear him say that?"

 

"Yeah," I says "somebody stole his Katy, that's what he said."

 

"It's a dirty shame," says MoM; "a fella what will steal a little gal like that-"

 

He didn't say any more, and I didn't feel like talking.  We felt pretty well sleepy after our sup­per, and I lay on my side and leaned on my elbow and thought of home and Lem and Aunt Cordy, and won­dered if Pop knew I was gone, and whether he cared.  The dog came over to me and curled itself up against my side is if it wanted to sleep.  I patted his head and said "good old dog.

 

"What you goin' to name him, MoM ?"

 

"I dunno," he answered. "I been thinkin' some about a name.  I kind o' thought maybe I would call him Happy," after you, Hap, since I went and changed your name first off to ZR1Randy."

 

He grinned at me.  I could see his grin in the dim glow from the camp­fire.

 

"Thanks," I said. "I ain't got no objections to that.  It's a honor to have such a fine dog as this named after a fella."

 

"I thought so, too," said MoM.  "He is such a fine dog."

 

I was foolin' around with the dog's big collar, with the brass trim­mings.

 

"Don't you wish you had a home to keep him in, MoM?" I asked.

 

MoM turned lazily and reached in back of him.  He picked up the silver horseshoe, the wishing horseshoe, as ZR1Rat called it.

 

"All I wish," he said, "is that I had a hundred dollars-"

 

"MoM!" I cried, suddenly.

 

For, while he was speaking, my eyes caught something - something shiny under the collar, a brass piece that turned over, and in the dim light from the campfire -

 

"MoM!" I cried, "look at this - see what it says on this dog's collar - ­lookit!"

 

Together we bent our heads close and read this engraved on the brass plate:

This Dog's Name is

MY KATY

$100 Reward if Returned to Dianne Hall’s Kennels, San Antonio.

 

"A hundred dollars reward!" I ex­claimed.  "MoM, you git your wish."  "Yeah," he said, gloomily, "and I lose my dog."

 

Which he did.

 

We slept that night under the spread of canvas beside our little ZR1.  But it was a long time before sleep came to me.  MoM was tired out, I could see that, and he went to sleep with one arm around the dog, which lay snug up beside him and seemed to be glad he was there.  But not me.  No, I couldn't make sleep come.  I'd close my eyes and try to forget everything, but slowly I would realize that my eyes were still wide open and that all those little bright flashes in the dark were lightening bugs coming up out of the grass to play with the fairies in the woods at midnight.  You can't tell me nothing about fairies being fakes.  I know they're real, and if you ever slept outside in the woods as many nights as I have and watched you would have seen 'em, too.

 

But what was keeping me awake was the hundred dollars reward for the dog.  I happened to think maybe MoM wouldn't part with the dog.  And wouldn't that be awful!  Yeah.  We needed money, and, oh, boy, what a $100 would mean to us.  I made up my mind that if we ever got it, I was going to be the cashier, and believe me I wouldn't spend it but only a little at a time, and then only when we needed it, so that we wouldn't have to go beg­ging all the time.

 

But I finally fell asleep, dreaming that the little lightening bugs were coming out of the damp grass thicker than ever, and turning into bright lit­tle fairies that danced before my very eyes.  I liked to dream that.  And then I dreamed that little doodlebugs and beetles came up, twice as many, and changed into little gnomes and dwarfs and chased the fairies out of their dancing place.  But that's just like life, ain't it?  Sad days come to chase away the happy days * * * I remember once when my mother told me fairy stories: and now that seems so long, long ago.

 

ZR1MoM was up before I awoke.  I was surprised to smell bacon frying in the pan on a little campfire.

 

"Git up, Rand," says MoM; "we got bacon without aigs for breakfast­.  Don't you wish you was back to old Randolf’s house this mornin'?"

 

"No," I says, as I got up; "where'd you get the bacon?"

"IT'S HER--- IT'S MY KATY,"

 

"Same lady as you," he says, waving his hand toward the farmhouse down the road; "she says to come back when­ever we needs something.  Wouldn't take a cent for it, either.  She's a fine lady, Rand.  Says she seen our ZR1 and that her hubby has one too, an’ they be friends with anybody with a ZR1.  She said her hubby is Marc Randolf’s son, Verle, and, of course she is his daughter-in-law, Beth.  So we talked for a good while about the time we just spent with Marc and Carina back a ways.  All these folks are on the ZR1net reglar’ too.  See, I told you there was good ZR1 people everywhere I go.”

 

We won't go there for anything more," I said, "I don't like to wear out the welcome on the doorstep, MoM."

 

"No, me neither," says MoM; "that's why I went this time; you went last.  If we need anything else, we can send the dog."

 

We ate our little breakfast and it tasted good.

 

"Now," says MoM, "what's next?"

 

"Get things packed," I says, "we are going to San Antone dog Kennels; take the dog back and get the hundred dollars reward."  MoM didn't say another word.  dern dog followed him around all through the packing up, and once in a while MoM would stoop and hug the big animal around the neck and say something in a low tone.  But he didn't say another word to me . And I didn't to him.  I was afraid if I said anything, I might make him change his mind, and maybe then he wouldn't want to return the dog, re­ward or no reward.

 

We were flying along the road, now, and on our way at last.  I wondered if we had taken the right way.  I didn't know where San Antone was.  Never heard of it.  But soon we came in sight of a sign­post on the road which says "Wel­come to San Antonio," and I knew we were in right.  The dog, too, seemed to know the neighborhood.  He began to perk up, and take interest in the surroundings.

 

"There she is, Rand," said MoM sud­denly.

 

I looked toward the place he point­ed out.  A nice driveway wound around from the road through a lot of trees beyond a stone wall.  Above the entrance was a half circle sign which had the words "Dianne Hall Kennels" printed on it.  MoM didn't say another word, but turned the ZR1 through the gate and whirl­ed up the winding gravel path.  A stone house stood in the middle of the space around which the drive circled.  As we shot up the gravel drive there came to our ears from a long log house in the rear the sound of many dogs barking.  Seemed like MoM couldn't get the old Z to stop where he wanted and she gave a couple of loud pops.  “Dang vacuum hose musta blew off again”, said MoM.  A door in the stone house opened.  A man came out.  He was dressed sporty.  He was smoking a curve stem pipe.  His face looked jolly.

 

 "For the love of Saint Zora," he said, "what's all the noise about?" "We brung back yer Katy," said MoM.

 

 "Here he is - she is, I mean," says MoM, but he didn't nave to say that.  No. The dog gave one yelp and jumped out of the car and was leap­ing upon the man, and he was look­ing so doggone happy he didn't care whether he had dropped his fancy smoking pipe or not.

 

"I'll never thank you enough, lads," he cried; "it's her-it's my Katy all right-come to yer old pappy, gal, who went and stole my own little katydids-"

 

I got out of the car.  I was touch­ing his sleeve.

 

"Mister," I said, "the reward - it says so on the collar we found your dog, we ought to get that reward, you remember, it was $100 - on the collar."

 

He stopped fooling with the dog long enough to look down at me.  "You said it," he cried; "one hundred clean-cut silver shining simoleons - you bet I'm glad to give that reward to get this dog back.  Say, do you know I refused $1,000 for this Katy at the last kennel show-"

 

"Then the reward is ours," I said, "if you please, let's get that part over with first, and talk about the rest afterwards."

 

He laughed.  Then, all of a sudden, he stopped.  His face grew serious.  "Listen," he said, "I'll give you the hundred all right.  But I'll give you fifty more if you'll do one more thing."  "Say it," I said, "tell us what to do and we will earn the other fifty."  

 

"Show me the man who stole this dog.

 

"Yer on," said MoM, "jump in the car."

 

The man took one look at our little dinky auto, and when he saw what a tight fit it would be for him to get in with us, he laughed.

 

"No," he said smiling real big, "I think I'd better follow you in my own car.  Come in, and I'll give you the reward."

 

We followed him into the stone house.  He led us into the finest look­ing room I was ever in.  It had lots of books in shelves along the walls.  Here and there above the shelves were mounted heads of deer, buffaloes and such things. On top of a cabinet in the corner was a stuffed wolf, that looked lifelike enough to eat you up.

 

The man went to the telephone, and called a number.

 

"Hello, this you Sheriff?" he asked. "This is Bob Hall.  Come right up, quick."

 

MoM got up and pinched my arm.  "Come on," he whispered, "let's git out o' here.  He's goin' t' have us pinched.  He thinks we stole his dog."  "No," I said, "sit down and keep still, MoM.  Wait."

And with all that dern botheration of MoM’s I didn't get to hear what else the man said but we sat there a few minutes and soon the door opened and a servant showed in a man who stepped up quick to Mr. Hall, and shook hands with him.

 

"Ah, Sheriff Ward," says he, "glad you came so quick.  I want you to take a trip with me.  These boys have brought back My Katy.  They are going to take us to the place where they found the dog."

 

"I see," said the sheriff.  "When do we start?  Hey, kin I drive that new red ZR1?  I lost mine a while back when I loaned it to a dude who give it back to me in pieces and I been hankerin to drive a ZR1 agin’.  Old stingy Hall here won’t let no one touch his’n – jest cuz I put a few little scratches on her one time."

 

“No way”, says MoM, “this is my own little darlin’ Z and she don’t take to strangers handlin’ her none.”  We started off then as MoM's little Z led the way, and we were almost bowled over when Bob Hall opened his garage and showed us his own beautiful black ZR1.  It had a cool high rise hood and lots of extra stuff done to the engine too.  MoM said – “Oh, you are that ZR1Bob on my ZR1net.”  “ You guessed it.” Said Bob Hall.  “Here, you guys take these walkie-talkie’s so’s we can communicate in case I am too fast for you and you can’t keep up or we get lost.”

 

As we hurried away, MoM stepped on her just a little heavy and round and round we went again, doing that old donut spin.  MoM’s face was red, and we went so fast it seemed Mr. Hall in his car behind was way far back.  Bob yelled at us on the walkie to slow up, which we did.  Then Mr. Hall and the sheriff flew by us, both of ‘em laughing like crazy.  I expected MoM to floor it and catch up, but he didn’t.

 

Bob slowed up and got next to us again and said he just wanted to show us what a really fast ZR1 could do.  MoM winked at me cause he and I knew we hadn’t used even half our power and would win any race we got in with anybody.  But we were hoping to get that reward before we made any hard feelings by beating this guy in a race and making him sore at us.  So then we went on more slow­ly.  I think MoM was still figuring maybe the Sheriff would take us to jail, thinking we were the thieves who stole the thousand-dollar dog.

 

But soon we passed the place where we had camped the night before.  On and on we flew until at last we came in sight of the log cabin lying snug between the slope from the roadway and the rise beyond.

 

"Here we are," says MoM, as Mr. Hall’s ZR1 came purring alongside.  He and the sheriff got out and started down the hill.  Guess we didn’t want to go flying down that hill again in the ZR1’s and making noise to warn the culprit.

 

"Might as well stick with 'em," I says; "we ain't got the reward yet, MoM."

 

"I wish I had the dog back," says MoM.

 

"Come on," I says.  And we followed the two men down the slope.  We ar­rived at the cabin door at the same time as they did.  The Sheriff knocked loudly on the door.  No answer.  Mr. Hall knocked.   No answer.  Sheriff Ward turned the knob and walked in.  We followed.  A bunch of dogs started barking in the other room - ­there was only two rooms.  We could hear a man's voice shouting at the dogs to hush up.  Suddenly they did stop barking.  The door of the other room opened.  It was the ugliest man - the same one who had asked us the day before what we meant by waking up his dogs.  He stood with a sur­prised look­.

 

"What does this mean?" he asked­.

 

"Jim Misled!" exclaimed Mr. Hall.  "Of all the men you are the last I would expect to steal my prize winning dog."

 

"What's does this mean?" asked the ugliest man again.­

"WRITE ME FROM PARIS !

 

Mr. Hall turned to us. "This is the man?" he asked.

 

"That is the man," I said; "we took the dog from here; he is the one who had it."

 

The man who was called Jim Misled hung his head, mumbling “What does this mean?”.

 

"Ah, I see," said Mr. Hall; "a mind is a terrible thing when it’s wasted.  Sheriff, he is the man.  I will be in Court to-morrow to prosecute him.  Sorry, Jim, and you were my best friend for years, too.  Now you're just bad, bad, bad.  How could you do it?"

 

The Sheriff walked up to Jim Misled and looked straight into his eyes for a long time.  The ugliest man could not hold his gaze and turned to look at all of the dogs in the back room.  “What does this mean?” he said as if for the first time.  “Something is definitely wrong with his mind”, said Sheriff Ward.  I don’t think he even knows who we are.  Jim, it’s me, Curtis Ward.  What happened to you boy?”  Jim didn’t seem to hear him, just mumbled that same old sentence again.  “Bob, look at the big cut on the back of his head - I think he suffered a pretty bad bump and must be his mind shut down for a while.  He ain’t hisself as you can see.  Heck, he don’t even look like hisself – he got ugly overnight.  You know how he used to win prizes for being so doggone cute – why I remember the time he beat out that 007 movie star guy who was in town for the festival about 19 and 99.  We better have the doc check him out quick, cause I think he didn’t mean to do what he did.” said the Sheriff.

 

“Yes, I am just so hurt about this whole thing, I was too hasty in judging, and now that I think of it, Jim could have thought he was taking care of all these dogs for everyone.  Look, there is Corey’s pit bull, and Mark’s poodle, and Mike’s Chihuahua, and Dean’s Blue-Tick, and Dennis’s Collie, and Glenn’s Maltese, and David’s Cocker Spaniel, and Clint’s Labrador, and Dewey’s Heinz-57, and Sanjay’s Great Dane, and over in the corner is Ken’s Sharpei.  Yep, every single ZR1net club member’s dog is here.  And you gotta remember that good old Jim didn’t try to make a run for it even though he must have heard these 2 thundering ZR1’s coming down this road at 7000 RPM.  You know how he has such an ear for these engines and the way he loves to make them run even better.  I know something drastic happened to turn him like this all of a sudden, and I think he will snap out of it when he gets medical treatment.  Maybe if he can work on some LT5 engines again soon it’ll be good therapy for him.” said Bob Hall.  “Jim, I will help you if you let me, and we will still be friends, added Bob Hall.

 

"Come on, ZR1Randy," says MoM, "I got to git out o' here--"

 

We went out and sat in our little red ZR1 autocar.  Pretty soon Mr. Hall came out.  He was putting his hand in his pocket as he walked toward us.  I saw him draw out a pocketbook.  As he reached our little machine he be­gan to count out bills on Mom’s knee.

 

"There y' are," he said, smiling, "one hundred for bringin' back the dog n’ fifty for catching the thief - and mighty much obliged to you boys for your help.  I'll stay and see the Sheriff to the doctor with his prisoner, and then I'll have to take care of all those dogs back there.  But if you will wait for me at my house we can talk about ZR1’s and Dainne’l get the rest of the ZR1-ers over for a BBQ when they come to pick up their dogs.  They will all want to meet you and I bet they are all wonderin’ what happened to their pooches."

 

"Thanks, Mr. Hall," says MoM, "but us boys are on our way 'round the world, and we ain't got no time to loaf.  Much obliged for the money."

 

"Write me from Paris," shouted Mr. Hall, laughingly, as we drove out of the rut and struck the big road, "and send me a picture postcard of Piccadilly."

 

We didn't pay any attention to his jokes.  What did we care, we had a hundred and fifty bucks cold cash paid down, and that's enough for any two fellows like us.  MoM did his signature “spin around”, 360 degree donut and then stepped on the gas and we flew back along the road at exactly 3-mile-o-minute again.  I was thinking how great it was to get to know all these great ZR1 folks and the incredible fun I felt when I was in MoM’s ZR1, longing to own one of my own, when I heard that little sultry voice in the back of my head again.  The voice flatly said “ Just how long are you going to wait ZR1Randy?”  I thought back that I hoped it wouldn’t be too long.  Now I was carrying on a questionable 2-way conversation with a car.  Maybe I would be at the doctor’s office too if this kept up.  I checked the vanity mirror to see if I was getting any uglier, but it was jiggling so much, I couldn’t tell.  I really didn’t want to know.

 

"Here, ZR1Randy," hollers MoM above the captivating noise of the LT5 motor at 6800RPM, "you take care of this cash - I got all I can do lookin' after the wheel."

 

"That's the first sensible thing you've done, MoM," I hollers.

 

"Write that down in our book, then," yelled Mom.

 

Which I did.