On a Wing and a Prayer

The 2 tone ‘Kerplunk’ of the spring-loaded gas tank cover, telegraphed our impending departure from the Shell gas station. The uniformed attendant handed my mom the smoky old-fashioned glass as her prize for the gas fill up along with the carbon copy of the credit card receipt. We were about to embark on our annual family road trip to Maine. The 1961 Oldsmobile 88, affectionately considered the poor man’s Cadillac, was noble enough for 5 unbelted feral children in the back seat and two capable parents at the helm. The five of us kids were layered precariously on top of each other like filo dough—the Oldsmobile’s own suffocating version of "backseat Baklava"—trying to sleep.

As we were coming up over the top of one of the many long hills on the turnpike, we see the most welcome sign of our vacation. It is the 50-foot-tall billboard cut-out of a fisherman in a yellow sou’wester, holding the largest can of sardines in the world. “Welcome to Maine, Vacationland”. Like a cartoon come to life, he sported a scruffy white chin-beard without a mustache and chomped down on a corncob pipe. He was the official mascot for some of the best summers of our lives. At the sight of him, the entire backseat squealed with an unbridled delight and anticipation usually reserved for Christmas morning.

But the joy was short-lived. Past the fisherman icon loomed another sign, flatly noting that the next gas station was sixteen miles away. This sign did not bring any comfort to my mom since the gas needle had been hovering on empty for the last 30 miles. Upon reading it, my mom let out a scream so sudden and piercing that it filled my sister Carol’s diaper in one smooth, terrified movement. It was the kind of blood-curdling shriek you expect to hear when Alfred Hitchcock pushes an old lady in a wheelchair down a fifty-foot flight of stairs..NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!” She unleashed this unholy scream to declare the terrifying state of the fuel gauge, alerting us all to the impending disaster that running out of gas would inevitably bring.

Why were we out of gas? We were almost out of gas because my mom collects green stamps. We were almost out of gas because my mom collected anything free, like free steak knives, free mugs and free glasses from Shell Gas stations. Free, like you don’t have to pay for it! She swerved to avoid boxes in the highway because there might be a baby inside the box. That all makes sense, right?

Since there were no Shell Gas stations on the Maine Turnpike, my mom lived on the hope that there would be one around the next corner. My mom was driving with determination. My dad was riding with resignation in a semi somnambulistic state. The backseat became unraveled and we all propped our heads on the edge of the front seat to enjoy the upcoming show.

My mom had always imagined or even secretly hoped that she would get stranded on the turnpike her whole life. She rather relished the stories of those who were stranded in their cars in blizzards, tornadoes, floods and any other natural disaster. She had prepared the survival kit for the trunk that was suggested by Parade Magazine in the Sunday paper. It was her duty, as a good mom, to unduly frighten the children with all these gory stories of heroic survival just in case this might happen to us. She wanted to give us all the tools we needed to survive anything. “Which one of you will sacrifice your life so the others will live?” was a common theme of the stories. She meant well.

The hills came and the hills went that next 16 miles. My mom stroked the magnetic Saint Christopher Statue on the dashboard who was standing sentry over the large turquoise hood. Each hill was a challenge and we kept rising to that challenge. One mile left as we kids were literally on the edge of the backseat. Would we make it? Would this be the day tragedy would strike us?

Mom yelled back for us all to say a prayer while she continued to stroke magnetic Saint Christopher statue. One half mile left as we climbed the last hill, we hoped and we prayed. As we were coming to the top of the hill the Oldsmobile 88 started to cough and sputter. Oh No this is it! We crest the hill still sputtering. There at the bottom of the hill, like an Oasis, there it was. My mom says “I think we will make it, keep praying!” The car dies on the way down the hill. My mom puts the on the directional and pulls over to the breakdown lane, but she was not giving up yet! “Keep Praying kids! We can make it! Come On!” And like this Oldsmobile was powered by high octane prayer, my mom smoothly pulled it up to the pump! WOW! What a way to start a vacation! Great drama! Great driving!

It seemed like an eternity between the car stopping and all of us catching our breaths and finally saying anything. It was this sort of wonderment like we had just witnessed a miracle or something like that. My mom broke the silence, “Too bad it’s just a GD Texaco Station without stamps or glasses or knives.” My mom never swore, but using letters was ok, because you didn’t say the word. Some sort of special dispensation for Catholics, I think. Everyone else would go to Hell for even thinking what my mom would spell out in letters.