I can see forever

Oh, give me land,
lots of land under starry skies above,
Don't fence me in.
Let me ride
through the wide open country that I love,
Don't fence me in.
Let me be by myself
in the evenin' breeze,
listen to the murmur
of the cottonwood trees,
Send me off forever
but I ask you please,
Don't fence me in.

        -- Cole Porter, 1934

The first (and only other) time I crossed Texas by auto was in 1957, when my family moved from Ohio to California. We caravanned in two vehicles, a dodge passenger car my folks inherited from my grandfather and a 1951 Chevrolet carryall.

I loved that old Chevy – and, by all rights – it should have been my first car (it went to a Tijuana orphanage instead, but that’s another story).

We had a number of adventures in that vehicle, including a month-long trip into Mexico in 1963. The Chevy broke down more than once in somewhat desperate circumstances; but we were rescued by Mexican mechanics, who were coincidentally expert in repairing 15-year-old American cars, many of which had made their way across the border.

I remember a few incidents in particular. My sisters were riding in our towed trailer during that month-long excursion when they noticed that the rear bumper (onto which the trailer was attached) had begun breaking loose.

That kind of discovery generates a lot more concern by occupants of the trailer than those in the truck; but, we finally noticed their hysterical signals and pulled over before the two vehicles disconnected.

We crawled to the next city where a welder made things right – but none of us ever asked permission to ride in the trailer again.

On the deserts of Chihuahua, we had what must have been our second flat. In any event, we ended up rolling the tire a quarter of a mile or so to a “taller mecánico.”

This roadside operation was absent nearly everything that would indicate an ability to repair automobiles. But looks can be deceiving and we’d already learned that Mexican mechanics had automotive repair skills that emphasized innovation.

Our tire trouble turned out to be tube-related, specifically, with the valve. While stems for today’s tubeless tires are attached to the wheel, they were an integral part of the tube in days gone by. And, there are actually moving parts in a valve that can fail – which, in fact, they did on the Mexican desert.

The mechanism can be removed, with the proper tool, and a replacement installed. I have no doubt that our mechanic could have removed the valve with or without the proper tool; but he had a more serious problem: no replacement part.

Nonplussed, our man filled the tire with air as if the valve was functional. Watching him operate the hand-pump was amazing as he had to pump faster and faster to overcome the effect of escaping air. When the tire was full, he removed the pump and pressed a finger against the opening at the end of the valve stem.

With the other hand, he wrapped a wire twice around the stem – below the valve – and, pulling a pair of pliers from his pocket, twisted the ends until the wire had a tourniquet effect and blocked the passage for escaping air.

And we were on our way. The repair held until we could replace the valve. I don’t remember whether my father saved the wire, but I sure remember it.

The most dramatic motoring mishap occurred on a spring vacation trek to Mazatlán. We had taken a day-trip to San Blas – a tropical fishing village made famous by a Henry Wadsworth Longfellow poem.

On our return trip, we experienced engine failure. The sounds coming from the Chevy’s engine signaled a serious problem. A party was dispatched to the nearest town and returned with bad news: we would have to wait until morning for a tow and rescue.

Most of the crew then abandoned ship, hitching a ride back to Mazatlán. Three of us (my parents and I) remained to guard the vehicle until morning. Despite the sounds of a few “hombres borachos” (drunken men) coming from around a nearby bonfire, we survived the night and were, in fact, taken into town by a local mechanic. The “tow truck” was a pickup with a rope attached, but that got the job done.

The man’s “shop” was the side yard of his house. We stayed with his family for much of the day while repairs were being complete. Plans to send me on to Mazatlán to provide an interim report proved unnecessary as our mechanic performed his miracles – including finding replacements for damaged rods and pistons – and got us back on the road before dark.

My Saturn has been running like a top. It’s only 12 or 13 years old and seems to be in very good shape; but I’m comforted knowing Mexico is just a few miles away. If I get in trouble, I might just head south in search of a taller mecánico