My Uncle Ran Over My Cousins

Relax; tragedy was avoided — barely.

Kit’s Dad, My Uncle:

My uncle Shirl was a business success no matter which way you look at it. He left the company in which he had worked for a number of years at Sperry Rail Service to form his own company with an associate. They developed a railroad track that was a continuously welded rail. The two had obtained a patient on the process and were currently presenting it to rail lines replacing older joint rails that were being used.

They were on their way to becoming millionaires.

All this was according to my cousin Kit when he was eleven years old. I was ten.

Fun With Shirl And Kit:

I didn’t totally believe him, but I didn’t give it much thought.

All I knew is that when his dad was home, we had a lot of fun.

Fun that I couldn’t have with my dad, who was always home after work.

Problem was, Shirl worked in New York City and stayed there weekdays. He commuted the sixty miles home to the Jersey Shore on weekends — by train, of course.

My retrospective analysis is that he probably tried to squeeze in a week's worth of family time on weekends.

Weekends Of Fun:

His weekend days were devoted to his kids; Kit, his younger brother Ricky. Weekend nights to his wife, my Aunt Betty.

Back in New York early Monday morning to return late Friday afternoon.

Our families were not only emotionally close but also geographically with our houses across the street from each other.

Because my dad was home every night, he seemed to be more than willing to allow me to spend much of my weekend visiting across the street. Shirl generously included me in most of the activities and games he, Kit, and Ricky shared when he was home.

All but one.

The Problem With Snow:

My father absolutely forbade me to go over to my cousins’ house when it snowed. This restriction was imposed after looking out the kitchen window a number of times and seeing Shirl tying thick ten foot long ropes to the bumper of his big Plymouth Special Delux. When he attached the sleds to the end of the ropes, it never failed; my father would yell to my mother, who invariably would be in a different room, “Doris, your nutty brother-in-law is doing it again, he’s going to kill those kids one of these days!”

“Where’s Brian?” he would boom if I wasn’t right beside him there in the room.

In my mind, I was out in the snow with Kit and Ricky, ready to be pulled around by a Plymouth Special Delux in the newly fallen snow.

It never happened. My father meant business.

I think Shirl sensed my dad thought it was an unwise practice; pulling his kids around on sleds with a rope tow. It didn’t stop him from driving through the neighborhood in the snow at more than cautionary speeds. He seemed to take extra pleasure in roaring by our house, blowing his horn with Kit and Ricky laughing like loons skidding from one side of the road to the other. Not a care in the world. If there was danger in the practice; it didn’t seem to be recognized by that trio.

My father and I looked out the window: he fumed; I pined.

The Day Of Reckoning:

Then came the snow in January; the first flakes of the year. It started on Saturday morning and was still snowing when Shirl and my cousins were careening around the neighborhood.

As per their normal practice when they passed our house, Shirl leaned on the horn, stuck his middle finger in the air in salute to my father and my cousins did the same for me.

The problem with all that was; the slow-moving garbage truck that was converted to a snowplow methodically pushing the newly fallen snow to the side of the street.

So occupied was Shirl with paying the middle finger tribute to my father. He didn’t see the garbage truck until the last second. Jamming on the brakes, the heavy Plymouth skid to an abrupt stop as anything could on the snow and ice-covered street. Just a couple of yards in the back of the garbage truck/snowplow.

Now you engineers who are indulging themselves by taking a few minutes to read this know: An object of large mass is pulled down onto a surface with a greater force than an object of low mass and, as a consequence, there is greater friction between the surface of the heavy object than between the surface and the light object.*. le.ac.uk.sci. fforce

Hence:

Heavy Plymouth stopped sliding; sleds didn’t!

My Dad To The Rescue:

Dad and I were shocked to see the sleds slid under the car. We both bolted out of the door to hear Kit and Ricky wailing in excitement and fear. They were wedged under the car. A panicked Shirl kneeling, peering under his car to check on the condition of his boys.

Before Shirl could raise his head from under the car and reaffirm how foolhardy he may be; my dad and the two garbagemen turned snow plowers picked up the hefty car with the help of their extra-strong backs. The maneuver allowed my cousins to scramble out of danger.

Reminiscing:

When I reconnected with Kit as an adult, he claimed he cherished those times in the snow. He said he will always remember the look on my face as he and his brother would glide by my house on their sleds. No mention was made about being towed by his father when the three of them too young to be burdened with common sense.

He doesn’t recall getting jammed under the car.

This story was formerly published with Illumination-Curated