Barracuda Summer

The calf weighed a thousand pounds. “Bet it was all muscle”. That’s what the farmers in town mumbled the next day. “Black Angus. Impossible to see at night.”

My mother chose the pattern and the material. It was an 80-piece Vogue pattern for a full-length camel hair coat. The picture on the front of the small flat packet was classic—a thin-wasted brunette with teased hair, smiling proudly while wearing the gorgeous coat.

In all of my 10 years in 4-H I am never encouraged to sew. I don’t think about it either, other than to occasionally feel grateful it has never come up for a serious discussion. My sister has been designing and sewing clothes for her dolls as long as I can remember. She wins championship ribbons at the State Fair year after year for her amazing outfits. To me, sewing pales in comparison to my entomology collection. My cases are filled with black and green beetles, creepy spiders, butterflies and moths—wings beautifully spread with silver pins stuck through crispy bodies. If you asked my sister she’d tell you my “bugs” and my “carrots”, as she refers to my award-winning vegetables, are nothing compared to her fine sewing. As we’ve gotten older we don’t fight about it much.

When I walk by the material sitting on the kitchen counter I stop and touch it because it looks like you should bury your hands in its soft, plush, yummy golden heap. I think to myself, “I wonder what this is?  Is my sister starting a massive new project?” I continue on through the kitchen. “I’m glad sewing is not my thing,” I think. My mother, who is standing at the stove, calls me back. “Do you like this material?” she inquires. As she pushes the pattern toward me she asks, “Would you wear a coat like this?” I am confused about why she is asking me.

Then she tells me about her arrangement. She has hired Vivian Vinneberg to work with me to sew the coat. I have heard of Mrs. Vinneberg. She is supposed to be the best seamstress in the whole state of Kansas. She has a son who goes to my High School but I don’t know him. He is loner. I’ve overheard kids who ride his bus say he lives way out in the sticks. Did my mother actually just tell me I would be spending my precious summer with these people?

I feel as if all the air has been sucked out of me. I am trying to comprehend the meaning of what Mom told me. I feel completely pulverized! Isn’t a coat kind of a big undertaking for a first sewing project? My mind plummets. I can’t believe I am supposed to give up my entire summer to learn something I care nothing about. Is Mom really going to make me spend it with some old lady out in the sticks! How am I going to hang out with my friends?

I hate my mother for setting up impossible situations like this! The projects she picks for me always include some ulterior motive. She has some kind of fantasy that I will “feel good about myself” when I have completed them. How can she fail to grasp that it might not feel good to get credit for something someone has done for you? The thought of this happening again makes me miserable. Why does Mom assume she knows what I need? I sulk off to my room to figure out how to get out of this predicament.

Out in the sticks takes on an entirely new meaning the first time Mom drives me out to the Vinneberg farm. It takes a good 40 minutes until we turn off the asphalt highway onto a gravel road that has tall grass and sunflowers growing down the hump in the middle. After a while the gravel road turns into a rutted, one-car dirt path that bends into an even iffier 800-foot dirt driveway. The buildings have suffered years of neglect and many of them are falling down. The house is a typical wood-frame 2-story farmhouse that needs paint so badly it is impossible to tell if it was ever been painted. I slump down in my seat and fold the foil wrapper from a piece of Juicy Fruit gum as small as I can before I flick it out the window. I am furious!

I see Vivian Vinneberg standing, looking out through the screen door as we drive up and park in front of the house on the parched grass. She is thin and has deep wrinkles in her face that look like you could fall into them and never find your way out. Her bronze skin makes me think of Native Americans. She stands tall and has a shy smile. As we step onto the porch she holds the screen door open and looks down. When she doesn’t make eye contact, Mom starts talking nervously in short sentences. As Mom prattles on I get the sense Mrs. Vinneberg isn’t listening to her either.

Anger is rising in my body, tensing the muscles all the way up into my head. I don’t really want to find out if Mrs. Vinneberg is nice. I don’t care if she wants to share what she loves with me. My life, my entire summer, is being ruined by having to learn to sew. Mrs. Vinneberg has agreed to be a part of my mother’s latest scheme to make me into what she wants me to be. Mrs. Vinneberg, by participating in Mom’s egregious plan, is now the enemy. Taking on my mom will do no good. The only power I have is to be cruel to Mrs. Vinnegerg. I will pretend to be nice but will pour venom into every word, every look, and every smile.

I don’t notice when my father parks the new car at the end of the driveway one evening after work. I look out my bedroom window and wonder who is visiting. I have no idea the car is ours. It is a 1967 Plymouth Barracuda coupe---red with black vinyl interior. A large moon roof spans the entire back of the car, giving way to thoughts of stargazing and drinking beer with friends. In the past, my parents have always bought enormous Chryslers with big fins—never anything this sporty and fun.

It takes me a while to realize I will be driving the Barracuda every day when I go to Mrs. Venneberg’s—by myself. When this hits me all my animosity disappears. I ask to take the car for a spin. As I cruise down Main Street I feel “seen” as people turn their heads wondering who is in the awesome car. I can barely feel the railroad tracks’ bump as I drive out of town. I turn onto the straight road out by the grain elevator and put the accelerator pedal flat to the floor. The car responds like a dream. Before I know it I have reached the next little town and need to turn around to go home.

I got my drivers license when I turned 14. That was 3 years ago. It is hard to get “driving time” in my family because either my sister wants to drive or Mom is going somewhere, always late—so she has to drive fast to get there in time. Mom doesn’t encourage me to drive. I know she thinks I’m not very good at it. I actually feel pretty confident. I have never driven by myself, though, until this evening. I am looking forward to finally driving a lot this summer!

Cutting out 80 pieces of fabric takes days. Without talking about it, Mrs. Venneberg decides the best way to deal with my shitty antagonistic attitude is simply to ignore me. She pins the pattern pieces to the material as if she is helping a young child who is eager to learn. Her perky attitude annoys me! I cut around the little pieces with pinking shears, opening and shutting their jagged mouth forcefully, like a shark closing in on dinner. All summer Mrs. Venneberg sets up the next step and the next and I cut or sew or do whatever she tells me to do. My refusal to pay attention or learn anything from what we are doing does not stop the coat from taking shape. I have to admit it is a thing of beauty! I take no credit for it and struggle with what I can say when people compliment me.

Each morning I arrive at the Venneberg farm at 9. We work straight through the day and stop at 4. Then it is just the Barracuda, the open road and me. I back the Barracuda up onto Mrs. Vinneberg’s scraggly lawn to turn around, and then ease down the driveway. The bumpy dirt road bumps and bounces me around in the car. I am extra careful to maneuver the car so I don’t fall into a rut. When I reach the gravel road I pick up my speed a little. I like hearing the thump, thump, thumping of the sunflowers as they hit the front of the car. At the end of this road I come to a complete stop. I pause and carefully look both ways for traffic before I turn onto the two-lane asphalt highway leading home.

For a while the road, which is situated on the top a gentle ridge, makes you believe you’re driving along the top of the world. Looking out, it is astonishing how you can see pastures forever in all directions. The road emboldens me toward speed. I have been with Mom on this road when she’s driven a hundred miles an hour and she didn’t even realize it. I sit back in my seat and push down steadily on the accelerator pedal until it starts to feel like I’m flying. I see no other cars today. I decide I will slow down later when I reach the last five miles before town. That is the hilly stretch. If a car is coming toward you there, you can’t see it until it pops over the hill. I can feel the enormous smile growing across my face. I am lost in thoughts of what independence feels like. I decide I like being an adult and driving fast.

The next day Mrs. Venneberg tells me the coat will be finished on Friday. We work with focused determination all week. Then it is finally Friday. When it is 4 o’clock, our usual stopping time, we still have more finishing touches left. We take a break so she can make her husband and son and me some dinner. She fries some chicken and brings out a dish of cole slaw she’s covered carefully with saran wrap. She asks me to place little sweet pickles she put up last summer onto a relish plate. I pour water into glasses with ice cubes while she goes out to the barn to find her family. I feel nervous and totally out of place eating with her family. Mr. Vinneberg tries to chitchat about the weather when he sits down. The silence throughout the rest of the meal is interrupted only by the embarrassing sounds of mouths mushing food. I am glad to be finished with dinner so I can clear the plates and help her clean up the kitchen before we go back to sewing the coat.

When the coat is finished I open the screen door and step out onto the porch and into the night. I can barely see anything it is so DARK. I drape my coat protectively over the passenger’s seat and make sure the plastic Mrs. Vinneberg has slipped over it is entirely covering the coat. I edge slowly down the driveway. I have never driven at night before. It is different than I imagined. My vision is dramatically reduced and is limited to just what the headlights illuminate. It doesn’t take long before I feel happy again! “I am done with my coat! I don’t ever have to come back here!” I scream out my open window.

I search the sky for the moon. Maybe the cloud cover is hiding her? I can’t see any stars either. Once I get away from the house it is completely black! I poke slowly down the uneven road, watching carefully for anything the bright lights might highlight all the way to the highway. Once I turn onto the asphalt I still hang back. I’m not as comfortable cruising along at my usual daytime speed. Once I open all the windows and crank up the radio, though, my confidence is restored and the Barracuda begins to hum.

When I reach the section of the road where the hills start I see headlights from a car in front of me. Headlights do weird things when you’re driving in hills. They disappear and then reappear so quickly it is nearly impossible to judge distance. I catch up to the car sooner than I anticipated and have to put on my brakes because they are driving at a snail’s pace. After following them at a safe distance, I can tell by the way the car speeds up and slows down the driver has been drinking. They are weaving all over the road. There are several places between here and town when you can pass. I think I remember where they are although the road looks different in the dark. I have never passed another car but I’ve watched Mom do it a billion times. When she passes someone it looks and feels like sailing. I’m guessing it must be easy.

We must be climbing up a hill because we are going slower and slower. When speed picks up and I start cruising again I know we have crested over the top and are on the way down. I am pretty sure one of those passing places is coming up. When I reach the spot where the road flattens out I put my foot down hard on the accelerator. The powerful movement of the Barracuda clutches at my stomach and thrills me as I pull out into the other lane. The car responds instantaneously and I easily pull up even with the front of the other car. I look over and see we are neck and neck. I look back at the road, headlights peering into the night. All of a sudden I see a looming dark shadow up ahead ringed by the hazy glow from the headlights. The shadow is imposing but I can’t make out what it is. I quickly blink my eyes to make sure there really is something there. At the last moment I see what it is. A black cow is standing sideways in my lane. In that split second of recognition its enormous brown eyes lock with mine. By then there is nowhere for me to go. I can’t pull over into the other lane because the car is there.

I glance down at the speedometer and see I am driving at 80 miles an hour. The impact is a deafening sound of animal and steel. Instantly my windshield is completely covered with shit and the night goes completely away. The cow seems to be riding on the hood, pressed up against the windshield. The impact turns the car. It feels like I am careening sideways.

At first time is suspended. Then it moves in slow motion. I struggle to see, to make sense of what is happening. I know I am moving fast by the pull of centrifugal force on my body. Am I traveling through the air sideways? Should I take my hands off the steering wheel? My senses are on high alert, my mind completely shut down. My entire awareness is on movement. My body is intensely zeroed in to the unnatural feeling of being airborne. I see a picture of myself in a coffin with people filing by crying. Is this the last moment of my life?

At last I feel the tires rolling, dragging on the Barracuda. The sensation of slowing down is almost imperceptible at first. When the forward motion finally stops and car rocks side to side a few times. I sit in silence, not breathing. I can’t tell if I am still moving or not. I look around, trying to see anything through the blackness. I am frightened by a sound that I realize is my breathing—uneven and strained. My teeth are chattering and I can’t stop shaking.  Adrenaline surges through me but I cannot move. I hear a loud low moan and remember the cow. In my mind I see its eyes, begging me to let it live. Now it agonizes with groans that scream out desperately into the wounded night. As they grow more insistent I feel a sad heaviness and complete helplessness I can only guess is grief. Fear keeps me where I am. I cannot move to get out of the car. “Help me!” I scream into the punishing night.

For what seems like a long time I sit in the silent darkness. By now my breath is too shallow to detect. I am numb. Lifeless. I have lost all sense of time. It feels as though all the nerves in my body are wildly active while at the same time totally shut down. I am saturated with panic. The pitch black is disorienting so I close my eyes. With my eyes shut it feels like I’m still moving.  The claustrophobic confinement of the dark enclosed space is overwhelming. I become fixated on the feelings brought about by thinking, “I almost just died!” I feel blood racing chaotically through my body. My heart is beating uncontrollably. Even though it is a hot summer night, I am freezing and cannot stop shaking. I don’t know what to do. How will anyone find me? How will they know where I am? I don’t even know where I am.

Suddenly I think I hear a man’s voice. My door opens slowly. With the light from his flashlight I recognize Mr. McDowell. His brother rents the house across the street from my parents. I shut my eyes when he shines the flashlight directly into my face to see if I am okay. I burst into tears and it feels like an eruption of gratitude. He says he’ll be right back and disappears. It isn’t until the deafening silence following the gunshot when the groaning stops that I know the cow is dead.

Mr. McDowell comes back and gently helps me out of the car. My legs are like rubber so he puts a steady arm around my shoulder and helps me over to his pickup. Once I am in the passenger seat he fastens his shotgun in the rear window of his truck. He hands me a blanket from behind the bench seat and I pull it around me as we ride to town. He tells me he was driving this way and when he got to the hills he saw the lights from my car go haywire. The lights from the other car kept going. “I got to you as quickly as I could. I knew something bad had happened.” He told me I had gone sideways for a quarter of a mile starting in Riley County and ending up in Pottawatomie County. “That is the only piece of highway in the state of Kansas that has no signs or posts for that quarter of a mile. “If you had hit even a small post your car would have rolled and rolled. You would definitely be dead. You are lucky!”

When we see the first lights from town, reality hits and I start to wonder how my parents will respond to my having a car accident. I’m pretty sure they won’t take away my driving privileges.  I am absolutely certain they will be angry! Sure enough, when I tell them the story they don’t believe me. Mr. McDowell assures them I am telling the truth. My father is furious about the damage I’ve probably done to the new car. He keeps repeating, “I knew you were a bad driver.  I should never have let you take the Barracuda.” As I listen to him rant, all I hear is how I’m not an adequate person. Finally Mom, who has been silent, suggests we drive out to where the accident happened. I am relieved when Mr. McDowell says he wants to go.

We stand on top of the world in the dark. Flashlights reveal significant damage to the front of the car. While they are looking, I open the Barracuda’s back door and reach in for my camel hair coat. I pull it out and slide the plastic up and over the shoulders. The soft plush fabric makes me want to hug it. Hugging brings the comfort I so desperately need. I slide into the backseat of my parents’ car and lean my head on the window, embracing the coat. All the way back to town my father keeps talking about the accident and the cow. Thinking about the cow causes sadness so deep for me, I don’t think I will ever come back. I refuse to listen to him. The only thing I can do is pull into myself as the warm coat enfolds and holds me. Long after we get back home my father continues his tirade. I go to bed and still hear him going on and on to my mom. She answers him with muffled grunts implying colluding agreement.

I lie under the covers in the dark shaking, immersed in anguish. I wonder if my parents are scared? Did it occur to them I might have died? Do they care? I feel hopelessly alone. I wish my sister were home from college. She would sit with me. She would hold me. This experience is changing my world. I will never be the same. Tears run down my cheeks in an unending stream as I cling to my camel hair coat.