Three would-be carjackers were stymied and ran off in disgust when they tried to steal a food delivery truck in Springfield, Mass. The truck had a manual transmission and none of the three knew how to drive it. —Bob Johnson
When I started to drive in the mid-1950s, most cars had standard transmissions. I’m sure there were automatics, but the cars I drove — and a truck, which we’ll get to in a minute — all had stick shifts.
I don’t know how long it took for me to become accustomed to coordinating the gear shift and clutch, but it eventually was old hat. Even today, I’m more comfortable with my old Ranger pickup, and its four on the floor, than I am with just having one gear forward.
I had an old junker, a 1951 Pontiac, for a while, but the car I begged to use each weekend for dates was my granddad’s Plymouth, also a ’51. It was bit of a boat, kind of wallowed around on the road, but was clean and neat. The shift mechanism was a little loose and going from one gear to another was a little exaggerated, with the lever on the steering column.
I got used to driving tractors and an occasional larger truck working in hayfields. I usually found myself on the wagon bucking bales, and once in a while I’d get a break and drive while others handled the hay.
My first experience with a truck larger than my granddad’s old converted Model A — he put a wooden box in place of the rumble seat — was a two-week stint working at Clark Lumber, on Eighth Street just north of Bridge in Humboldt.
I filled in for a vacationing employee, which included delivering lumber and other goods.
My first time out alone found me going to a house where I had to back into a narrow driveway. It was my first experience backing a truck with an extended bed, and didn’t realize it was that much different than granddad’s Model A.
All was going well until I heard a strange noise — like the steel framework of the truck’s bed grating along the house siding. Fortunately, damage was minimal and the homeowner wasn’t upset.
Since then I have driven several hundred thousand miles from one end of the nation to the other, with no mishaps of consequence — although once while turning around in a Concord, Mass., cemetery a tombstone got in the way.
Stick shifts once the standard
