3. More About Papa

Without further delay, for the carriage was one of our earliest acquisitions after arriving in Kentucky, I think I should tell you about this remarkable vehicle.

There were four of us and we needed something more commodious than a buggy. But to acquire accommodations for us all would take some doing. Carriages were very expensive. A new one, such as a sedan with fringe on top, would cost Papa six months’ salary. He was getting only four hundred dollars annually. This sounds almost incredible, but it should be remembered that a dollar, in 1881, had a much higher value than it has today. I do not know what the depreciation amounts to over these past seventy years, but it is considerable. People did not talk much about the shrinkage in the purchasing power of our money until the U.S. Treasury began to call in the folding currency and issue smaller bills of the same denomination.

Many citizens thought that the smaller money might have resulted from the fast footwork of a lobby engaged by manufacturers of leather wallets. But it was soon discovered that the new little dollar wasn’t worth as much as its dirty old predecessor. It might be suggested that if the federal government intends to cut down the size of our currency to fit its diminishing value, the change should be made at once. It would not only stimulate the wallet business, but would be a nice break for manufacturers of microscopes. Almost every other industry is subsidized: why not optical goods?

After much inquiry in many places, Papa came home one day reporting that he had found a rig suitable for use either as a two-passenger buggy or a four-passenger carriage. It was not new, he said, nor was it very pretty; but it could be had for twenty-five dollars.

Mama was so happy over Papa’s success in finding the carriage that he felt like warning her against too much enthusiasm. “It is not a stylish thing,” he said. “But we’re not trying to put on style,” said Mama. “That’s good,” said Papa. “If we’re not trying to put on style, this is just the rig we’re looking for.” My sister Lou suddenly closed her eyes tightly and shuddered. “The church people will like us, all the more,” said Mama, “if our carriage is not so good-looking as theirs.” “Well,” said Papa, “if that’s what it takes to make them like us, we’ll be the most popular family in the state.”

That afternoon Papa rode Flora over to the place where the carriage was, and returned with it in a couple of hours. We three were sitting on the verandah, waiting. Nobody said anything when Papa drove through the gate and came to a stop near the mounting-block. Then Mama sagged back in her chair, and murmured, “Oh, my!”

We gathered silently about the carriage which at the moment was a buggy, and Papa showed us how it worked. The cushioned seat for two, with a high weatherproof top, was on a pair of metal tracks extending about three feet to the rear. All you had to do, Papa said, to make a carriage of it, was to slip the buggy-seat back, and the front seats would appear. He gave his side of the heavy seat a push and it budged just enough to cramp its progress. Then he came around to the side where we three were standing and gave it a push which cramped it on that side. Then he went back to the other side and pushed it another half inch. Then back to our side for another half-inch. Then he climbed in, faced the seat, and pushed unsuccessfully with his knees. By this time he was breathing hard, and seemed somewhat annoyed. He climbed out. Mama volunteered to push on one side while Papa pushed on the other, but the buggy stubbornly refused to be a carriage.

Papa muttered something to Mama and she went into the house for a little can of sewing-machine oil, with which they tried to lubricate the tracks. There was more pushing. Papa climbed in again, sat down, clucked to Flora, made a U-turn; and without a word, drove out onto the road. In an hour or so, he was back. We had a carriage now. Two uncomfortable little seats had popped up in front of the much higher one. Papa looked funny on his little seat.

We never tried to make a buggy out of our carriage. When we were caught in the rain, the occupants of the front seats got wet. When Papa drove alone, he folded up the little seats and sat far back on the big one. It was easy to understand why we had acquired the carriage at a bargain.

Through the after years, whenever one of us tried to describe something or somebody as singularly awkward, unwieldy or inept, and lacked the words for it, the ”Kentucky carriage” came to our aid.

* * * * *