For a few years, from the early to the mid-80's, our family's number one vehicle was a brown, late-70's full-size conversion van with a stripe-like design running down each side. Imagine the A-Team van stripe, but instead of red and sporty, it's a trippy collage of 70s-style oranges, yellows, and browns, in a hazy pattern you'd imagine on an acid trip after a wild night limping home from the disco. With wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor brown shag carpeting, it came complete with an in-dash 8-track player, a refrigerator, a captain's chair that could swivel 360 degrees, a vinyl backseat that could be adjusted into a two-person bed, and a table with slots for drinks. All of which could be removed, if needed.
I imagine this would have been ideal for weekend (or weekday) parties during the Saturday Night Fever era and for an episode of "CHiPs". Now imagine it's 10 years later, disco is dead, and you are married with three children. We purchased it used, and the shaggin'-wagon served as the family vehicle for vacations and other such trips.
The rear shocks on this vehicle were amazing. When we were aware of a significant pothole or bump in the road, we would scramble to the back seat. Even the most moderate disturbance would bounce you into the carpeted ceiling above before returning you to a close proximity of where you were before going airborne. One would be a little dazed, but fun nonetheless. A few times while camping, we would use its amenities as additional sleeping quarters for my sister and me. I slept on the folded-down seat, while she slept on the comfy, heavily carpeted floor. More than I once I woke up lying perpendicular on top of her, having slid off the stereotypical slippery vinyl seat. Weird, though, she didn't wake up, and I would only realize I had fallen off minutes later: It was that comfy.
I vividly remember the front-seat center console and the pockets that lined the cab-over-engine-like structure, stuffed with Dad's 8-track tapes. This is how I know the lyrics to most of the Alabama and Ronnie Milsap songs from this time period: we heard them constantly. We also took the van on hundreds of trips to lakes & beaches across southern Ohio during the summers. I can tell you getting sand out of shag carpeting is like teaching cats to dance - it doesn't happen.
Once this era came to a close, the well-used bell-bottom bus was put to work for various chores. As my brother Chad puts it, "It was like a former show horse who had seen glory but was now relegated to plowing an old rocky field."
The most significant of these chores was hauling the riding lawn mower around. With the refrigerator, table, and captain's chair removed, and a couple of flat boards to guide the mower into the cabin, we had the perfect way to keep dad's precious, clean, meticulously maintained lawn tractor safe. Despite the obvious fire hazard, we were good to go.
Craig: I'm 11 and looking forward to the sixth grade. It's a hot, sunny summer afternoon, playing in our backyard (likely with my sister or Chad Siders from next door, not to be mistaken for my brother Chad or my future brother-in-law Chad), when we hear our town's fire station alarm go off. Nothing new; just something that happens every so often. A short time later, a fire truck zooms past our house heading out of town. Again, nothing new.
Chad: I was 14, approaching my freshman year of high school. Dad and I were returning home so I could go to football practice (I only played one year before I came to my senses), and I attended those summer practices poorly, but at least for this one, I had an excuse. So, we ran out of gas on our return home after I had mowed mom's office on Bridge Street in Chillicothe — the van ran out of gas atop Swaney's Hill along Vigo Road. Dad and I walked to our house (a half mile or so away), got the car, and drove to Collins' Market to fill up the gas can so we could return to revive the parched van.
When we got to the van, I parked the car behind it and sat in the driver's seat (dreading my approaching afternoon football practice). So, I am sitting there, playing around with the car radio, and I can hear dad, who had emptied most of the gas can into the van, try to start it, but all it would do was sputter and peter out. Dad determined the van needed help, so he decided to prime the engine by pouring some remaining gas into the van's carburetor to get it to turn over. The thing with that van is that it had a short front end, so the design was cab-over-engine — to access most of its entrails, you had to pull off the console between the twin front seats.
I saw Dad doing this, but just kept entertaining myself with the radio. Suddenly, I heard what sounded like someone blowing heavily. When I looked up, Dad was yelling, and with what oxygen he had left, "CHAD, GO GET HELP!" My lazy, boring afternoon was immediately annihilated — I could now see flames. When pouring gas into the engine, it backfired and, I believe, immediately set the carpeted ceiling on fire. While Dad's eyes were bulging out of his head in horror, I just sat there in stunned silence. Perplexed at my failure to move, Dad yells a second time, "GO, NOW!!"
I fumbled turning the ignition, fueled by confusion and fear. To say I flew down the hill to Richmond Dale is an understatement; I drove that car to its maximum speed, ramping over the railroad tracks and past our house. In my anxious state, I thought of nothing but the fact that our van was being roasted just outside of town. Glancing in the rearview, I could now see black smoke billowing off the hill.
Craig: From what I can remember, Chad and Dad were returning with the mower in the van when the van itself sputtered and died atop Swaney's Hill overlooking town, about a half-mile away. Popping the hood, Dad attempts to see if he can do something to get it started. After the examination, his plan was to splash some gas onto the carburetor to start it. Apparently, after a time or two, the engine backfired, creating flames that were happy to be further fueled by the dry summer wind, not to mention the accelerant Dad spread over the engine like he was watering a vegetable garden. And, voila: The boogie down machine was on fire. The only thinking, I assume, would be how quickly it would implode as it approached the carpet-covered tinder inside.
Chad: When I got to the firehouse, I swerved in, slammed the brakes, and slid across the graveled asphalt. No one was around, so I ran up to the pull box handle, which triggers the alert siren. Grabbing the lever, I nervously pause. We had always been warned, as kids, not to be stupid and set off the "bat signal" for our volunteer fire department, which would erroneously summon unwanted excitement and a parade of fire vehicles and sirens. To be sure, I ran back to the street, thinking this wasn't real or all that serious. "Was this an overreaction?" I thought.
Though when I looked east to Swaney's Hill, it was horrifying, the smoke was rolling and filling the sky near our now, I assume, melting van. I ran back and yanked the handle on the pull box with every ounce of fear-driven strength--so hard that the lever stuck in the down position and wouldn't budge. As a result, instead of the familiar pulsing siren that summons firemen and EMS for help, it was a blaring, continuous siren normally associated with a tornado warning. I could not believe what was happening — it was surreal.
Craig: Not long after the fire trucks shot past the house, we noticed a rather large plume of black smoke in the distance, in the direction the fire truck went, an area we knew as Swaney's Hill. Interesting, but again, nothing completely new. So we continue goofing off in our large backyard.
If memory serves, apparently, fueled by the highly flammable liquids offered by Dad, not to mention those already used in every modern vehicle, he at least had the wherewithal to understand that this was far beyond his and Chad's abilities to handle. Thus, he sent my brother to the fire station to pull the alarm. All the while, Dad is frantically and unsuccessfully trying to put out the fire (and possibly further fueling it) by smacking it with a towel.
Chad: Almost immediately, someone popped out of the firehouse; ironically, it was Doug Swaney (where the term, Swaney's Hill, derives). He ran over ot me, but all I could stammer out were the words, "fire, your house, fire!" and point. When he looked toward where I was pointing, he saw the smoke, hopped into his car, and drove toward it like a maniac. In the confusion, now that I think about it, he likely thought I meant HIS house was on fire!
I stood there for a minute, unsure of what to do, and within minutes, like clockwork, the rest of the volunteer firefighters I've known my entire life arrived. With everything that had taken place, as they geared up and took off, all I could do was point toward the smoke towering over the eastern hills.
Craig: This would now be about the time we notice the fire alarm, casually wondering where it was going and why. Not to mention wondering what was causing the dark cloud of smoke emanating from outside of town seconds later...ahh...the innocence of childhood. I could not have imagined what was actually taking place, nor would I have wanted to.
Chad: Finally pulling myself back together, I drive trepidly toward the scene of the van murder. It was a sad sight to see the blackened, still smoldering van, dripping with soot after being doused by the familiar faces of the firefighters we've known as family friends and acquaintances. Dad was standing off to the side, by himself, staring at the vehicular rubble. I parked the car, walked over to him, and together we stood in silence.
Thinking it couldn't get any worse, I felt my personal horror restart. Dozens of vehicles, driven by my football teammates, headed to practice, the practice that I was to be attending, passed by. They stared in bewilderment at the fire-devoured van, and then at me. We locked eyes — no words exchanged, just mutual stares. I was thoroughly embarrassed, but weirdly overcome with relief, realizing I had a legitimate excuse to miss the practice I hated, not to mention several witnesses to back it up.
The next day was another story. I had to suffer through incredulous questions, like "Why/How did you all burn your van down?" With really no good answer, all I could provide was "I don't know."
Once everything was secured and maintained, the van was hooked up and driven away. "To our house, I guess", was Dad's response to the tow truck driver.
Craig: The smoke in the distance disappeared, and the fire crews passed our house again. This time, going the opposite direction toward the station.
Then the familiar tow truck from the long-time service station in our village appears, coming from the direction of the plume of smoke. It's slowing down as it gets to our house, and then we recognize the vehicle it's pulling, or at the very least, a portion of said vehicle.
From the rear of the disabled van to about two-thirds of the way to the front end, it was the unmistakable markings of our well-used relic of a time gone by. Everything associated with the front third is as black as charcoal, singed, burnt out, and smoldering. Our jaws hit the floor, and our eyes are bugging out of our heads in disbelief as this poor vehicle is being assisted home in the way a wounded soldier returns from battle.
Then, suddenly, the stunned silence breaks.
The annoyed, high-pitched voice of Mom cuts through the summer breeze, and the Cummins engine approaching our driveway. Bursting out of the house, she yells, "YOU ARE NOT PARKING THAT DAMN THING IN MY DRIVEWAY!!"
Chad: If the neighbors were not yet aware of the drama of a blatantly obvious inferno just outside of town with billowing black smoke and the entire township fire department put to work, Mom's vocal effort finished the job.
Craig: Mom approaches the tow truck the way a prize fighter meets his opponent, and a quick, much quieter conversation ensues. A moment later, the truck- with its auto carcass in tow - speeds up and passes by our house. Now, we owned land that had been our extended family farm years ago, but was no longer used for that purpose, so the half-toasted, four-wheel cadaver would have to chillax there for the foreseeable future - per anrgy mom's request (marching orders).
Chad: I remember it being towed into the side yard when mom was triggered — initially, dad's idea was to put it in the backyard, maybe for some permanent shrine. I sometimes wonder if that van is still there on the old farm, broken down by weather and time, covered in weeds, but still there, ready to tell its harrowing tale.
For what it's worth, not much beyond what we've described took place, and only some pride took a real hit on this day.
Despite the van biting the dust, Dad's mower survived - for the most part. Sure, the front end had some burn damage, but not so severe that it couldn't be used. Before the disco inferno, it was white and yellow. To make it look more uniform and less... um, well, burnt, Dad painted the entire machine black with a small red, reflective stripe. He was not amused when Chad suggested he write "Bandit" on the side of it to give it a cooler, sleeker, more badass persona.
Chad: Oh, he actually got super pissed and cursed me--he did not share in the humor we found in the situation.
That mower lasted forever, and our yard never had a chance. Dad was dutiful about making sure to scalp it once the grass looked like it was breathing. Looking back now, it is easy to think the yard and the nearly dead van were in cahoots, secretly hatching a plan to get rid of the dastardly mower. The van, having lived a full life and ready to be put to rest, accepts the role of transfer vehicle to take the mower down to an undisclosed location, where both would "sleep with the fishes".
Alas, like Don Corleone, Bandit would survive and continue to harass the yard and all of us at 558 Market Street until the divorce and subsequent move in the spring of 1992.
