The Road to Saint Joseph’s

It was 1973. My brother Nate and I were full of testosterone and other lively juices, the kind that take many young dudes to places they don't really expect to go. We were also in occasional command of a gold-color Oldsmobile Delta 98, the classy hulk of a car we would borrow from our understanding old man.

Dad had been quite the stud in high school, and I think he viewed his sons’ prowess as a sign of his own masculinity. At a time when our opinions on music, hair length and just about everything else differed to the point of aggravation, Dad and Nate and I agreed on one thing: A young guy had every right to take young ladies out in automotive splendor.

The Delta 98 was such a lady killer that whenever Nate or I were behind the wheel and passing through our town's only stop light, any kids sitting on the stoop of the corner pizza shop would howl in admiration.

Dad kept it spotless by saddling us boys with countless Saturday morning cleaning duties. Our tools were a high-powered vacuum cleaner, a matching pair of red wash buckets and two giant sponges. Our labor was a small price for the teenage romance that keys to the 98 allowed.

Under the 98’s hood was 455CCs of Detroit‘s wildest horsepower, projected ahead of the passenger compartment like a massive phallus. The dashboard that extended beneath the steering wheel to the glove box looked like I imagined a jet cockpit's control panel would, and the radio with rear-mounted speakers was state of the art.

Most importantly for our expeditions was its spongy yellow-gold back seat, sans bucket, which was ideal for “parking” situations.

And that’s what Nate and I had in mind that night as we headed south out of sleepy Somerset with a couple other local girls. We turned off SR13 and were driving down the desolate asphalt road that lurchs through hill and dale toward the empty lot of one of the oldest Catholic churchs in southern Ohio, St. Joseph’s.

For some reason even then I had been considered a safe driver. Nate would egg me on to no end for that, calling me a pussy for not seeing what Delta Force could do on a straight away or for not burning off some of the tread with a grande finale rip through a gravel intersection. But now I know, decades later, that even as cautious as I thought I was, we were often just an inch from disaster, because driving safely was the last thing on anyone’s mind.

They say of all the senses, the one for smell is the most acute, the most memorable. That may be true since I can still imagine how the perfume of my date that evening, a good Catholic girl named Mary, nearly drove me nuts the instant she jumped in the Delta. I can also still see how Mary beamed smiles to Nate and his date beneath her powdered freckles. Her long bleach blonde hair might have also excited me, but not half as much as the hip-hugging jeans framing the essence of my desires. Unfortunately, as I recall, our talk had been stilted, and unnatural, with Mary spending more time leaning back between the seats than she was looking in my direction; today I’m fairly sure she was just trailing me because her best friend was my brother’s babe. In the rear mirror I could see that he and Nan, when not interrupted by Mary, were really going to it. Something in the way Mary looked at me said I wasn’t going to be so lucky.

At some point, I felt that enough was enough. The distance across the wide front seat was too much, and Mary’s obvious disinterest made matters worse. Stewing on this, I stepped on the gas. Stewing on it more, I suddenly stomped on the brakes, bringing the Delta Force to a rest just 300 yards over the crest of one of those infamous southern Perry County hills.

It was dark all around, stars blinking indifferently above, our only company a far hillside of occasionally bleating sheep. I vaguely recall telling Nate it was his turn to drive; I jumped out of the car.

That demand animated everyone, and before ten seconds passed, Nate and Nan and Mary were also standing on the edge of the pavement behind the car, imploring me to shut up and drive. Each of them could see that I was pouting. But I’m not sure that Mary acted more affectionate. I also don’t know that any of us noticed that the Force’s doors were all wide-open.

As we stood there jawing, like a sudden lightning flash, twisted doom appeared in the form of another machine blasting right for us. That car, which I later realized was the souped up ride of one of the Green boys who lived nearby, was going 70 miles an hour if it was moving at all.

Jumping into the roadside weeds we screamed for our lives.

The other driver must have flipped his steering wheel just before he reached the 98, squealing around its outstrecthed wings. His maddened wheels were rocketing off their springs, but he never slowed down a beat.

Then before any of us could utter an expletive, the rampaging car had disappeared. ln its wake was nothing but a heavy Zeppelin boom hanging ghostly in the air.

On a handful of occasions in the years since that night I've driven down that same country road. Each time I have, I've remembered the fragility of our young lives beside the seemingly indestructible image of the Delta 98. I also imagine how easily it might have ended differently --- as tragically as it has for scores of not-so-lucky Ohio teens every summer since ‘73.