by Sherry Stocking Kline
April 1, 2011
Cars were an important part of our lives on the farm. They took me to school, helped herd dairy cows, took us to town for groceries, to the elevator for supplies and nickel pepsi’s, and made ‘blood runs’ (high speed trips) to the parts store when the combine or tractors broke down.
Our cars had personalities (some more ‘congenial’ than others) and Mom always, always, named them “Nancy Jane.”
“Nancy Jane, you start now, we need to get to church,” she might say as we hurried off to church on a cold morning.
“Nancy Jane, don’t you dare get stuck,” she’d say as we slid sideways down slippery, muddy unpaved roads to and from our home.
It always seemed to me, growing up, that after Mom called the car Nancy Jane in a firm, encouraging, and sometimes scolding voice that the car made an extra effort to do exactly what Mom asked.
After she spoke to it, ‘Nancy Jane’ nearly always came through for us.
Do I talk to my vehicles?
Surely you jest! Of course I do! How else are they going to know what’s expected of them!
“Come on, Baby, we gotta go pick up the granddaughters from school….”