24 Jul 2017 Are we there yet?

by Vivian Lawson Hogue

In 2005, I was asked to add a brief update to Captain Rod Pearson’s comprehensive history of the Conway Police Department written in 1999. Included in it was a personal story that illustrates the department and our town in that era.

It began: “On a sweltering August night during the drought of the 1950s, with humidity hanging as heavy as the inescapable stench of farm animal dung, I accompanied my mother and an aunt to the Major Lewis Sale Barn on Chestnut Street. There was no other purpose than to see what we had never seen – an auction of livestock. My mother parked our “new” 1948 two-tone brown and mint green Chevy sedan on Chestnut. At that time, few residents locked their vehicles and would often leave the keys in the ignition with no ill results. We felt safe anyway, as the police station with a force of perhaps five officers was about a half-block away.

“The 1955 town of Conway with its 9,000 citizens had little in the way of crime, but we gave the police something to do that night. Upon returning from the auction, we approached our parking spot at 10 p.m. My mother had that sudden, Walmart-parking-lot feeling of vehicle misplacement. However, it became evident that the car had been stolen and we were in a predicament.

“We walked to the police office, and the small, rock building was immediately crowded with the three of us and two officers. After a time, an officer drove us home and the other called the chief. Around 3 a.m., we received a call that the car was found at Palarm, a notorious watering hole not known for its water. It was no worse for wear except for obvious evidence of nausea in the back seat.”

We were grateful to have our family car back. It was not new or luxurious, but all we had. As I watch traffic in our town now, I notice that so many people have late-model vehicles. They may not know how to drive them well, but they look good while they move along at snails’ paces, change lanes without signals, and do not realize that a yield sign is not a stop sign. I remember when our small town saw its first traffic light at Oak and Harkrider in 1951. There were signs 500 feet from the light to warn drivers of its presence. The newspaper informed that a yellow light would precede a change to red.

During that era, most families only had one car. People did not purchase vehicles as often as now. As I consider my 10-year-old car, which barring unfortunate circumstances will likely be my last, I am reminded of our own family cars.

The first car I remember was a massive, black 1939 Buick Special we lovingly called “Capone” because it looked like one mobster Al Capone drove. At a hefty $1,250, it had a beige fabric interior, a half-acre back seat and a radio, which caused the battery to die if left on after the motor was turned off. I remember coming back from Louisiana once and my dad listening to a political speaker. I desperately wanted to throw a tantrum because I wanted to listen to the “Our Miss Brooks” show. If I had, however, my mother’s seemingly bionic arm would have appeared by mysterious means, with the hand of it landing smack on my nether side. 

Our next vehicle was the two-tone Chevrolet sedan acquired from a relative. (By now my parents had taught me the preferred pronunciation is “vee’-i-kuhl” not “vee-hickle,” as the “h” is silent.) We thought we were in high cotton with its mint green and brown colors and it being smaller than a Pershing tank. In 1959, my mother, who was always the principle driver, decided to buy a new car. It was a white Buick with a blue interior, Delta wing fins, “power steering” and costing $2,700. She was very proud of it and ignored gasoline being 23 cents a gallon. The “power” part of the steering came from one’s arms as they developed muscles from turning the only slightly improved steering wheel.

Mother was not shy in her driving habits. The power pole at the driveway entry survives today because of her steering abilities. I do not know how she came into the carport so accurately at her preferred speed, but my dad did wrap some foam around a carport column, not for possible car damage, but out of concern for the column.

We natives or long-timers look back with fondness on those days and are sometimes mocked for doing so. I do have to say we took that era for granted, never imagining what was ahead. Twenty-three cents a gallon for gas and a single traffic light would be the least of our worries.

A native of Conway, Vivian Lawson Hogue graduated from the University of Central Arkansas with a degree in art education. A retired teacher, she worked in the Conway School District for 23 years. She is editor of the Faulkner County Historical Society’s semi-annual publication, “Faulkner Facts and Fiddlings.” She can be reached at [email protected].