you,” she said, replying to an unvoiced complaint from Bill. Betsy smiled. Amusing how people who had been married for a long time could do things like that.
The woman resettled herself, and the little car went diddle-hick-diddle up the street to the white booth.
The last car in, a red-orange model, was small and light. It was a real horseless carriage, looking far more like a frail little buggy than a car. It had no hood, just a low dashboard that curved back toward the driver’s shins. He was a slim young man in a tight-fitting cream-colored suit, a high-collared white shirt with a small black bow tie, and a straw boater atop his dark auburn hair. He wasn’t behind a steering wheel, but had one hand on a “tiller,” a curved silver pipe that ran up from under the dash. The dust-white wheels of his automobile were the right size for bicycles, with wire spokes. The vehicle came to a trembling halt beside Betsy, whose mouth was open in delight. Here, in person, was the car embroidered in the center of Mildred Feeney’s quilt, the car that was the very symbol of the Antique Car Club. Before she could check her list to see who was driving it, the driver smiled and said, “Owen Carpenter. Driving a 1902 Oldsmobile, single cylinder.”
Betsy made a checkmark beside Number Seven on her list, and wrote the time. She directed him to Adam Smith at the booth and stayed in place a minute to watch the Olds toddle down the street. Its little engine, located somewhere on the underside, sounded a very authoritative “Bap!” at brief intervals.
Then, her work done, Betsy walked slowly to the booth and past it, looking from side to side at the veterans. That Oldsmobile she had just checked in was the oldest in today’s run, having survived its first century, but by definition all the cars here were pioneers, and the oldest ones looked like the buggies and wagons they shared the roads with when they were young. Some had names anyone would recognize: Ford, Oldsmobile,Cadillac. Some were unfamiliar: Everett, Schacht, Brush. Most were brightly painted, orange, yellow, red, blue, brown, green, but some wore basic black. All were surprisingly tall, with a running board to step up on, then another step up to the seats, which themselves were more like upholstered chairs or sofas than modern car seats. They all had brass trim and most featured alertly upright windshields. All but the Olds had wooden spokes on their wheels.
Two men were poking under the hoods and one was on his back doing something to the undercarriage, paying tribute to the experimental nature of these engines and drive mechanisms, but the rest stood in gleaming perfection while people gathered to ask questions or take pictures. The Stanley was leaking steam from several sources, but Lars seemed unconcerned and was boasting to a trio of young men about his trip. He had a bad scald on the back of one hand.
Betsy shook her head, at him and at all the drivers. Seeing these old, old cars, and knowing they’d been driven here from St. Paul, was like finding that your great-grandfather was not only still around, but decked out in white flannel trousers and using a wooden racket, capable of the occasional game of tennis.
She gave the clipboard to Adam and went to see how things were going in Crewel World.
It was a huge relief to step out of the glare into the air-conditioned interior. Even better, there were a fair number of customers—a few, by their costumes, from the antique car group.
Godwin wasn’t in sight. Betsy raised an inquiring eyebrow at Shelly, who pointed with a sideways nod of her head toward the back of the shop. Betsy went intothe little storeroom and heard the sound of weeping coming from the small rest room off it. She tapped lightly on the door. “Godwin?” she called.
“Oh, go away!”
“Why don’t you go home?”
“Because I haven’t got a home.”
“How long have you been in there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you’re not doing
The woman resettled herself, and the little car went diddle-hick-diddle up the street to the white booth.
The last car in, a red-orange model, was small and light. It was a real horseless carriage, looking far more like a frail little buggy than a car. It had no hood, just a low dashboard that curved back toward the driver’s shins. He was a slim young man in a tight-fitting cream-colored suit, a high-collared white shirt with a small black bow tie, and a straw boater atop his dark auburn hair. He wasn’t behind a steering wheel, but had one hand on a “tiller,” a curved silver pipe that ran up from under the dash. The dust-white wheels of his automobile were the right size for bicycles, with wire spokes. The vehicle came to a trembling halt beside Betsy, whose mouth was open in delight. Here, in person, was the car embroidered in the center of Mildred Feeney’s quilt, the car that was the very symbol of the Antique Car Club. Before she could check her list to see who was driving it, the driver smiled and said, “Owen Carpenter. Driving a 1902 Oldsmobile, single cylinder.”
Betsy made a checkmark beside Number Seven on her list, and wrote the time. She directed him to Adam Smith at the booth and stayed in place a minute to watch the Olds toddle down the street. Its little engine, located somewhere on the underside, sounded a very authoritative “Bap!” at brief intervals.
Then, her work done, Betsy walked slowly to the booth and past it, looking from side to side at the veterans. That Oldsmobile she had just checked in was the oldest in today’s run, having survived its first century, but by definition all the cars here were pioneers, and the oldest ones looked like the buggies and wagons they shared the roads with when they were young. Some had names anyone would recognize: Ford, Oldsmobile,Cadillac. Some were unfamiliar: Everett, Schacht, Brush. Most were brightly painted, orange, yellow, red, blue, brown, green, but some wore basic black. All were surprisingly tall, with a running board to step up on, then another step up to the seats, which themselves were more like upholstered chairs or sofas than modern car seats. They all had brass trim and most featured alertly upright windshields. All but the Olds had wooden spokes on their wheels.
Two men were poking under the hoods and one was on his back doing something to the undercarriage, paying tribute to the experimental nature of these engines and drive mechanisms, but the rest stood in gleaming perfection while people gathered to ask questions or take pictures. The Stanley was leaking steam from several sources, but Lars seemed unconcerned and was boasting to a trio of young men about his trip. He had a bad scald on the back of one hand.
Betsy shook her head, at him and at all the drivers. Seeing these old, old cars, and knowing they’d been driven here from St. Paul, was like finding that your great-grandfather was not only still around, but decked out in white flannel trousers and using a wooden racket, capable of the occasional game of tennis.
She gave the clipboard to Adam and went to see how things were going in Crewel World.
It was a huge relief to step out of the glare into the air-conditioned interior. Even better, there were a fair number of customers—a few, by their costumes, from the antique car group.
Godwin wasn’t in sight. Betsy raised an inquiring eyebrow at Shelly, who pointed with a sideways nod of her head toward the back of the shop. Betsy went intothe little storeroom and heard the sound of weeping coming from the small rest room off it. She tapped lightly on the door. “Godwin?” she called.
“Oh, go away!”
“Why don’t you go home?”
“Because I haven’t got a home.”
“How long have you been in there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you’re not doing
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