THE ROAD TO SACRED HEART

The following story contains words that may be offensive.  These were used sparingly and in context with the time and place this story occurs.  In no way were they intended to abuse or offend any reader.

     Alex (said El' -ick) Lesnik was 10 years old growing up in the Texas Hill Country during the Great Depression.  Living on a farm with his brothers Fred (9 years old) and L.B. (eight), the boys didn't have much to restrict them in whatever adventure came to them by chance or circumstance.  Their mother, Stella, was busy making ends meet and courting eligible men in the town of Brenham.  Her husband had died mysteriously not even a year prior.  She had growing sons and a farm and she needed a man.
    The Lesnik boys were on their own much of the time.  Alex, Fred and L.B. walked a mile or so to St. Joseph's school most days, unless fishing or wandering the hills or some chore on the farm prevented their attendance.  Without much outward guidance to shape their daily activities they looked to themselves for support.
    Mischief and adventure, that is, adventure brought on by mischief was alluring.  They followed its lead wherever it took them.  Since mischief required the involvement of unwitting people, the boys found a population of such gullible souls in the school yard.  So, most days Alex, Fred and L.B. were in school looking for prey to play a joke upon.  They liked to laugh.  The more outrageous the joke the bigger the reaction - the longer they laughed.
    But there was even a better reason for the brothers to go to school this time of year.  It was baseball season, and the Lesnik boys liked putting on the uniform and playing baseball for the school team.  There was travel involved, to neighboring schools and their ball teams.  This day the St. Joseph’s Road Runners were going to travel down the road to play the Sacred Heart Academy Eagles.  However, there was a problem - not enough drivers to transport all the players.  St. Joseph's didn't have a bus.
    "Do any of you boys know how to drive," asked coach Nowicki.
    Alex couldn't believe what he was hearing.  A chance to drive!
    "I do, sir," said Alex.
    “Alex,” said coach.  “Take the equipment and set everything up on the ball field at Sacred Heart.  Drive the Model A out there.  Now it belongs to the nuns so be careful."
    “Shore thing, coach.”
    A ten-year-old at the wheel of an automobile sounds frightening today, but in 1937 the adventure was on.  Coach tossed the keys to Alex and three boys, Fred, L.B. and Red (their buddy) followed him to the car.
    It was a 1931 Ford Model A Deluxe Tudor.  The boys jumped in.  Alex pressed the starter button with his foot and slammed the accelerator pedal to the floor.  The road to Sacred Heart Academy was made of red dirt. Recent rains had transformed it into a quagmire that dried into deep ruts from car wheels rolling over it like feet in wet cement.  There was no ignoring or escaping the ruts.
    Now, a ten-year-old’s judgment on the road is “spotty”.  Alex was speeding down the dirt road bouncing in and out of deep ruts and scraping the bottom of the car loudly.  A long cloud of red dust streamed from the bumper trailing yards and yards behind.
    Red shouted, "Slow down, Alex!  Slow Down!"  L.B. and Fred were yelling, “Faster, faster.”
    The ruts finally threw the car violently to the side and into the ditch.  The Model A kept rolling and Alex kept driving, in the ditch, dodging mail boxes and armadillos.
    “Alex there’s a bridge up ahead.  Get back on the road,” roared Red.
    “Oh, yeah,” said Alex.  He turned the car back onto the rutty road and sallied on.  The wooden slats of the small country bridge rattled and vibrated when the Model A pounced on its surface.
    “Alex!  Please!  Slow down,” Red’s mournful supplications were pitiful and ignored.
    The louder Red shouted the harder Alex drove through the ruts.  He could barely see over the car’s dash, but he felt in charge.  Settling in the ruts briefly, the tires shimmied against the deep walls of the ruts.  Again, the car lurched hard to the right and bounced high, landing in soft sand which sent the car into fish tails.  Alex fought the steering wheel, pulling it left then right then left again.  The Model A hurtled into a powerful spin and a slide that sent boys and machinery again into the ditch.  The engine stalled.
    "Alex, stop!  Stop, Alex!  You're gonna kill us all."  .
    “Red, we’re not gonna die.  We gotta’ baseball game to play," said Alex.   Red dust clouded the interior of the Model A.  Nostrils were lined with the stuff, leaving a gritty taste in the mouth.

(To be continued next week)