Leslie Lucas
This is the story of a young boy and some of his experiences growing up in the Southern part of the United States in the 40's and 50's of this twentieth century. It includes some accounts of incidents that are deeply filled with pathos and sadness. However, in contrast it climbs the heights of happiness and unfettered joy of the carefree days of southern culture.
It is not only his story, but the interactions of parents, siblings, and other kin and also the, rare to this age, endearing, educational, and just simple fun of grandparents and even great-grandparents.
The scope is wide and yet focused enough to enable one to become familiar with the people and places in a personal way. History, biography, humor, entertainment-it is all of the above.
The author, Leslie Lucas, was Born in Rome, Georgia October 5th, 1939. Except for several years when he was in school at Clemson University in Clemson, South Carolina he has lived in this same northwest Georgia city.
He has worked as a professional auctioneer since early 1960. In conjunction with that occupation he has also owned and operated Rome Auto Auction, an automobile auction company, for that same period of time. His involvement with this part of the auto industry and his experience has given him an opportunity to look at some life events in a unique perspective. This book, 'Threads Of Colours' is the product of an attempt to say something meaningful about his mother's brother. As a result the book expands somewhat to cover some of life as experienced in the South in the 40's and 50's of this 20th century.
This material covers the very early part of his life and upon reflection he has discovered that there are other events from that era and in later life that he would like to develop in a similar manner.
About this same time my dad had a 1911 Buick that was an amazing car to see and to ride in. It was bright red. It had wooden spoke wheels, a brass radiator, oil fueled headlights and the back seat was much higher than the front. The motor was kind of loud and it sounded strange. They said it had a 'suicide clutch.' I didn't know what that was, but I felt that the driver was in some kind of danger.
My brother, Bobby, was about 13. I heard my mom and dad say that he thought that he was grown. I thought he was too. he would drive any of the cars my dad had around the house when he got the chance. He was a good driver. He had a lot of practice long before most boys his age had even sat on the drivers side and pretended to drive.
One warm Sunday afternoon we were home from church and the Buick was at the house sitting temptingly at the side of the driveway. Bobby persuaded Dad to let him crank the Buick. After many promises of how careful he would be, Dad let him ease it out into the road and drive it up to Rudy St. and down it to the other side of the 'flat.' He made a couple of trips and then talked Dad into letting him take all of us for a ride. It was indeed a pleasant Sunday drive. It was a four door touring car , and the cloth top had been discarded long ago.
Bobby had gained everyone's confidence and we were all having a good time. He gave everybody several rides and the older people got bored with it I guess and each trip carried fewer passengers. It was down to Bobby and another on the front two seats, and me in that high back seat by myself. I was having a great time.
We went up Southern turned right at Rudy and went down the hill to a small dirt road. He backed into the dirt road to turn around. I turned around and got up on my knees to look out of the back to watch as we backed up. Bobby stopped and put the old Buick into a forward gear and started forward. It was at that moment when I realized the full meaning of the term 'suicide clutch.' The Buick leaped forward as the clutch grabbed without warning. I was still in a kneeling position in the back seat looking out the back. At the same time that the Buick leaped forward, I rose gracefully upward and began to turn slowly in the air as I sailed over the high seat. I seemed suspended in mid air for a moment as the car sped away. I turned a half flip and descended the seven or eight feet to the soft red dirt of the edge of the little side road. I hit as flat on my back as possible I didn't even bump my head . I was lying there stretched out on my back with my feet pointed away from the car and my head toward the car.
Dad and Mom were watching from across the 'flat' from our front porch. I don't remember having time to get up before they arrived at the scene. Dad picked me up in his arms, it was only then that I realized that I should be crying. So I obliged and cried mostly from the excitement, I wasn't hurt at all. I could survey the commotion from my perch with Dad and I heard Mom say, 'Bobby, if you don't try to be a little more careful you are going to kill him.' I can remember her telling him this on several occasions. I thought it was a good ride and would have ridden back to the house with Bobby, but for whatever reason, Mom did not allow me to ride.
The fall reminds me of the time that I was sitting on one of our ponies. I was holding to the smooth leather saddle horn and Bobby was holding the reins. I sensed that he should not drop the reins, for I felt that if he did the pony might run. I told Bobby this and he said this pony will not run off. To prove it he dropped the reins. We were beside Mama Hut's house and there was a ploughed field next to it. The gentle pony that had never acted up proceeded to wildly run as fast as he could across the field. About half way across I let go of the saddle horn and fell off. Again , it did not hurt at all. However, I was again in Dad's arms listening to Mom tell Bobby how that if he didn't become more careful that he was going to kill me.
