Deathtrap
Stagecoach – A Journey Back to the 1950s
by Don Drewniak
Unlike most in
Fall River, Massachusetts our Tucker Street house
didn’t have a cellar. My across-the-street
friends’ house did. When the weather
precluded playing outside, the three of them
could often be found in their cellar.
“What’s
that?” I asked.
“Our
stagecoach.”
What I saw was
a narrow, rectangular, wooden enclosure resting
on four baby-carriage wheels. It was the width of
most baby carriages and about five feet in height.
There was a small cut-out area in the front (for
the driver to see out) and a door on the left
side. Surrounding it were a collection of wheels
and axles taken from baby carriages that were
tossed away in the nearby Tucker Street Dump, and
a few boards scattered on the dirt cellar floor.
The “steering
wheel” was a rope attached to the front axle
which through sheer kid genius was able to pivot.
When the rope was pulled to the right, the
stagecoach turned to the right. Pulled to the
left, it veered left.
“Can I
help?” I asked.
“It’s
done. You can help test it,” replied Joe who
was a fourth grader and our Commander-in-Chief.
The rest if us were in first grade.
We lifted it
out of the cellar and pushed it to Rhode Island
Avenue which was pancake-flat. Frankie was the
driver; the rest of us pushed and pushed and
pushed. When we stopped pushing, the stagecoach
quickly rolled to a stop.
“We need
a hill,” said the Commander-in-Chief.
Frankie
suggested, “Let’s go up to St.
Elizabeth’s.”
Tucker Street
was also flat where it met Rhode Island Avenue.
About a quarter mile to the east, it featured a
hill somewhat longer than a quarter mile and a
slope somewhere around twenty degrees. Just past
the top of the hill was St. Elizabeth’s
Church.
We huffed and
we puffed. And we huffed and we puffed. After
what seemed like an eternity, we managed to get
the stagecoach in place. Joe, by virtue of his
age, was in charge. “Frankie, you drive and
we’ll give you a push start.”
“Hey,”
Billy protested, “I wanna go, too.”
Stupidly, I
said, “Me too.”
“Okay,
all three of you go.”
Frankie got in
first and sat down holding the rope. Billy
followed, then me. Big mistakes. Billy remained
standing while bending his head over the top of
Frankie’s head so he could see through the
opening. I squeezed in behind him and couldn’t
see much of anything except the back of Billy’s
head. We were top heavy. Of course, we had no
idea of what top heavy was.
With a running
push by the Commander-in-Chief, off we went—
slowly for the first few seconds. Then we began
to gain speed. With the gain in speed, the
stagecoach began to rock.
“Rats,”
yelled Billy, “no brakes.”
A moment later,
our rolling deathtrap tipped over onto the door
side and rapidly came to a friction-induced stop.
We were trapped. The front opening was too small
to crawl through. Thoughts of a Mack truck
crushing us to death filled my half-dead brain.
“Help!”
we screamed a few thousand times. Well, almost a
few thousand times. After what seemed like hours,
our cries for help were answered. A half dozen
motorists righted our deathtrap and held it in
place while we scrambled out.
None of us
were hurt other than the suffering of a few
bruises and the scares of our lives. Once our
adult rescuers were sure we were all okay, they
left. We thanked them several million times.
As we rolled
the stagecoach back to the house, the three of us
blamed the Commander-in-Chief for what happened.
“It’s
not my fault you three babies are dumb as bricks,”
he responded.
The stagecoach
was pulled apart the next day.
“Let’s
make a soap box racer,” suggested one of the
other three.
“See you
later,” I replied as I exited up the cellar
steps.
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