The Car Jacking
When I was very young there were a spate of car jackings in American cities. It was a trend. I don’t think it occurs much, if at all, now. People would get robbed or roughed up, stranded, or just taken along for a joy ride. I don’t recall hearing that anyone got killed but it probably happened. It certainly could have happened.
My father was a quiet man, a “still waters run deep” man. I can’t remember him raising his voice in anger although I always knew when he was angry about something. While most kids got spankings in those days and some “the belt”, I never received any of that from my father. However he did not suffer fools gladly and he didn’t put up with nonsense from anyone. He was born into a Presbyterian farming family and as an adult had a career as a “large animal” (farm animal) veterinarian, so he had a great respect for hard working family farmers and how they managed their farms. He particularly admired Amish farmers that lived throughout eastern Ohio and western Pennsylvania because, as he often said, “They pay in cash and they take good care of their animals.” He could shut down a dairy farm if the cows were not properly cared for, and on occasion he did. And his decision was final. There were no appeals courts for those decisions back then.
One Sunday afternoon in summer I went along with him to the Akron Veterinary Hospital, a business and hospital facility he shared with three partners/colleagues. Twice a day, every day, he would clean the kennels occupied by cats and dogs who were boarding there or convalescing following surgeries or other illnesses, and give them fresh food, water, and blankets if they needed them. Those who were able--- the bigger dogs mainly---were let out of their kennels and put in “runs”---large penned areas where they could exercise for fifteen or twenty minutes a day. I was five or six years old at the time and going along to the hospital for me was like going to the zoo, and he let me help with stuff where I could and if it was safe to do so. I loved my Dad.
We drove from Silver Lake---home---through Cuyahoga Falls and across the Cuyahoga River to the “Expressway” and on to the city of Akron, maybe seven miles in total. There was very little traffic to speak of and once we got into the city of Akron, virtually none. We exited at East Market Street and headed for Buchtel Avenue. It was a great day. We chatted as we zipped along in our aging Pontiac station wagon. I remember him telling me about driving cattle trucks to earn enough money to attend veterinary school, and how back in his day the cattle weren’t secured with tethers so as they’d move around in the back of the trailer it made steering difficult, particularly in the wintertime in upstate New York. He always talked to me like I was an adult so I learned things that baby-talking parents didn’t, and couldn’t, communicate to their kids. He swore a bit, too, and I picked that up and sometimes surprised other adults with some colorful banter.
My father smoked unfiltered Chesterfield cigarettes and he had one going as we pulled up to the stop light at the intersection of East Market Street and Buchtel Avenue, and waited.
There was a fair-sized guy standing on the sidewalk near us with his hands in his pockets. He was by himself. There were no other cars on the streets and no other pedestrians on the sidewalks. And although it was Sunday, this was downtown Akron, a tough factory town in America’s “Rust Belt.”
All of a sudden the guy rushed up to my father’s window, reached in, grabbed his collar with a big fist and said, “Move over, mister, we’re going for a ride.”
In a heartbeat, and without hesitating, my father stuck the Chesterfield in his mouth, rolled the window up on the guy’s arm, attaching him to the car in a trap, dropped it into first gear and floored it.
He wound that old Pontiac up to, I don’t know, forty, forty-five miles an hour maybe, then rolled the window down, sending the would be car-jacker tumbling in the road behind us.
At that point he took the Chesterfield out of his mouth and flicked it out the window, turning to me, who was petrified, and shaking, and said “Are you okay?” He was steely calm and expressionless.
“Yes, Dad” I replied, my voice cracking.
Then we drove straight to Akron Veterinary Hospital, cleaned the kennels, put the large dogs in the exercise “runs”, gave all the animals fresh food and water, and made sure that any of them who needed clean, warm blankets had them.
© Kent Jones 2016
When I was very young there were a spate of car jackings in American cities. It was a trend. I don’t think it occurs much, if at all, now. People would get robbed or roughed up, stranded, or just taken along for a joy ride. I don’t recall hearing that anyone got killed but it probably happened. It certainly could have happened.
My father was a quiet man, a “still waters run deep” man. I can’t remember him raising his voice in anger although I always knew when he was angry about something. While most kids got spankings in those days and some “the belt”, I never received any of that from my father. However he did not suffer fools gladly and he didn’t put up with nonsense from anyone. He was born into a Presbyterian farming family and as an adult had a career as a “large animal” (farm animal) veterinarian, so he had a great respect for hard working family farmers and how they managed their farms. He particularly admired Amish farmers that lived throughout eastern Ohio and western Pennsylvania because, as he often said, “They pay in cash and they take good care of their animals.” He could shut down a dairy farm if the cows were not properly cared for, and on occasion he did. And his decision was final. There were no appeals courts for those decisions back then.
One Sunday afternoon in summer I went along with him to the Akron Veterinary Hospital, a business and hospital facility he shared with three partners/colleagues. Twice a day, every day, he would clean the kennels occupied by cats and dogs who were boarding there or convalescing following surgeries or other illnesses, and give them fresh food, water, and blankets if they needed them. Those who were able--- the bigger dogs mainly---were let out of their kennels and put in “runs”---large penned areas where they could exercise for fifteen or twenty minutes a day. I was five or six years old at the time and going along to the hospital for me was like going to the zoo, and he let me help with stuff where I could and if it was safe to do so. I loved my Dad.
We drove from Silver Lake---home---through Cuyahoga Falls and across the Cuyahoga River to the “Expressway” and on to the city of Akron, maybe seven miles in total. There was very little traffic to speak of and once we got into the city of Akron, virtually none. We exited at East Market Street and headed for Buchtel Avenue. It was a great day. We chatted as we zipped along in our aging Pontiac station wagon. I remember him telling me about driving cattle trucks to earn enough money to attend veterinary school, and how back in his day the cattle weren’t secured with tethers so as they’d move around in the back of the trailer it made steering difficult, particularly in the wintertime in upstate New York. He always talked to me like I was an adult so I learned things that baby-talking parents didn’t, and couldn’t, communicate to their kids. He swore a bit, too, and I picked that up and sometimes surprised other adults with some colorful banter.
My father smoked unfiltered Chesterfield cigarettes and he had one going as we pulled up to the stop light at the intersection of East Market Street and Buchtel Avenue, and waited.
There was a fair-sized guy standing on the sidewalk near us with his hands in his pockets. He was by himself. There were no other cars on the streets and no other pedestrians on the sidewalks. And although it was Sunday, this was downtown Akron, a tough factory town in America’s “Rust Belt.”
All of a sudden the guy rushed up to my father’s window, reached in, grabbed his collar with a big fist and said, “Move over, mister, we’re going for a ride.”
In a heartbeat, and without hesitating, my father stuck the Chesterfield in his mouth, rolled the window up on the guy’s arm, attaching him to the car in a trap, dropped it into first gear and floored it.
He wound that old Pontiac up to, I don’t know, forty, forty-five miles an hour maybe, then rolled the window down, sending the would be car-jacker tumbling in the road behind us.
At that point he took the Chesterfield out of his mouth and flicked it out the window, turning to me, who was petrified, and shaking, and said “Are you okay?” He was steely calm and expressionless.
“Yes, Dad” I replied, my voice cracking.
Then we drove straight to Akron Veterinary Hospital, cleaned the kennels, put the large dogs in the exercise “runs”, gave all the animals fresh food and water, and made sure that any of them who needed clean, warm blankets had them.
© Kent Jones 2016