The Klingman Gang

Memories of family, a Model T, a great man, and the imagination of youth

Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose.~From the television show The Wonder Years

The journey seemed so long though I now know it was no more than twenty-five minutes. A child’s sense of time mixed with anticipation of adventure and camaraderie is a recipe that feels hours in the making. We took the trek to my grandparent’s house on the first Sunday of every month, as did my cousins. It was the only car ride my brother and I didn’t spend torturing each other, our minds too full of the upcoming food, games, family, and of course, our secret.

Rounding the corner that led to the long, gravel driveway, we would glance at each other, trying without success to hide our excited grins as my father continued to sing “The Red River Valley” as far off-key as possible. My mother gripping the treasured pecan pie in her lap commented about the lilacs in bloom. The magic was starting. You could feel your heart race and chills traverse your skin. Life was different here.

Being Baptists, we were always the last to arrive. Somehow, making the sermon fifteen minutes longer than the other churches in town made Reverend Cole feel our souls were being extra protected. My cousins rushed out to greet us; the scene always the same. The familiarity teasing our thoughts of the adventures of the day. Grabbing the paper sacks that held our play clothes we rushed into the sanctuary of Papa’s house, careful not to slam the door. The non-slamming of the door was a lesson my brother had learned with a switch, and I was a quick study.

In no time at all, we were having our picture taken in our Sunday best in front of the fireplace. This constituted a monthly tradition we laughed at then, but with age we cherished . God had blessed my grandparents with only grandsons " six of us. We lined up in age order, took a serious picture, a smile picture, and a silly picture. And then we were free! Once dressed in our play clothes, the world was ours.

Papa often wrapped us in his legs in a bear trap, and we pretended not to be able to get free. Mema hugged us until the smell of ham from her apron was imbedded in our nostrils. The Nerf footballs flew, and finally lunch would be devoured. Only then what we had been waiting for became available for the asking.

A song and dance, a rite of passage, a show of respect " I’m not sure what it was; it just was. Approaching Papa as he whittled in the garage, one of us would simply ask, “Can we now?”

Without looking up he'd say, “You know the rule.”

Practically jumping up and down we'd reply in unison, “Yes, sir!”

“Yep,” he would say and wink at us, hence making six boys own the world.

The rule was simple, one I have tried to apply to my everyday life. “Leave things better than you found them.”

Twelve legs ran for the barn far faster than any Olympic athlete. We waited until we all got there to open the door. It didn’t matter if it was the foggiest day on earth; when that barn door opened, I swear the sun shone in as if God was smiling, saying, “Have fun, boys.” We stood in awe every Sunday as the scene sparkled, beckoning our imaginations. I don’t rightly know the first time I saw her, but every time felt like the first. Papa called it a 1927 Model A, but we, boys " the Klingman Gang, called her “Tula the Time Machine”.

In retrospect, the thing I find the most amazing is we never fought in that car. Within Tula there existed a spirit of peace and a feeling of all things right in the world, for where else can six boys spanning nine years play for hours and not bicker. It didn’t matter who was at the wheel, because it just meant the others got to shoot the bad guys. Indiana Jones had nothing on us. Tula could take us anywhere.

In our youngest days it was cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers, and the occasional boys shooting girls. Then there was our “Dukes of Hazzard” phase. Tula barely escaped Rosco and Enos a few times. Our imaginations then decided to venture into the future. We had the grand idea that when we grew up, we would mass produce our time machine and make a fortune. Little did we know Mr. Henry Ford had stolen our idea years earlier. Tula flew to the moon, allowing us to shoot zombie aliens living on stars. She circled back and crept up on dinosaurs so we could examine their poop.

It didn’t matter the time of year. You couldn’t keep us from our her. Oklahoma summers are humid and hot, and a car full of six boys in a barn is an equation for sweat and stink. Our skin would stick to the seats so it hurt to peel it off, yet we didn’t care. The winters are no less forgiving. Bundled from head to toe barely able to see or move, still shaking, but we made our way to that barn. We just pretended to travel to the ocean and feel the sun soaking into our skin. Tula was good to us, and we showed her respect.

The first time we played in Tula the rule of leaving her better than we found her was perplexed us. How do you improve on perfection? After much thought we decided the best way was to leave Papa a gift inside the magical car. Sometimes it was a good stick to whittle on, a piece of gum, a quarter, and even once we wrote a story of our adventure. We were young boys with little other than our imagination, but would have given anything to show our thanks..

As we became teens examining dinosaur feces stopped, but our trips to the Model A did not. We walked out there, opened the door, and watched the magic begin. We talked, about our futures, about parents who didn’t understand, about girls, and about how much fun we had in Tula. My brother, the aspiring mechanic, had his head under the hood admiring the heart of her. He swore if we had the keys that she could take us places. We laughed at him, half not believing the old girl could run and half afraid that the sound of her engine firing up would bring an end to the fantasy world we created. Besides, my Camaro got us around town in style. We left Papa better gifts now. We thought we were cool " a bottle of Boonesfarm, a new knife, a copy of Grapes of Wrath.

I never did ride in that Model A. The vibration never shook me as it chugged down the gravel road. Never did I impress my current love interest with a Sunday drive or take my sweatheart to a picnic in it. Beyond my own imagination, I didn’t even know how the Model A sounded.

In fact, it wasn’t until my grandfather’s death when I was nineteen that I even knew it still worked. I was standing outside the church with my brother and cousins, none of us knowing what to say when we saw Tula tooling down the street. My great-uncle was chauffeuring Mema in it. Eyes widened; we were speechless. Our reaction pleasing her in this time of sorrow. Mema stepped out, nodded, and smiling said, “You weren’t the only ones to find happiness in this old girl, boys.”

My grandfather had requested that the Klingman Gang be the pallbearers for his funeral. We did so with honor and sadness. Not one of us was embarrassed by the tears that flowed down our cheeks as we carried the man who had taught us the importance of respect, imagination, and family to his final resting place.

After the funeral we gathered at our grandparent’s house sitting around reminiscing. Mema, having something else in mind, commanded, “Klingman Gang, get your play clothes on.”

Questioningly, we looked from each other to our parents and thought it best to obey. I took off my tie and jacket for I hadn’t brought a paper sack full of clothes that it was okay to get dirty. We followed like baby chicks as she marched to the barn. Keys jingling seemed to be the only noise; we glanced at each other thinking we were taking a ride in Tula! Nothing could have prepared us for how wrong we were. Mema opened the barn door, letting us breathe in the magic. Never too old to hold hands at a moment like this, we entered as one. She went to the trunk; shaking, she opened it. Our eyes looked in pure amazement. In the trunk was every gift we had ever left in Tula, from wilted flowers to sticks to knives to undrunk wine.

Mema simply stated, “The Klingman Gang legacy meant the world to him.”

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I am forty now, and it is my children who play in Tula. The urge to spy on them is too strong to ignore, but I do fight the urge to join them as they shoot Jedis and terrorists. Sometimes I have to bite my tongue to keep from telling them they aren’t playing it right, but I know this is their time. I had mine.

The other night as I lay with my son watching Narnia, he looked up at me and said, “Dad, those kids ain’t got nothin’ on Tula,” and winked at me. My heart skipped a beat for I could have sworn the glint in his eye was Papa winking.

The Klingman Gang doesn't shoot robbers or explore space anymore, but we keep the memories alive and make sure more are made by making that journey the first Sunday every month down a gravel path to a magical place where life becomes everything you can dream. As the children rush to a barn full of imagination, The Klingman Gang has started a new tradition. We gather for a spell in the garage, whittling aimlessly, paying tribute to a man who lived his one, simple rule. He left this world a better place than he found it.