THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1997, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Monday, January 6, 1997 TAG: 9701060119
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Column
SOURCE: Guy Friddell
LENGTH: 52 lines
Before we venture into the second of our six-part review of the American car, let us hear feedback to my call for a return to the car that sat high off the ground.
That way, a body approaching the car could readily see whether a chicken was roosting under it, which was always a comfort.
Ads of the Model-T Ford stressed the benefit of having a chicken-free car instead of a chicken coupe.
Otherwise, unaware a chicken was resting, composed, in the shade of the car, one turned the ignition only to have the car set up a squawking and clucking and, mayhap, even lay an egg, disconcerting to the driver who had to dismount and flourish a broom under the chassis to dislodge the chicken, not to say crawl under the car, bumping his head, to retrieve the egg.
Reporting under the floor board, he yelled, ``MAUDE, THAT CHICKEN'S AT IT AGAIN!''
In another benefit of the high and mighty car, one took a seat in it without sinking into a Slough of Despond such as beset Pilgrim on his Progress to the Celestial City.
Until reading the first part of the eventual six-part series, Jean Sances of Virginia Beach, had not realized that in trying to get in the modern car one practically has to lie down as if on a toboggan.
And then, she notes, to get out, one must rear back as far as possible, grab hold of the steering wheel with one hand, push open the door with the other, shove one foot against the door to keep it from swinging back and whapping one in the face, brace the other on the ground, and heave forward as if engaging in an Olympic trial.
One entered and left the old high car easily, and while driving could see all around it. But Norfolk's Flora Goldman objects: ``How in the world would dashing young men on TV be able to jump into their nifty sports cars, without opening the doors, and make a perfect three-point landing behind the wheel?''
Flora, dashing young men don't do that. Old stunt men are paid a bundle to perform that feat.
``Do you realize,'' she persists, ``how frustrated an already angry driver would be should his horn go AH-OOG-GAH instead of the blast that scares the daylight out of other drivers?''
Flora, I prefer AH-OOG-GAH. It has dignity, surpassing a blast.
Sances says that the sports utility vehicle's boom stems from drivers coveting a high perch; but the SUV is so cumbersome that a friend who owns one carries along a foot stool to assist the elderly in dismounting.
Edna Sara Lazaron reports that the SUV's narrow, insufficient substitute for a spacious old-time running board makes it well nigh impossible to swing up into the seat without losing one's footing.
May the review now advance without further ado as to chickens?