Day 32 - Waldo

Inspiration & Joy

Laurèn: Punch-buggy black, no punch backs. (Punch)

Wendy: Ouch. (Sigh) I want a punch-buggy when I grow up.

Laurèn: Mom, I hate to tell you this, but, you’re already grown up.

Wendy: What?…not true.

Laurèn: You want a punch-buggy?

Wendy: Yeah . . . 

Our baby-blue 1968 Volkswagen Beetle careened into our driveway in approximately 1978. A relic. Waldo, the wonderful wokeswagon! Waldo taught me to drive. Yes—he could do that, haven’t you seen “The Love Bug”?—interestingly, released in 1968.  

At first, Waldo was my mom’s car, and my sister and I merely drove it during the years we learned to drive. My sister Tobi and I, only thirteen months apart, learned to drive at roughly the same time. Tobi, clearly more responsible than me, only drove it with a “licensed adult over eighteen years of age”—as per the learner’s licence restrictions. 

I once took it on a day-long joy-ride with my red-headed, spirited friend, Judy. My memory tells me that I was a goody-goody, however on that day, I clearly had a lapse in judgement. At fourteen, maybe I hadn’t yet developed judgement. I am going to say that it was Judy’s idea—a born leader! (You wanna weigh-in here Judy?) I let her drive, because I hadn’t mastered roads or street signs yet; I had only driven in abandoned parking lots. However, Judy had never driven a standard (manual transmission) before, so she operated the clutch, and I shifted the gears. Team work. 

During high school, and after Tobi and I had gotten our licences, we shared our little beetle. Waldo had some idiosyncrasies that made driving him entertaining for all passengers, and perhaps even passers-by. As long as Waldo was well-rested, he would start up with a simple turn of the key in the ignition. However, he had a habit of stalling at intersections, and not wanting to re-start.  During those times, the driver and passenger each opened their door and got out. Then each put a hand on the door, and a hand on the door “frame”, and began to run. Yes, run—pushing our little car forward. As we picked up enough speed, the driver would slide back in and depress the clutch while the passenger kept pushing. And then on a count of three the passenger jumped into the rolling car, and the driver popped out the clutch; Waldo magically came to life. 

The other difficulty with Waldo, presented itself in the winter. The heat exchange system was not effective below zero degrees. Getting above zero was unheard of between October and March in Sherwood Park where I grew up. So, we had a separate heater installed; it hung off the bottom of the dash. It kept us warm(er), but did nothing to prevent frost build-up on the inside of the windows. So, driver and passenger had to constantly scrape the windows while in motion, in order to see. 

One never wanted to be caught alone in Waldo.

This is not our VW Beetle, but it fits my memory, though ours was more beaten up. 

I know you must be wondering if my friend Judy and I got caught. Here’s a bit more about our day. 

When the car idled, the driver had to hold their left foot on the clutch, and their right toe on the brake, while simultaneously using their left heel to rev the gas, so it wouldn’t stall. Judy didn’t have this technique perfected, so Waldo stalled each time she slowed down, or came to a stop. By the afternoon, Waldo was either exhausted from all the jump-starting, or we were too tired from all the pushing; we couldn’t get Waldo’s engine to turn over. So, we pushed the car to a nearby church parking lot. It just happened to be the church that my mom went to, and the Pastor lived in a house beside the church. We left the VW there for awhile, and I think my sister and her friends went to get it later. 

Also, Judy and I—no fools—put gas in the car so that my mom wouldn’t be able to tell that we had taken it. Having no idea about gas and prices, we put in $5.00. In 1980, that bought 16 L of gas, and the tank only held 40 L. 

Lastly, at five foot nothing, Judy had to adjust the seat and the mirrors. In the end, that is what got my mom’s attention. But, I have no idea how she knew it was ME. She marched into the kitchen one evening while Tobi, Troy and I did the dishes, and said, “Wendy, did you use my car?” I looked at her, with wounded bewilderment, and asked, “What would make you think that?” She dragged me outside, and I had to fess up. 

Today, Laurèn’s gentle punch reminded me of the punch-buggy I spent my teens with, and I began to relay the stories to her. It brought me (and her) some extended moments of joy. I hope you are smiling too. . . especially those of you who rode shotgun.