By KAREN MADORIN
Families pass down interesting customs that explain nothing or maybe everything about life. A peek out my front window to see a purple truck cab pulling a Navajo trailer delivered a tectonic memory jolt that set me sailing back 65 years in time, bringing my mom’s dad back to life. Grandpa Cliff believed in wildly pumping arms up and down to earn a honk at every opportunity, especially if the horn belonged to a Navajo truck.
When we were kiddoes, Grandma and Grandpa owned a dime-store fronting Highway 54 in southwest Kansas. Scores of semis passed every day. When Grandpa emerged from his upstairs office during our visits, he encouraged us to practice what I consider the Honkin’ Honker.
This manuever involves an arm bent at the elbow, extended away from the body, with fisted hand raised well above the head. Once in position, vigorously pump the arm up and down from the shoulder at least twice. Then wait a breath and repeat the action.
Once we mastered the technique, Grandpa told us to test our skills when a big truck rolled to a stop at the light. On lucky days, trucker drivers noticed scrawny arms pumping wildly and rewarded those efforts with air horn blasts that sent power surging through our systems!
Grandpa believed in triggering these explosive blasts as often as possible. Opportunities often presented when we sat the backseat of his Mercury, cruising anywhere from California to Kansas. When Clifford geared up to pass a semi, he’d alert us to position arms and fists. When truckers responded, all, including Grandma cheered like we’d won the World Series.
Of course, my hubs and I introduced these skills to our girls. Summer vacations involved one honking truck after another as our backseat blondes wielded their wiles on one driver after another.
Apparently, it was a lasting memory because they transferred the knack to their kids. A year ago, our youngest grands and I searched for fossils on a road grade south of town. In the distance, we heard big semis shifting gears as they pulled up that hill. In no time, all thoughts of prehistoric sea creatures vanished. With blonde hair flying in the Kansas breeze, they hollered, “Get your honkers up,” and positioned themselves with elbows bent, fists above heads, waiting for the exact moment to pump their arms.
Thank goodness, every trucker responded perfectly with two loud blasts from their air horns, sending those girls into cheering gales of laughter. Seeing that family legacy passed on nearly brought me to tears.
Grandpa grew to adulthood at the advent of combustion engines and Model Ts. Where’d he learn this magic? I never thought to ask. Our mom knew how to make those horns honk although I’m not sure the cause/effect lesson enthralled her as thoroughly as it did Grandpa.
Seeing that Navajo truck brought happy childhood recollections to life like a movie reel on a screen. The new memory of our grands getting their honkers out, using the very same technique Grandpa taught me left me with a smile that returns every time I think of it.
Karen Madorin is a retired teacher, writer, photographer, outdoors lover, and sixth-generation Kansan.