Winnebago F-17 Motor Home, Ford 6-cyl Parcel Van chassis

[A box-8 ½ feet wide, 17 feet long, 11 feet tall, with a wheelbase almost equal to its height-made for tricky piloting. Thus "Leaping Leena" became the handle of choice, superceding the name selected by the previous owners and spelled out in bronze aluminum parallelogram adhesive letters applied by the entrance door: "CATSAROAMA". Were these felines with wanderlust or poor hygiene?

This was a truck, no doubt, with a large flat steering wheel and a snarling disposition. A pitiful gas tank and heavy thirst made it seem like you were constantly in search of the tall gas station signs at the exits of Interstates. More than once, it didn't make it.

In the icy winter while you were stopped at a traffic light, you had to shift into neutral otherwise the transmission would overcome the rear brakes and you'd find the tail creeping sideways like a dragster.

Personally, I didn't like its karma. Too many bad things happened in its presence. One notable incident was late at night shortly after I had taken over the driving shift from Dad on a trip home from the South. I had gotten up to the speed limit (then) of 70 or 75, and was cresting a hill in a deserted woodsy section of I-95 in Virginia. An old VW beetle was pulling past me, hesitating as it tried to break through my bow wave. As it finally got beyond and started back into the driving lane, it twitched a little, side to side. I had a perfect view through the Winnebago windshield of the VW's swing axles tending to fold under the car as its twitches turned into spasms and overcorrections. After several alarming swerves at top speed, it flipped onto one side and skated down the Interstate, showering me with sparks. Meanwhile, I was trying to bring the 'Bago to bay and not come in contact with the unfolding mayhem immediately before me. We all came to rest on the shoulder about a half mile down the road, the VW having flipped, catlike, back onto its wheels at the last moment. A thoroughly terrorized college student emerged from the car, crying and asking where her kitten went.

Then there was the time my father slipped on the ice in a parking lot, dislocating a shoulder, and had to drive himself one-handed in this behemoth to the hospital for treatment.

Around 1971, it also seemed to figure heavily in an ugly breakup with a girlfriend in New Paltz. The Fiat 850 also became involved in that tangle, but how can you blame Italian spunk versus Dearborn drudgery?

Near the end of this spell, the Winnebago-Ford decided to take over control from my father on an Interstate somewhere in Ohio, swerving violently back and forth across several lanes before he could bring it to a stop on the side. In the process, my mother, who had just unbuckled her seat belt to get up and brew a cup of instant coffee or go to the john or something, was so knocked around the cabin that her back received long-lasting injuries. She became a seat belt addict thereafter.

But this is my father's story, so I'll let him continue.]  You all remember this (and do it with a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh ... ) The time went by and there was the. . .