The Field Car

As a young boy in Quakertown, I along with many of [my] cousins, spent many happy hours driving in the fields behind the old barn located at the junction of Lambtown Road and Route 27, [on] the old farm that belonged to Byron Chapman. My Aunt Elizabeth (Crouch) Hoelck lived there with her three children, Albert, John, and Betty Lou. My Maternal Grandfather, George Phillips, later purchased another house from Bryan Chapman at the foot of Haley Road and Route 27, that later became the home of my Paternal Grandfather, Chauncey Crouch. As boys all of us delighted in roaming the lands of these scenic farms. In the summer on any given day you could find a group of us. Never lacking in courage, or perhaps stupidity, we sometimes “pushed the envelope,” yet we had fun, and survived to tell about it. This is one such story.

We weren't common ordinary folk

Nor were our names of Crouch and Hoelck

But years have passed and we've traveled far

Since those dusty days in that old field car

The days were cool and the skies were blue

A bunch of Quaker lads with nothing to do

We sat talking by the shed, when suddenly

Someone said, “Hey, let's head over to John's

It's not that far

We'll take a ride in his old field car

We climb the stairs to Johnny's porch

Where John sits fumbling with a torch

 “What's up John, making something?”

 “Nah,” said John, speaking low

The field car is stuck, she just won't go

But if you guys try real hard

We'll push her out into the yard

We strain and push, “is that too much?”

 “No!” says John and “pops” the clutch

The ancient motor roars to life

Drowned out by happy cheers

Amid the smoke and clouds of dust

The noise is music to our ears

The ragged fence posts go clicking by

John's foot pressed hard down on the gas

Blurred images of lots of things

As we go racing past

This kind of fun is every boy's dream

The sun on chrome makes such a gleam

Some other lad just twelve years old

Now gets his chance to drive

He burns the clutch, he strips the gears

It's a wonder they survive

The Black Eyed Susan keep a watch

Standing firm and tall

While up ahead and closing fast

Appears a gray and cold stone wall

A grinding downshift can be heard

As gears begin to grate

Huge clouds of dust come billowing up

As we crash through the gate

Crunching metal, shattered glass

Wood chips fill the air

A fender is bent, a headlight is gone

But no one seems to care

We hurdle past the old stone wall

With no room left to spare

In the apple orchard among the trees

On cool wet grass we glide

Black rubber tires on damp green grass

Our tracks are hard to hide

It's the middle of June

The hay was cut only days ago

Here and there the grass is flat

Where Zephy Watrous tried to mow

Amid the fruit of poor Zeph's toil

Are the telltale signs of grease and oil

The old red barn beneath the elm

Keeps up a watchful gaze

As a bunch of lads in an old field car

Flash by in a sonic daze

Summer too flies right by

Its fragrant blossoms fade

When there beneath a sky so blue

Some Quaker lads in a tub of rust

Roamed the fields in that old field car

And, "boy!" we raised some dust!

Taken from, Fields of Dreams, The Poetry of Paul Crouch , 2004. This was dedicated to Francis W. Pyle.