Lynn Stanley entered missions work in South Africa in November 1953, heading for a country that would become his adopted home until his death in 1999. Heading to a country about which he knew little more than had been written in the National Geographic articles of 1951, Dad took with him on that 10,000 mile trip – not just his wife and four young sons ranging in age from 1 to 8 – but his new Nash Rambler. In New Orleans it was snuggled safely into the hold of the freighter, the S.S. Elizabeth Lykes.
The Nash was gigantic by the standards of South African cars (where most were small British imports at that time), but necessary for the family, travel equipment and many guest passengers, as Dad’s work called for considerable travel around the country in very rough and un-American driving conditions. Breakdowns were problematic, of course, and makeshift repairs were sometimes needed while parts were ordered from the U.S. Despite that disadvantage, and the difficulties of having the steering wheel on the wrong side of the road for the British-based road rules, Dad had begun his love affair with American Motors vehicles, and owned six of them, taking a new one back to South Africa at the end of each furlough.
It was a drive of more than 14 hours to make our annual trip from Kimberly to the coast, south of Durban, and after darkness fell we made good use of the Rambler’s signature feature. The passenger side seatback could lie down to form a bed. Mom sat in the middle front, leaning against the edge of the driver’s seat close to Dad. She held the youngest, Larry, or laid him close to her on the reclined seat next to the second-eldest, Michael. The eldest, Darrel, claimed the back seat, side to side. The foot-wells were filled with travel and food supplies, for there would be no McDonald’s along the way. Still appropriately-sized, I was relegated with my pillow to the rear window! (Safety concerns and car seats were still a long way off in the mid-50s.)
Sister Debbie arrived on the scene in 1956 and, with the boys all growing, the squeeze became tighter. But by then, with children in school, we made fewer full-family trips with Dad.
I remember seeing snow only once during our first five-year term in South Africa. Reaching the foot of the pass at “the Berg” (Drakensberg Mountains that we needed to cross on the way to the coast), Dad was warned at service stations about a snowstorm on the higher elevations and that the pass would prove impassible without chains – which they were ready and willing to sell at exorbitant prices. Dad’s pre-missionary years on the Minnesota prairie gave him confidence to bypass the advice cum sales pitch, and the Nash easily and safely carried us through and down the other side.
Low and wide, the ’53 Nash did struggle with road hazards in the rough roadways. It found one hazard more than its captain was willing to take on. Storms had washed through the dongas (gullies) and swept across the road, covering hundreds of yards of roadway and hiding hazards below its muddy surface. As Dad contemplated the options, we sat for a half hour or more at one edge of the danger. Our parents dug out the gas burner and made themselves some coffee, as we all watched the occasional vehicle decide to give it a try. High and hardy buses were able to get through, but too often the regular vehicles stalled in the middle. We watched as drivers emerged from their car doors, allowing water to flow all the way through. The unhappy driver would then signal to the local entrepreneur waiting at the water’s edge with a span of oxen ready to tow the car the remaining distance. Eventually Dad turned the trusty Nash around to take us safely, though with much delay, to find an alternative route, where options were few and very far between.
On our first furlough to the U.S., Uncle Merton drove to Galveston, Texas, to pick up the family. At the docks we got our first look at the ’58 Rambler station wagon Dad had ordered. Many miles were put on that vehicle during our 15-month furlough, with Dad speaking to churches around the nation. Not being a good traveler (read that as “regularly getting car-sick”), I didn’t make many of those trips, but rather sank my roots more firmly in Kimball soil.
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“Farewell to the lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer.” The turn of the season is upon us. It’s not too early to think gifts. Give a gift of history. The rich history of Maine Prairie, the first 150 years is available as well as other keepsake souvenirs and the ever-popular cook books … all reasonble prices at the next Kimball Historical Society meeting or at the State Bank of Kimball or Knaus’. Thank you for continued support and friendship. Kimball’s historic City Hall celebrates its 101st anniversary this year. Never too late to donate toward this national landmark’s preservation, guaranteeing you a tax deduction for the year paid. Also, keep in mind that our membership year is from January to January and your membership kept current is more valuable than you can imagine. It helps get grants, too.
Coming soon: “Armistice Day History” and the 1940 early-season blizzard that cut a 1,000-mile wide path right through the middle of America, including Kimball and surrounding areas. Gifted speaker and member Ron Graham is presenting this and more at our Tuesday, Oct. 27 meeting. Details in two weeks.
Watch for even more events coming in November. For information, memberships, city hall donations, family histories for this column, and history collections, contact the Kimball Area Historical Society at Box 100, Kimball MN 55353, (320) 398-5250 or (320) 398-5743, or cnewman@meltel.net.
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Thanks for being one of our unsung heroes we call volunteers.
Ramblin’ On – Part 1
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