Running from the Law #2: the Impala

1965 Impala SS Convertible, parked at Tyler School of Art with Steve Garr, Jessica, and Jim.

The 65 Impala was not fast, despite the "Super Sport" moniker.  It had a 283 cu. V8 (Chevy's smallest?) with a 2 speed automatic (nick-named the "slush-pump" by motorheads because of its way of disassociating the engine from the wheels).  A large, heavy-ish car with an underpowered engine and the handling characteristics of the weiner-mobile.  So you might be surprised that one summer night, while driving home very late from work, I decided to NOT stop for the police. The problem was that I KNEW I was going to get pulled over and that all the "facts" would be against me, even though I was actually driving quite carefully and safely.  It was almost 4 am and I was on my home, there weren't any cars on the street, so I was cruising down Carsonia Avenue, a wide, divided 4 lane boulevard at about 50 mph (posted limit 35).  I had the top down and I was drinking a beer discretely.  It was my second beer, and I was drinking it for the pleasure of enjoying a warm summer night, not at all drunk (which would have been more typical of me at the time).  No, I was just content, cruising along, minding my own business, home from college for the summer.  As I passed Redner's Market, I saw a pair of headlights about two blocks down Navella St (the cross street on the right) and they had that cop car look to them.  The Impala was lipstick red and I knew that even from that distance, the car would have flashed in the eyes of an officer like a T-bone steak and I had already become a target, even two blocks away.  It was unfair, one minute I had been driving along enjoying the world, and the next I would be pulled over, smelling like beer, speeding in a souped up red convertible, and I would be treated like some sort of criminal.. (Did I mention the car had a fake registration? Another story... but I'm not a crook)
  I pushed the pedal to the floor and the Impala began to creep past 60 mph as I reached the part where Carsonia turns from 4 lanes to two.  I saw two headlights reach the stop-sign at Carsonia and the blue and red lights came on as the car turned in my direction. Damn.  And again, that calculation; I'm going 65 now, he's at zero.  I was cresting a slight rise in the road that made the lights disappear behind me.  I held my foot down.  I was approaching 70 mph but also quickly approaching the end of Carsonia Avenue, where it "T's" into Freidensburg Rd.  I was almost to the intersection before the red and blue lights re-appeared in my mirror, which gave me the confidence to keep going.  "Don't screw up,..  calmly and things will go okay".  The Impala couldn't corner and it had no power, so I had to conserve my speed.  I took the corner as wide as was possible, crossing to use the left shoulder 50 yards before the intersection, slowing to 50, and making the longest possible curve through the gravel on the inside of the corner and out again to the left shoulder of Freidensburg Rd.  I mashed the throttle again and the Impala slowly built up speed.  Now there were big sweeping curves in the road that you couldn't see around, which I knew like the back of my hand.  I shut the lights off, otherwise I was a beacon in the night. It also introduced some uncertainty (for the cop) that I had turned down any of the roads along the way. Even so, I knew that the police car was going to be closing the gap between us rapidly; I was going to have to turn, but where?
  One rule (that's hard to enforce in moments of panic) is "don't go home".  Cops have a weird way of knowing who you are and where you live.  I also figured that since the turn up Old Spies Church Rd (my road) was relatively blind, the cop wouldn't know if I had gone that way or not so perhaps I could lose him that way.  I flew past Old Spies tearing along in the dark, careful not to hit the brakes even though the tires were groaning through the curves with the weight of the Impala.  I took the next right in 1/2 mile (Old Freidensburg Rd) because it offered two things; it was a 45 degree veer and it had a steep downhill almost immediately; I figured that would hide my brake-lights.  I went over the hill, slammed on the brakes just managing to make a right onto (what I believe is the upper end of) Butter Lane.  It suddenly occurs to me that the house on my left might be Jamey Oswald's house.  I make a left into the driveway, but I go wide so I can go on the grass.  I drive right off the end of the driveway and up the grass hill between the house and a hedge with some trees on the right.  I turn the car to the right, at the end of the hedge and trees, well into their back yard. It's a convertible, so the only thing sticking up above hedge level is the windshield and my head.  I hop out, expecting to do some late night explaining to either cops or the Oswalds or both.  But all is quiet.  I can hear the sound of accelerating cars in the distance.  I sit down against a pine tree, shaking (it always happens).  Strangely, I fall asleep against the tree and only wake up to the sound of the cop car going by the house, shining his spotlight all over.  He keeps going.  I fall asleep again and I don't wake up until it is quite light outside.  All's quiet, it's a peaceful, beautiful day.  The Oswalds have a pretty nice setup here, there's lovely trees and a grass area to have dinner.  What's more, they have a huge pond! And my car is stopped 6 feet short of falling into it. I never saw it in the dark with my lights out.
I start up the car and maneuver as quietly as I can out of the Oswald's (maybe) yard.  I head back to our house through Alsace Township (the cop was from Lower Alsace Township).  I drive right up our own lawn, out into the field and behind the old chicken-coop next to a brush pile. I don't want this thing anywhere near the driveway. I drag a big old tarp over and pull it over the car. Even if the police show up in our driveway (and they had before...) where there are probably 8 or 9 cars to get distracted looking at, there would be no sign of the red cruise ship.  The good thing is that school would be starting soon so I would be heading back to Philadelphia. So as long as I can keep the Impala out of sight for a week or so, it'll be okay.

This was one of my first experiences with the Impala.  I brought it to Reading for the summer to fix up between going to Temple U and Tyler School of Art. In hindsight, if one considered my Camaro to have been an "unlucky" car (ole' #13), the Impala was an automotive guardian angel sent to protect me.  For all the ill-advised, fate-tempting, moronic misadventures soon to be embarked upon in this auto, nothing bad ever came of them, and believe me, the limits were tested.  I was pulled over more in this car than any other I have ever owned -it was almost on a weekly basis-, for reasons ranging from "headlights too bright" to "blind drunk" to "attempting to hot-wire it in front of a police station" but I never got a ticket; I'll never understand why. I'm sure the Camaro would have somehow lunged right into the Oswald's pond, given the chance. A few weeks later, I arrived at Tyler School of Art in the Impala, the time of my life that the stars aligned maybe for the first time.  It was a great beginning.  

Running from the Law, #1; the camaro.

Not mine, but quite similar.

Things had gone badly that day, or rather, they were continuing to go badly from the night before but I don't want to get sidetracked.  Synopsizing, whiskey, falling down, 2 hours of sleep, contact lenses, forgotten biology exam, unrelated personal humiliation. There, that was easy,..  so I'm leaving Penn State Berks Campus (ahh, more humiliation!) to go home.  At the time, I owned a 68 Camaro RS which I was "restoring".  I had just bought an RS front end for it (it had the wrong front when I got it) which was black.  The rest of the car was primer gray, except that recently, Jimmy (for reasons he may someday reveal) had  sprayed the number 13 in black primer on the driver's side of the car behind the rear wheel.
As I'm rumbling out of the parking lot, there is a car coming down the road who first seems like they are going to turn into the parking lot, but don't at the last second, nearly running in to me as I'm about to pull out.  I follow this lady down the road and she keeps acting like she's going to turn, but then doesn't,..  over and over, slower and slower.  The road from Penn State Berks Campus to the BIGGEST INTERSECTION WITHIN 50 MILES OF READING is a long, winding, narrow road; This lady drives me nuts all the way to the light, it feels like 1/2 an hour of slowing, hesitating, continuing.  Finally at the light she puts on her right turn signal (great! it's over, I'm going left).  As the light finally turns green she feigns right then turns left making me slam on my brakes to avoid hitting her.  The intersection is huge, new, concrete, eight lanes wide.  There's plenty of room, and I've had it; I cut to the right as I floor it and pop the clutch and make a giant, smoking, question mark around the outside of her car, wheels in full counter-steer, beautiful, graceful, powerful, and it feels great; I leave the big four barrels open and just slam it into second, then third...
The Camaro was geared funny, so I was going over 100 when I hit fourth gear, which was exactly the moment that I saw the police car.  And he saw me.  But, he was on the shoulder of the up-hill on-ramp that I was passing in the far left lane.  I'm traveling 100+ and he's going Zero.  It's a complex calculation, (highly noticeable paint job) + (number of exits / police cars in proximity) X ( low number of known successes in this scenario / likelihood I'll do something stupid...) X (adolescent belief that I'm actually in a movie)....   complex.
I come up with a complex plan, I'll run but pretend I'm not running; who is to say I even saw that cop?  I'll just try not to ever let him see me.  I see the lights come on as he goes out of view in my mirrors.  I  maintain speed, I can see the tiny, tiny red and blue lights come over the hill -still on the entrance ramp -he couldn't possibly see me.  There's lots of traffic on the ramp and in the right lane,..  as soon as the cop merges onto the highway, I move to the right lane - we're probably separated by a fifty cars and half a mile.  There's a tractor-trailer parked along the highway just before Stoudt's Auto sales. As the cop goes into the passing lane, I yank the camaro to the right and go to the right of the semi (there's a parking lot that's a lot like a gravel continuation of the shoulder) -full brakes, I'm nearly stopped by the time I reach the front of the truck.  There's an alley between the building I'm passing and Stoudt's; I make a right, pass between the buildings, make a left behind the building and park.  Key off, out of the car, I've come up with the next step of my plan,..  I'll pretend I'm shopping.   !    I need a new thermostat for the camaro anyway.  I come around the front of Stoudt's and walk in the door, except, I suddenly realize that I am unable to act normal, the adrenalin is keeping me from touching the ground, I'm shaking from head to toe and the guys behind the counter look like they're moving in slow motion.  "I need a thermostat for my camaro" I warble like a turkey.  I turn and look out through the glass door and the cop car screams by, lights flashing, sirens on,..  The guys behind the counter start laughing, they sell corvettes after all.  "I was going a little fast when I passed him," I confess, "I figured it was a good time to do some shopping."  The guys are sympathetic and amused, "You might want a low temperature, high-flo thermostat,"  one of them jokes (ahh, esoteric car jokes lighten any situation). But I get one, anyway.  I can barely get the $20 bill out of my pocket and un-folded, but I finally pay and leave.  I realize that while I've escaped momentarily, there is probably a net closing in, and there aren't that many ways away from the Warren Street Bypass.  I get in the camaro and start it up, trying to plot a map through unlikely roads away from any potential bottlenecks.  Obviously, I can't get on the highway, so I continue down the alley, hoping there is some kind of connection to route 183 (which I think is Center Street).  At the end of the alley, there is an earthmover parked just before the cross street.  On the far side of the cross street, the alley becomes a regular paved street, three times as wide as the alley I'm in, trying to squeeze between an earthmover and a building.  As I'm squeezing, a black fender comes into view in front of me, and then a white door, and lights on the roof, and the cop inside is looking down the street across from me. The camaro and I freeze. I can see the back of his crew cut head, he's rolling forward at only 5 mph.  Miraculously, he never turns his head back.  The black fender slips out of sight. I back the camaro up and suddenly realize that I forgot the thermostat.  I pull the camaro back into it's space and go to retrieve it.  As I walk back to the door of Stoudt's, a police cruiser swerves into the lot, looking down the alley I've just moved the car out of.  He continues his sweep down the business fronts toward the 183 overpass.  I walk back into Stoudt's twice as nervous as the first time, the guys are laughing so hard they don't even say anything as I pick up my thermostat from the counter and turn to leave.
I get back in the camaro, take a few deep breaths, and head back down the alley briskly.  I make a left, head right up to center street, another left and head across the bridge over the highway - probably the most dangerous 100 yards of the trip home- and out into the "boonies".  I don't see a police car anywhere ahead, and believe it or not, I make it home (by way of Vermont,  just kidding).  I park the camaro in the field and pull a cover over it. I go inside and make myself some tea to assess my situation.  My success that day had been outrunning the law - I hadn't cracked and done something totally stupid, perhaps by luck.  On the other hand, I had also dismally failed a biology exam, which would be amalgamated with my not-so-stellar 2.0 GPA at a state university branch campus.  "What would become of me?",.. one could only sigh.
For the camaro, at least, "changing its stripes" was fairly easy. It was still in primer, incriminating marks were removed before sundown. A former painting professor used to declare "re-paint and thin no more!" I suppose people are more of an ongoing process, more complex.  Even after all these years, 13 is still my lucky number. 

Is it age that tints the photographs?

I believe it was on Pricetown Road ("the Pricetown Road", in local dialect) that Jimmy and I spotted the junky blue camaro, but we weren't really that excited because it was in crappy shape and wasn't very desirable.  Then, Jim noticed (from 2,800 yards away) that it had a "12 bolt Rear".  ?.  Yes, all motorheads have the uncanny ability to look underneath cars sitting in weeds from 1/2 mile away and count the bolts on the differential cover on the back axle under the car in any lighting condition, instantly.  Strange that they can overlook doormats, birthdays, and pained-expressions with such visual acuity but let's just leave that and return to the scene.  We decide we will stop later when we are done with our pressing mission (moving a train shed?) but as always, it takes a little longer than we hoped and Jim and I show up at dusk...  okay, night has fallen, we can just make out the glowing field -lit by the moon, but definitely not a full moon- behind the hedge on our left as we approach the porch of the hunting-cabin-styled house. As we walk up the sidewalk, I see something move out of the corner of my eye, out near the hedge.  "Jim, did you see that? Did you see something move?" "No, maybe," he replies and a few steps later, "I think something is out there..."  We peer out into the dark field beyond the hedge, but all seems still.
 Being the camaro guy (Jim is a mustang guy), it is my place to knock on the door and ask the awkward questions; Jim is behind me to my left, a little closer to the house.  Like Mom's house, there is a long porch that you enter from the left and the entrance is straight in front of you as you walk (like you were entering the kitchen door of mom's) so you pass by the windows.  I knock.  A few seconds later, a rather large man in a red and black checkered flannel shirt opens the door.  "What?" he growls. "Hey, sorry to bother you but I noticed your camaro earlier, and I was wondering if you were planning on selling it or..."
  Out of the corner of my eye I see Jim dive toward the wall of the house.  Before I can even turn around, something is lifting me from under my thighs and propelling me forward to the right of the door.  I land and fall backwards on my butt just in time to see what looks like an exceptionally large purple ottoman run into the house.  Surprised, the guy holding the door throws his hands up, revealing that he had been holding a hatchet behind his back in his right hand.  He runs through the house cursing and yelling and knocking things over.  A few seconds later, he manages to chase a large, maroon sheep back out the front door, kicking it in the butt as it passes us.
  As you can imagine, I have no idea how the rest of the conversation went.  But as Jim and I were walking back out on the sidewalk, we realized the "hedge" was no longer there, they had all moved over near the house, hoping for (and one plucky member demanding) a late night snack.  It so happens that this came at a time when purple kale, purple beans, purple cauliflower, purple lettuce and even the occasional purple carrot were becoming more common in the stores.  Perhaps the sheep were getting a lot of these in their diet, or perhaps Jimmy and I were getting too much of them in our diet. "Where they really purple?", "They looked maroon to me...",

Dear Reed Family

From Timbuktoo (San Diego) to Kalamazoo (Rosarito, Mexico)

First of all, 1972 was the best looking year for the Fiat Spider, so I forgive myself for buying a Fiat Spider EVEN THOUGH I bought it in the gorgeous but failing light of dusk in San Diego (see previous post "Junky White Mach 1").  I paid $450 for this beauty.  Like many such vehicles, the person selling it to me acted as though the car had "jilted" them.  "It needs a new head gasket, or something..." the woman derided, squinting at the car.  Then she switched back to her 40-something-OceanBeach-Partygirl personality and added, "it's a totally fun car, I bet you would have soooo much fun in it!" She was sufficiently irritated with the car when I got it started, that I decided to come back and pick it up the following day (you can't dance off with someone's ex, right?).  I gave her the money, took the keys, and put a steering wheel lock on it; I didn't want any "one last night" impulses.

But my favorite story has nothing to do with such intrigue as is suggested here. Actually, it wasn't a bad car, and it was reliable enough (a pretty low bar in my auto realm) that I drove down to Mexico with Mary Ellen when she came to visit me.  My room-mate at the time, Jimmy-Joe, had a little cabin just south of Rosarito, Mexico, on a high cliff overlooking the Pacific.  Mary Ellen and I set off, it was a gorgeous day.  I can't remember whether Mary Ellen lent me her Revo sunglasses on this trip, or a previous trip, but in either case she gave them to me because I liked how the world looked through them so much.  They are dichroic blue and turn the world gold when you look through them, perfect for this trip.  We cruised down through Tijuana (did we stop at "El Gordo's" for tacos?), along the coastal road, just smiling and enjoying the day.  The road turns inland a bit to pass to the east of Rosarito, and I noticed a tourist ship docked on the far side of the town.  "Wow, that's a big cruise ship, " I remarked to Mary Ellen, "I don't think there's even standing room in Rosarito for that many people."  "That IS a really big ship," replied ME, "I didn't think it would keep getting bigger, but,..  it's F-ing huge!"  "How do they do it?  How can a town of 500 people accommodate 2,500 people getting off a ship?"  We talked at length about this, well, to be more exact, we talked the length of the ship about this because it took us quite some time to get past it.  It looked stylish and familiar, and did I mention HUGE.  "How do they even park a boat like that here?" I pondered. We paused taking a last look at the boat, now moving into our mirrors. 

 "Mexico," said ME, "it sure is weird!"  

And with that we never mentioned the boat again, I don't even think we acknowledged it on our return journey.  The dirt road to Jimmy Joe's cabin was insane.  I still remember calculating the parallel wheel tracks through the obstacle course and the Fiat making it surprisingly easily.  The road turned downhill so sharply as we came into view of the Pacific that it felt like going over the top of a roller-coaster.  ME had to get out, "It's not that I think you should die alone, and I don't even think you're going to die, but I just can't stay in the car for this part," she said.  It was definitely one of the steepest inclines I've ever descended in a vehicle of any type.  100 yards later, it leveled out enough for ME to get back in.  100 yards after that, we found the cabin, the caretaker, and a lovely view of the setting sun.  

Two weeks after this trip, my somewhat crazy friend Igor invited me to come down to Mexico with his girlfriend Melinda.  They were making another documentary film and they had heard that some Los Angeles Studio was "outsourcing" their work to Mexico because they could pay substandard wages and avoid unions, etc.  Since my friends Bryan, Anna, Mike, and Natalie were visiting, I thought it would be a great outing and a way to let my friends get to know one another.  I was very involved in the cubic foot of chocolate-covered almonds Natalie had brought (she worked for M&M at the time) and was hardly paying attention to the discussion about the Los Angeles Movie Studio.  Apparently, they had built one of the biggest sound-stages on earth, next to a giant pool they had contructed to film "The Titanic". It was an ecological and economic behemoth, especially considering this was all taking place in Rosarito, a tiny town in Mexico.

"Wait," I said, "This is in that little town, Rosarito, just south of Tijuana?"  "You know where Rosarito is, John, where did you think we were talking about?" asked Melinda.  "Oh, and they're filming the Titanic?"  "Yes, I already told you that!"  "Is the pool outside or inside?"  "It's the Titanic, John, It's a 10/11th's scale model; of course it's outside!"

"Oh yeah, I've seen that." I said. 

"And you didn't realize that was where we're going?"

"You know, Mexico, It's so Weird!"

Recipes for disaster, survival, and Thanksgiving.

Sometimes one needs a little distance to see how slowly we learn the lessons life tries to teach us.  I left my Fiat Spyder Convertible in San Diego and bought this the Toyota version upon arriving in LA.  You might be tempted to think "Well, at least it's a Toyota not a Fiat..."  but I'll just stop you there.  Almost nothing electrical worked on the car, including the pop-up lights, there was a pulley on the engine that wasn't turning, the rear suspension was bent,..  but there was just something about it! I offered the guy half of what he was asking. Actually, it turned out to be a pretty good car, turned out it had fully independent suspension with a transaxle (!).  I replaced the bent suspension component, but I realized that some damage had been done to the transaxle.  Following the Pennsylvania Dutch wisdom of "Ain't broke, don't fix it", I put off looking into it.

For Thanksgiving of 2002, Jenny invited us down to "Survival Camp" somewhere east of San Diego.  Esther and I were looking forward to it with a mix of eagerness and fear; what do they have for survival camp thanksgiving? and how are their table manners?  I decided that I would bring a turkey, and a large one at that, because if 35 people were there trying to collect enough wild hickory nuts for thanksgiving, there better be some big bones to throw around.  So, I have this...  I don't know, 48 pound turkey in my freezer, and somehow Thanksgiving sneaks up on me.  The night before, around 10 pm, Esther asks if the turkey is thawed out.  I spring into action, handily remembering the vogue recipe for "brine soaking" the turkey that I had heard from the science lady some days before.  To me, it seemed salty water at least wouldn't freeze when I dumped the sub-zero Turkasaurus into my giant pot.  Around midnight, the skin of the turkey had still not even thawed a little.  I thought, you know, if the water was a little warmer, NOT HOT mind you, it might help.  The pot was so big though, that I had to put it over two burners on my stove,..  and no sense waiting for the water to get warm, I'd turn it down once it warmed up.  I woke up to the sound water boiling over around 2:00 am.  Well,  it's nice to have the cover of an "accident" to do what you secretly want to do anyway.  I turned the stove off and went to bed thinking maybe this monster will thaw out by tomorrow.  Let's see, we have to leave at 11:00 to get there at 1:00 so I'll need four hours of cooking...  so I"ll get up at 6:30...  Great.  Off to bed.  When I finally did get up around 8:30 the next day, I got right back to Turkey preparations.  The Turkey was only thawed to about 1/2 inch deep.  With great hope, I turned stove right back up to boil the damn thing.  I pried whatever was inside it out of it to get some hot water inside it.  After an hour of boiling, the top 1 inch of turkey was thawed.  And i figured the water inside it had probably done the trick.  But I was running out of time if I wanted a golden brown turkey.  I threw it in the oven and set the temperature at 425 which I will admit is a little high, but it was such a big thing.  An hour later, I turned the oven to 600 trying to rationalize that if I could just get it hot enough, it would cook with the residual heat on the drive down.  Amazingly, at 11:00 I had practically managed to burn the skin off the poor thing (no, it was brown, but It didn't seem all that hot on the inside). I rolled it in foil and stuck it in a foil dish and threw it and all our sleeping bags, in the rather small trunk of the Celica.
  And the traffic was just horrible.  Unfortunately, in California there are only a few roads that connect certain parts, and what should have been an hour and three quarters turned into a four hour drive.  Well, actually, the traffic wasn't the only problem.  The afore mentioned transaxle had started howling on the way down and it smelled VERY hot.  I pulled over more than once to reach under the rear wheels and check on it and it was just burning up.  But what to do?  Onward.  We pull in to survival camp, Tom and Susan's place, around 4:00 - two hours after dinner was supposed to start.  And true to Thanksgiving form, everyone was just getting ready to eat.  I considered the various jokes I might make as we would hold the raw pieces of turkey over bunsen burners with our knives...  When I opened the trunk of the car, it was about 200 degrees inside, with the blankets all piled in behind the turkey.  Esther and I sheepishly brought it in and slid it onto the bar with all the other delicious looking food.  It looked,..  good.  Someone came by and sliced some off, "Smells Deeeeelicious!" and they proceeded to heap some turkey onto their plate.  We were right about one thing, they had underestimeated the amount of food necessary.  "I heard someone say "Man, this is the best turkey I've ever had" from the deck. Without offending anyone, and with Jenny and Esther as my witnesses, I have to tell you "It was."
  It was a totally awesome few days there, looking at itsy bitsy Nate, learning to make fire with sticks, walking around in the desert, trying to keep the deluge of water out of the interesting architectural structures that served as our shelter.  No one knew that Esther and I had a secret stow-away with us.  It was a magical time.  The turkey was proof.

This Habit of Dad's to Let Kids Drive

I've read two stories of underage dangerous condition driving on this blog and as a parent myself now it kind of boggles the mind. But we really did grow up that way, EXCEPT Dad must have realized I was not made of the same stuff as my siblings because I have no driving/flying experience at all before 16. 

I was reminded though of an incident on the way home from St Catherine's one day. We were all standing in the back of the van as usual, trying to keep our balance as Dad took the turns. We habitually gave John's classmate (sorry - name?) a ride home and he lived on the little street after the turn at Stoney Creek called Kramer Ave. 

It's just a block long and it rejoins Friedensberg Ave again after the block. So Dad stops and the friend gets out. Then Dad would like to merge onto Friedensberg Ave without stopping if possible. It was always the responsibility of the person in the passenger seat (the only other seat besides the driver) to look out on the right and give the all clear sign. Since John was no more than 8th grade, william couldn't have been more than 4th. It may have been 3rd or 2nd. At any rate, William saw a car coming and hemmed and hawed a little bit as Dad is getting ready to emerge from the side street. That was enough of a delay to cause us to crash into the car, causing some denting I think.

Dad yelled at William for not being more perfectly clear and fast with his wingman job, but seriously, who pulls out trusting a 7 to 9 year old?