Washing machines only break down during the wash cycle.

I worked all morning on my stuff for Sunday. After lunch I went to the garage to work a bit on the Rambler, to tackle one of the several non-critical issues that need to be sorted out. This session it was the horn, which gave a feeble "toot" if pushed hard in the very center and otherwise didn't do a thing. The relay tested out as fine so I took off the horn ring, cleaned and lubricated everything, and was rewarded with a strong "HONK" when I press anywhere on the ring. Today's car horns are sad and anemic when compared to the double unit horns of old.

While working on it I realized we're raising a whole generation of kids who will never see or push on a horn ring. In an era of steering wheel air bags the rich tactile experience of pressing down on a heavy chrome ring with a logo in the center will never be part of their life.
How sad.

Seeing a horn ring always bring back one of those teenage memories that has the power to induce a cringe decades later.

My granddad bought a brand new DeSoto in 1950. It was an absolute beast that looked just like this one, and had power nothing, no radio (he didn't think it was safe to have the distraction of radio noise), and an engine that would do zero to 60 in three days. By the time I was old enough to drive (a Junior in H.S.) it had been passed down and was for me to drive to school, church, and job.

Our church youth group met after the Sunday evening service. One week it was agreed (without ANY input from me!) that I would give Suzy Jones a ride home after youth group. Suzy was a grade behind me, a petite red head, and for some reason had become the means by which my family teased me (good natured). I was terrified of girls and would rather stab a stick in my eye than speak to one. So the occasional jab at me about having a crush on Suzy was guaranteed to turn me tomato red. Learning that I was giving her a ride home from church - just the two of us in a car, after dark - was not the news I wanted to hear.

I remember it like it was yesterday. We had already gone at least five miles without speaking a word. I was making the left turn to head south on Greenwood Ave. when half way through the turn the horn stuck. And that was a loud horn! Me, Suzy, dark, and a blaring horn.

I didn't even bother with finesse. I grabbed the bottom of that horn ring and yanked. Ripped it right off the steering wheel. The only thing I cared about was that the horn stopped.
Suzy giggled, I'm pretty sure I wet my pants.

I have no recollection of anything beyond that. I'm assuming my dad found a way to get the horn ring back on the steering wheel.
I have no idea where Suzy is now, what she's doing, or if she even remembers who I am. But when I take the horn ring off a '66 Rambler to clean the contacts I remember her.