The Death of Huckleberry Hound

In the distant past, remembered now with faded sepia tones, and fuzzy vignetted edges, certain episodes come to mind as so dramatic, that they become all that is left of long stretches of memory, standing as icons in a past otherwise unrecorded. Such was the death of Huckleberry Hound in my childhood, and, I suspect, yours.
Every summer, we made the trek to Buffalo from Cincinnati to visit Grandma Dot and the rest of the Williams side of the family. It was for us kids a great treat, an adventure, a change in the usual humdrum. The trip often involved going to the Beach on Lake Erie, eating at restaurants, and other extravagances. But the drive itself was an endurance contest with no winners. We had a 1961 Ford Falcon Station Wagon, in white with a red interior. There was a bench seat front and middle, and a rectangular "way back" in the rear, more in the nature of a bin, with wheel wells intruding at the sides, and a roll-down window operated by crank from the outside, on the flip-down tailgate at the rear. It was the height of Kennedy era luxury, at least to us. Never mind that the interior was lined with rocket fins and hard metal surfaces sure to lacerate all passengers with the efficiency of a Veg-O-Matic, in the event of the least sort of collision. For these trips, it was our magic carpet to someplace else.
The journey itself was made over the state routes of the day, all two lane roads, with speed limits of 60 or 70, and traffic converging at shocking speeds and almost no room for error. It took 15 hours, give or take, to make a journey that now requires about eight, even with reduced speed limits. And it was done on whining bias belted tires, soggy suspension, fading drum brakes, with massive trucks whizzing past in the opposite direction, and the drama of high speed passing into oncoming traffic to keep the bowels loose and the heart properly in the throat. Now throw in two obsessed parents, intent on getting the 15 hours over with in one day, six hot, grumpy, bored and cantankerous kids, and you get the scene appropriately set. Is it all coming back?
On one of these epics, as we hurtled along, we were arranged as usual, with Dad driving, Mom in the right front seat, turning repeatedly to ride herd on us, and deliver whacks to the miscreants she could reach. Three kids rode in the middle seat, one moping on the "Hump" in the middle, and the other two glorying in a window seat, while the remaining three laid in a nest of blankets and pillows in the "way-back". They generally fought like bear cubs in a tumble back there, out of reach of Mom, and secure that Dad would NEVER STOP NO MATTER WHAT. As it was always summer, the windows were generally at least partly open, and the roll-down window of the tailgate was generally rolled halfway down, to prevent suffocation of the ones in the back. Dad occupied himself with piloting this juggernaut, and smoking constantly, flinging cigarette butts out the driver's side window. He conversed with us only to explain "SHUT UP!", and to tell us how many hours it would be before we had to stop for gas. No other reason for stopping was ever, ever contemplated, and all business had to be transacted at that important juncture, since God Herself could not stop us otherwise. We lived for Stuckey's Restaurants attached to Texaco stations. I can still taste the pecan logs they sold. But I digress.
On this particular day, the kids in the way-back began to notice a terrible odor, and began to complain of it to Mom and Dad. That sort of whining never attracted much notice, particularly from the far reaches of the way-back, so we proceeded on at breakneck pace. The odor became a stench, and the stench a gagging thick pall of plastic smoke, to the point that it became difficult to see, never mind breathe, and the cries became more insistent and pitiful, though less audible to the parents, since all three little faces were at the gap of the window, gasping for untainted air. The cries finally attracted the attention of Mom, and Dad finally noticed the impenetrable smoke in his rear view mirror. He pulled over to the side of the highway, and hopped out, dodging hurtling trucks and cars as they whined past. He came to the back, rolled the window the rest of the way down, and flopped the tailgate down. Apparently a discarded cigarette had left his hand, been caught in the slipstream, and been sucked into the back window in the ebb and swirl of air behind the speeding wagon. A search of the nest of blankets and pillows revealed that a venerated Huckleberry Hound pillow had a roughly cigarette-sized hole in it, and was belching toxic smoke out through the hole, as its insides were consumed with smoldering fire. Now this pillow was in its third ownership tour. It had absorbed the sweat, tears, slobber, snot and urine of two previous older sibling owners, as well as Karen, the current owner. She was absolutely devoted to its fuzzy blue polyester and foam-rubber comfort, and never went anywhere without it. She slept with it, played with it, hugged it, read stories to it, told it her deepest secrets, and was, I am sure, privy to its secrets in return. Dad hesitated not at all. He seized the pillow and flung it to the side of the road, still smoking furiously.
Karen screamed in childish agony, "NOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooo……..!" , as he flipped the door up, ran back to the driver's seat, and accelerated away. Huckleberry Hound was no more, and Karen was never more forlorn, arms out the window in supplication as her most cherished friend disappeared rapidly into the distance and into memory. I hope she is over this now, although I am sure it will spark painful memories, and for that I am sorry, but I felt the story must be told, for true healing to occur. And I am sure that Huckleberry lived on in a firefighter's nightmare, since it doubtless burned on for years, unquenchable as a tire dump fire.
So that is the tale that stands out in my childhood, the picture of our young family at a point in time. If you think any of this is embellished or made up, think again.