Cars Carry A Cargo of
Memories
By Jeffrey M. Bowen
Among classic songs about cars is one by Chuck
Berry about a seat belt that refused to unfasten at a romantic moment. “All the way home,” the rock and roll legend croons,
“I held a grudge for the safety belt that wouldn’t budge.” I predated seat belts, so this never happened
to me, but I must confess to enjoying an electrifying moment when the girl
beside me whispered in my ear, “You’re the driver.” Without question, cars invoke strong emotions
while delivering unbelievable adventures.
For many of us, cars are hitching posts for significant
events in our past. Whether it is about
technical features or social relationships, each car tells a story. Here are just a few based on the dozen or so
cars I have owned or encountered since the 1950s.
I
learned to drive in a 1956 Oldsmobile two-toned aqua and white hardtop. Its technical features fascinated me because
in those days cars rarely had power-driven radio antennas and channel
switching, as well as six-way power seats.
None of this saved me from my father’s wrath when I nearly drove into a
ditch trying to avoid a squirrel.
In
the mid 60’s I got a car of my own for the first time. My 1957 Chevy was a hefty gift from my dad so
I could get back and forth to college. He
felt its tonnage would protect me in case of mishap if a careless squirrel
crossed my path. The front grill was a
piece of muscular sculpture as big and heavy as many of today’s compacts. The imposing diameter of the steering wheel
nearly forced me to peer under it when driving. Unfortunately, before the days of
undercoating, salty winter roads shortened the life of my classic gem. Today I sigh at the high-priced restorations
I see on television.
Skip
ahead to my 1965 Ford Galaxy sedan, our first car as newlyweds. This beautiful
vehicle had a nearly fatal flaw. It
loved to drift, with suspension and power steering that felt like jelly. We crashed on the New Jersey turnpike without
injury, but shaken up. I will never
forget the horrified expression of the state trooper who opened our rear door
and found 10 escaped pet gerbils peering at him from under our piles of
clothing. He slammed that door quickly!
In
the early 1970s, upon returning from service in Vietnam, I ordered a Volvo
sedan on an overseas delivery plan. We
were convinced it would be reliable.
Wrong. Its dual manual
Btitish-built carburetors were persnickety beyond belief and virtually
unrepairable. Especially in the hot
California climate, our Swedish beauty balked at every stop sign, apparently
demanding a frigid climate.
Years
later, with young kids to transport, my wife and I bought one of the early
mini-vans, an underpowered four-speed Plymouth Voyager. Speeding was impossible, thankfully because
our kids learned to drive in it. The mileage was decent but downshifting nearly
everywhere uphill was tedious. Even more
so was removing the third-row seat, which required leveraging, lifting, and
sweating like a wrestler.
Much
more recently I purchased a year 2000 Corvette that drove like an unruly
truck. We called this one the beast
because it acted that way and reminded us of Batman’s black cruiser. True to the traditions of the Corvette nation,
I brought the beast out only if the sun was shining and conscientiously flashed
my lights to greet every oncoming Vette.
I discovered people just have to tailgate these eye-candy babies to see
what is going on. In a land of pick-up
trucks where drivers often have to show me they can go faster, I have always
felt just a little strange.
Most memorable was a state policeman who
stopped me, and, after inspecting the beast’s rakish front hood, said, “Where
is your front license plate?” I stammered,
“Well, there isn’t any place to attach it, so it’s under my front seat.” He warned me that state law requires plates
on both front and back. After some hasty
research, I discovered that the preferred solution is just to pay the fine and
forget it. An interesting alternative is
to install an expensive gimmick that strategically makes the front plate flip down
and disappear under the bumper at the push of a button.
Some
folks thrive on refurbishing and showing off so-called “resto-mods”. I remember too many of these gas-guzzling
muscle cars from the 1960s as pure junk.
Even so, I say more power to them.
I settle for keeping mine washed.
I think we should protest the accelerating disappearance of standard
shifts and cozy bench seats. Remember
when your girl actually sat close to you?
Today’s wonderful gadgetry is convenient and satisfying, but nothing beats
my cargo of memories.
