Cars, Dads and Wives.

Not Mine, but Close. 

A commentator on NPR (1) yesterday was talking about boys bonding with fathers with a car as the, no pun intended, vehicle. Got me thinking about my generation, pre-boomer, high school in the 50’s, and my first car at 12. That was a 1933 Pontiac 4 door sedan with running boards and duel spare tires on the front fenders. Straight 8. Eighty horsepower. Of course I couldn't drive it on public roads, so the farm roads were my world. I made an oval track on about an acre and raced around it for hours. Turned it on its side a few times but nothing major. Of course no seat belts or other safety gizmos. Mechanical brakes. Five gallon gas can in the back seat for a gas tank. Unsecured. I was lucky I didn’t burn myself to death.

Then, when I was 16, I bought the 49 Ford convertible. Saved up from paper routes and produce boy at Penn Fruit, and paid $250 for it. Beautiful hot rod.  V8, Crestline chrome, Carson top, custom grill, custom interior in black and white, skirts, nosed, decked, lowered, duel Stromberg 97s, milled heads, Mallory ignition and wicked pipes. Red. I spent days of time working on it. Over the next three years I replace or rebuilt 9 transmissions, 3 rear ends and 3 drive shafts. The drive train was just not up to the power delivered by the reworked engine, or the drag racing moron behind the wheel. But Oh My did I have fun in that car. Drunk driving, girl hunting, buddy racing, rumbling with a few gangs from out of town, driving to Florida, pissing off Mr. Canosa, the Assistant Principal at Roslyn High.

Driving, always driving. But no bonding. My father knew cars, but worked almost all the time. He would occasionally offer some advice, usually good, but never got with me on a project. We worked some together in the summers, and fished together some as well. We had one of those father-son things that didn't include much touching. So I could relate to the guy on the radio about cars, but not about dads. Still, I had a kick-ass car and a good father. When the Ford finally gave up in 1959, he helped me buy a 1959 Chevy 2 door post coupe. Basic with a 283 V8. Blue. Good transportation but never the “flash” of the Ford.

Same year, model and color. Not mine.

From there, the auto odyssey moved to a series of rebuilds that included a ’61 Ford convertible, a TR-3, a ’64 Thunderbird, a Datsun 1500, a ’66 Dodge Charger, a ’68 Roadrunner, a ’66 Olds coupe, a ’34 Ford Vicky, a ’49 Packard and a ’52 Plymouth, not in that order. Probably a few others I have forgotten.

But none ever approached or surpassed the ’49 convertible. One of these days I may get another oldie and play mechanic. But age is a funny thing. Desires and wants sometimes are transient, and what seems like a good idea today seems a bit silly tomorrow. But Sally never really knows what I may come home with. The beauty of Sally is this: whatever car I might come home with, she would accept, if not love, and what more could a man ask? Thing is, with Sally, what else do I really need?

Image:http://image.streetrodderweb.com/f/images/10979708+w195/0812sr_44_z+goodguys_ppg_nationals+1949_ford_convertible.jpg
Image:
http://www.boldride.com/image/http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8514/8504948408_a1e028c194_o.jpg?width=1024&height=770

1. http://www.npr.org/2014/08/05/338099738/complicated-cars-put-a-dent-in-an-old-father-son-ritual