Old Cars and Fond Memories

The last time my car was in for service, the mechanic and I talked about cars while he drove me home. Duh! What else would we discuss? One of his favorite memories involves an uncle who used to pick him up for Astros games. “It didn’t matter what year or model, he always bought a gold Cadillac,” Roger said.

My parents once had a “Caddy”. It was a mid-seventies forest green, two-door Eldorado with Landau top (hard top with vinyl covering or the rear section). Beautiful, fast, and it felt like driving on air. But the Caddy was an anomaly for our family in the 70’s. My folks settled on Oldmobiles in those days. Our first was Mom’s 1970 midnight blue Olds 98 four-door. The thing was a land-yacht, and it was so long that Mom regularly crushed the garage cabinet doors when she pulled in. Either that or she left the tail hanging out and the garage door would hit the rear bumper.

Her 98 was paired up with Dad’s beige two-door ’88 Coupe (a misnomer for something large enough on which to land an F-15). My brother, Jack, had a dark blue ’72 Olds Cutlass while my brother, Tom, had a ’76 in pristine white with a full vinyl top.

Discussing family cars leads to my brother, Rick. When it came to cars he was a serial killer. He, too, had a Cutlass, a ’78 two-door model. It faced its demise having been run over by a semi—while it was parked. I remember the giant tire tracks on the roof. A booger-green Chevy Malibu preceded that. The actual cause of death escapes me, though I remember Dad saying, “Totaled, again!” Rick heard that often.

Prior to the Malibu, Rick had temporary ownership of a maroon Pontiac Le Mans, and before that was a Chevy Vega, which mysteriously came to rest in a muddy field. His guilt was further evidenced by the fact that, while I was away at college, he drove my dung brown ’78 Chevy with vinyl bench seats and rolled it down hill. When I say rolled, I mean rolled over. How do you roll a car downhill—in Houston, Texas? We might have a knoll, but no real hills!

In fairness, however, he wasn’t the only one to suffer vehicular tragedies. I’m fairly certain Tom wrecked the ’67 Dodge Dart and, well, there was my Grandmother’s Lincoln Continental. It was a mid-sixties model and powder blue. I remember we came back to her house from dinner at Cleburne Cafeteria. She pulled into the driveway and I hopped out so she could park in the garage. But I left the back right door open. Did I mention the suicide doors? These are doors that are hinged at the rear and open out. So when she eased into the garage, there was a horrifying sound of crunching metal on wood. Yep, the door folded backwards against the right rear fender.

Of course all this took place after 1968 or 1969. The 60’s were a time of turmoil in automobile brand loyalty for our family. In my column, I referenced our green Ford Galaxy 500 several times. And there was the darling of the line, Dad’s “’64-1/2” powder blue Mustang, in which Jack and Tom reveled during our family trip to Wyoming one year (they were licensed drivers then). Chrysler products made two appearances in the Falloure driveway on Saxon Street. Our first was the light blue Plymouth Belvedere, circa ‘63 or ‘64, succeeded by the green Dart.

For now, the most catastrophic moments for my wife and me are somebody either throwing up in the back seat or spilling a milkshake. My oldest is but a year from driver's ed, although I am more horrified by an image of my youngest. I can see him plowing through the back of the garage in a landspeeder because he reached down for a bag of Goldfish rather than concentrating on driving.