The other day I was ruminating on vehicles I’ve known, loved, hated, driven, ridden, etc and I thought “I should write a blog about CARS!” so, now I am.
The first car I remember was (of course) my parents’ car. I recall sitting in a seat that hung over the back of the front seat, that definitely was NOT a child’s safety seat. But it put me up high enough to see out the windshield and kept me in place and not scrambling or rolling around. Anyway, for years I thought that the type of car (name/model) must be some kind of joke because I never heard it anywhere but when someone in the family talked about that car. It was a Simca. Yup. That’s it’s name.
I don’t know the year or model number/name, but I do know that this car was a real POS. (Piece of Sh1te) But it was our primary vehicle for some time. It must have made a real scene at St. Augustine’s in South Glastonbury on Sunday mornings, when two adults and two little girls got out, and one giant black Great Dane dog did not… Hex would wait for us in the car.
Anyway, I don’t know how long we had that car, but I do remember visiting my grandmother in West Hartford one day. It was just Mother and I, and of course when she went to start the damn car, it wouldn’t. It was a stick-shift, so if Great Aunt Louise would just give us a little push with her car, Mother could pop the clutch and we’d be off…. Well, Aunt Louise had never given anyone a push start, but she was game. She pulled out of the driveway and backed up the street, and kept backing up… way up. OMG, why I didn’t die of whiplash when her car rammed into the Simca is some kind of miracle. Not sure what kind, but I do know my mother was definitely praying aloud and had her hand on my chest. Well, Mom remembered to pop the clutch as we were hurled down Middlefield Drive. Her last sight in the rear-view mirror was Grammy, out in the road diligently picking up chrome pieces that had come off the car.
Probably around 30 years ago, I asked Dad what had finally happened to the Simca. He smiled and said “It died on the side of the road. I took the plates off and left it there.” It wasn’t even worth scrap.
I know we had some other cars, as Dad would go to dealerships and ask if they had anything that might run for around $200. Remember, this was the early 60’s, and a back-yard mechanic could keep a car running with spit and baling wire. Those hunks of junk were fine for him to drive, but he did want my mother to drive something fairly reliable. Times were tough and pretty lean, so when Aunt Louise decided to buy a new car, she gave Mom and Dad her ’57 Pontiac Chieftain. It was silver and beautiful.
Again, this is not ours, just stole these off the internet.
It was the first car I loved. It was so big, I could lay down under the rear window, up over the back seat. (Well, I was really young.) It got pretty hot up there, though. And the floor got hot, too. Just rubber mats over the metal. I could stand on the floor and watch out the windshield.
The gas tank held over 20 gallons and it probably got about five miles to the gallon. I can remember Mom going to the gas station and having the tank filled for less than $5. Back then, the attendant washed your windshield and checked your oil, too.
It was not all roses and highways though. The turn signals didn’t always work, sometimes you had to manually pump the lever off and on; the speedometer was possessed and at times would dart across the gauge and stick at 110 or 120 MPH; and once on vacation some little heretofore unknown filter got clogged with dirt and oil and we were stuck on the side of the road in scorching sun for a few hours, while poor Dad walked to a service station and they (he and the mechanic) figured out the cause and resolution. Still and all, this Pontiac remains my first car love.
It also gave us stories. You see, we couldn’t get the part to fix the turn signals ‘cause when Mom called Pontiac, they didn’t know what a “Dinka Dinka” light was. – “Dinka Dinka” was the sound the turn signal made when it worked. Then there was the time when Mom drove Uncle Bob and Fr. Flint to the airport for their vacation. As usual, they were late so Mom was FLYING down Hebron Rd/Bolton Center Rd. Fr. Flint remarked blandly to Uncle Bob at one point: “Robert, I usually give those mailboxes a little wider birth.” Then he made the mistake of leaning forward to see just how fast “Little Louise” was going. At that moment, the possessed speedometer decided to hover at 115 mph. Cap Flint blanched bleach white, sat back and said not another word until they safely reached Bradley Airport. I don’t think he ever rode with Mother again, and I’m not sure anyone ever clued him in on the demonic speedometer. (Truth to tell, Mom was probably doing 65 or 70, still much too fast… but anything to get those two on a plane going Away!)
We took this car on vacation several times. It was a workhorse and a tank and had it’s own personality. Dad installed an engine heater and in the winter we were supposed to remember (someone, anyone!) to turn on the light in the garage in the morning, so the car would start. That of course presumed that whoever parked it the night before remembered to plug it in… Otherwise, this sweet old Pontiac just would NOT start. Talk about a car with personality!
Because we lived on a great stretch of Middle Turnpike in Manchester, we could sell cars off our front lawn like a second business. Sometimes I think our neighbors thought it was – as Dad would drive wrecks around and sell them for more than he paid for them. But the Pontiac Chieftain was special. I cried when it sold. I wasn’t more than 10 or 11 and I’d never cared about the other cars, but this one mattered. Seeing my tears misted up my Dad, too. For years he would see it on the shoreline in the summers when he worked at Hammonassett Beach State Park. I was relieved to know that he felt that connection too.
With our Chieftain gone, in 1970 my parents got a 1969 Pontiac LeMans, and a 1969 Ford LTD Country Squire Station Wagon. The Ford was power-blue, had an 8 cylinder, 450cc (?) engine and handled like a big truck; the Pontiac was dark green with a black vinyl top, v-8, 350cc engine and handled like a race car. We needed the giant Ford because for years my parents had talked about taking a cross-country trip to see this great land, visit people and places that are special.
So, that first year, we took our dear, old apache trailer-tent and went north for three weeks. The trip was supposed to be longer, but I came down with a vicious ear infection and the Canadian doctors didn’t give me strong enough antibiotics. Still, we went to New Brunswick, Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island. Setting up and taking down the trailer tent every couple of days was tiring and took considerable time. My sister and I took to sleeping in the back of the car, and that helped some.
Sadly, that would be our last adventure with the Apache. I remember going with Dad when he picked it up (I was only 7!), and I watched it sell off our front lawn.
But in it’s place was a light-weight 15 foot travel trailer, an Aristocrat. The giant Ford wagon was to pull that beauty west across the USA and east across Canada. Before we left on that marvelous trip, Dad had everything checked out on the car, trailer brake system added, monster shocks in the back end, stabilizer/anti-sway bars on the hitch, and giant mirrors on the fenders and an expansion tank added to the radiator.
We hadn’t even gotten to Niagara Falls when the wagon started overheating. To make a long story short, a dealership in Canada determined that at some point in its prior life, the wagon had been in a minor front end collision and the radiator was replaced not with the extra-large radiator that was standard on this model, but the smaller one for lesser-powered wagons. The problem was fixed, and the rest of that story is another blog…
Anyway, it was a real workhorse vehicle. While I didn’t take my driver’s test with it, I drove it often as a teenager, because it fit lots of kids and the toboggan! It was sluggish starting out, and being sooo big, you had to be aware of space around you as you drove. It was a great car for learning. Its license plate was GA8181
Again, this is not ours, but the same make, model, year.
The Pontiac LeMans was different. Breathe on the gas pedal and it flew. Brush your hand across the steering wheel and it turned. A real thoroughbred of a car. A joy to drive. It was a two-door, so climbing in and out of the backseat was a pain, but other than that, great fun. I took my driving test in it, a year later I blew the shocks taking the Rt. 83 “roller coaster” at 65 mph, with a full load of friends on board. Note that it was the northbound run that blew the shocks, the stop sign at Niepsic Rd. wasn’t there, and it was a great run. We got air…
Anyway, I drove that car to UCONN my senior year and then Dad gave it to my cousin, Brian. I don’t know how long he had it or what happened to it after… By the way, the license plate was Mom’s LC 600. Someone in the next town over had a car very similar and their plate was LC 2600, so there were times when people thought they’d seen our car when they hadn’t.
Other adventures in the LeMans include the night the thermostat stuck closed at McDonalds and the car overheated. Got it home, but boy I was a scared 16-year-old. Shortly after I got my license, we (the whole family) went to Grammy’s in West Hartford for something. Karen and I left a little early, I was driving and as we came into downtown Hartford everyone was sailing along. This was in 1976, gas was expensive, and the speed limits had all been reduced to 55 mph. I was quite comfortable driving the speed limit, but as we entered “the cement deathtrap”, aka the tunnel on I84 east in Hartford, the limit dropped to 45, but the traffic was going easily 65. I was stuck in the left lane and had to power through, literally and figuratively. Even Karen was taken aback and as we exited onto the bridge, said “You did that really well, Raelene.” I was such a novice driver, I don’t think I exhaled until halfway over the bridge! But the Pontiac was a sweet drive.
I have two other memories of that car – 1. It was not good in snow. Light rear end meant it could fish-tail very easily. Snow closed schools so Dad, Karen and I had the day off, but Mother was determined to go to work, in Hartford. Dad and I had to go out and push the car to get it moving up the driveway and it fish-tailed its way onto Middle Turnpike and off to Hartford she went. 2. I was driving it to the archaeological dig I was working on and had to drive through a freshly-plowed field. A log got lodged in the transmission linkage. When I jammed the car into park, the linkage bent. Still worked, though. 2.a. Since my parents tried to keep the cars fully gassed, the sensor in the gas tank decided that the car was never short of gas, it wouldn’t register below 1/3rd of a tank.
Wow, this looks exactly like ours!!
Endura, the white bug. A 1964 classic. Dad drove 45+ miles everyday to teach in East Hampton. When the oil crisis hit, he found a car that would give him 35 MPG, versus 5 or 6 that the wagon got or 10 to 12 the LeMans got. Karen named her after Agnes Moorhead’s character in “Bewitched” and because she endured everything we put her through. Endura was a four-speed stick that didn’t always like second gear so sometimes when you shifted out of first, you ended up in fourth. Always a “YIKES” moment, and a quick shift to third which was always reliably there. As a new driver, I *occasionally* stalled her pulling out. Dad made me do stops/starts up Rt, 11 heading north. It’s a slight uphill so believe me, I learned!
Endura had a few problems. Sometimes when you turned her off, she wouldn’t start. You’d just hear “click, click,” Dad said it was me, not the car. Even when it happened to Karen… So one day we drove down to Rocky Neck where Dad was staying and parked in the excess car lot. Dad had to leave to go to work at Hammonassett. He decided to take Endura. {Snicker here is appropriate} Next thing we knew he’d come back to the campsite to get his tools. Eventually he determined that she had a cold spot on the solenoid. Rather than fix the issue, he told me to put the car in gear and rock it back and forth. Which by the way, didn’t ever work. I became a pro at push starting a stick shift. I learned to park facing downhill, never park with a rise in front of me and always wear shoes ‘cause push starting in flip-flops is an accident waiting to happen.
Endura had squishy brakes. Dad's line was "pump them up" and you usually got decent braking power. I became adept at using the hand brake to augment the foot pedal. Driving to UCONN West Hartford meant morning traffic jams, stop and go driving for a couple of miles and I had lots of time to "pump up the brakes." One afternoon in early October, I left the college on Trout Brook Drive and zipped out of my parking place. I reached the apron onto the road and went to stop the car.
The pedal went right to the floorboard with no loss of momentum. It was an "OH SHIT" moment like no other. I spun the steering wheel and ran the bug up over the curb, whereupon she stopped. I sat there, car half on the lawn, half in the driveway and considered my next step. I had to work that evening, so I really had to get to the east side of the river. I drove home. By the time I got there, I had managed to pump up a little brake power. Boy I was grateful for the hand brake! Being a smart-ass, I turned the VW around so it was aimed out the driveway.
When Dad got home shortly after me, I told him there was something wrong with car and begged him to "just take it around the block" to see what it was doing. He was thoroughly disgusted with me and slammed out of the house. As the car roared out the driveway toward the turnpike, flush with evening traffic, I prayed "Oh God, don't kill him, I just wanted to teach him a lesson; make him listen to me."
Dad came back in after about 10 minutes, white as a ghost and asked "How in HELL did you get that car home?!" I rounded on him and snarked back "Pump up the brakes, Dad. Just like you said. You know, there is a hand brake, too. What did you expect? I've been telling you for weeks the brakes were getting worse. Pump them up, pump them up. Well, can You pump them up?" I was on a tear and pretty damn pissed off. Needless to say, I drove a different car that night to work and the next day to school and Dad got the damn brakes fixed.
After high school graduation, I needed a car to get to my job and to the Hartford Branch of Uconn. I drove the VW. Everywhere. The speedometer/odometer died not terribly long after Dad bought her**, but this was not a car that would be a speed demon. And who cares about mileage… it was somewhere over 100K.
** I remember when it happened, we were driving north on
Main St, just past St. Bridget. I kinda
wondered if it was illegal to drive, but who cared?
It afforded me a means of escape and a refuge. Until Dad sold it, on my 18th birthday. Yup, still stings.
One of the $200 junkers Dad drove was a white, 4 speed Karman Ghia. The floor pans had rusted away in the “back seat” and you could watch the road go by there. It was a rag-top and wonderful fun that one summer… I think I was 10 or 11. I used to sit in it in the driveway and pretend I was driving. Ever since then, that has been my dream car.
The next chapter will be My Cars.
