Dear Boo and Bubble,
Talking about Grandaddy Cot's T-Bird
has me reminiscing about cars, and in doing so, realizing the
significance of them in family folklore …. and the rite of passage
they represent for every teenager in seeking some relevant, if only
miniscule, bit of adulthood and independence. (Who can forget
holding the Driver's Manual almost as reverently as the Bible, and
certainly studying it more diligently than any textbook. If students
only took their school exams as seriously as the Driver's Test, what
a well-educated society we might see! It is a tribute to motivation,
I guess, which should tell us something.)
Of the myriad of cars we had over the
20+ years our family lived together, some stand out more than others.
My very first recollection is of the tan 1950 Chevrolet Fleetline
Deluxe with its turtle back shape and wide whitewall tires. This was
the infamous car we drove to Texas when we raced the train in
Louisiana. (See The Great Train Race posted in November of
2012.)
I remember Mamaw Mary's very first new
car – a white Nash Rambler whose sides bulged out like somebody
really heavy had sat on it. The occasion must have been very
special. Granddaddy never sprang for a new car, preferring to always
go down to the Sitton Buick dealership and comb through their used
car lot. I think it was maybe their 20th anniversary
because he also gave Mamaw an engagement ring to match her wedding
band. At the time they married, he couldn't afford it.
There was the 1953 maroon and black
Chevrolet four-door sedan that Granddaddy used as his “go-to-work”
car. He bought it because it had a bell underneath the hood that
sounded like a telephone ringing. With great delight, he'd pull up
next to somebody at a stop light, ring the bell over and over, and
watch as they tried to figure out what was making the noise and from
where it came. The floorboard on the driver's side of the back seat
was also rusted out. We children loved to ride along and watch the
road passing along under our feet.
Then there was the red Chevy Corvair
that Mamaw drove in mid-60's. This car won her an award –
recognition for being the “Customer of the Year” for the
Chevrolet Service Department. It stayed in the shop more than on the
road.
By far, however, the most memorable to
me of all our cars was our 1958 Chevrolet Impala convertible. What a
beauty – white with red interior, a black top, expansive grill
across the broad front with distinct double headlights, the classy
curved chrome on the back embracing the triple taillights. Ah, but
as it is in love ----- looks can be deceiving.
We were having breakfast on a Saturday
morning when Granddaddy announced that he planned going down to
Sitton Buick to look for a car. Your great uncle Bryant and I
excitedly begged him to take us along and he saw no harm in letting
us go. We drove into downtown Greenville on McBee Ave. to the
dealership. While Granddaddy went inside to find Mr. Sitton, Bryant
and I fanned out across the used car lot to check out the inventory.
It didn't take long for us to spot the Impala, its sleek and modern
lines stood out like a beacon among the other rather dumpy,
pedestrian models.
Granddaddy appeared with Mr. Sitton.
“Daddy, oh daddy, come look at this
car!” I squealed.
“You have to see this one, dad,”
Bryant said a little more seriously, but barely masking his
enthusiasm.
Granddaddy circled the car, admiring it
from every angle. Mr. Sitton observed a bit away, his arms folded
across his chest.
“Hmmm....,” Granddaddy paused. “I
don't know, kids. Hmmmm....sure is pretty, isn't it? But, I just
don't know if it's practical.”
“Well, Schaefer, why don't you just
take it out for a spin.” Mr. Sitton jumped in. “It won't hurt a
thing. It's a beautiful day. Why don't we go ahead and I'll show you
how to put the top down. If you decide it's not for you, then at
least you've had a fun drive.”
Bryant and I were ecstatic, even when
Mr. Sitton asked us to help with the myriad of gnarly snaps to be
undone in order to release the top from the body of the car. We
watched as Mr. Sitton turned the two interior latches above the
windshield which popped the top free. He instructed Granddaddy to
hold down a button. A halting, grinding sound grunted from within
the dashboard. The top struggled upward in spasms until it stood
straight up, like the car had decided to take a gaping yawn. It then
began a crumple like a slow, sickly accordian into the receptive
compartment in the trunk.
“You don't need to snap the cover on
today....you won't be gone that long....but that's what you would do
normally,” Mr. Sitton remarked. (This seemed insignificant at the
time ----- looking back, probably should have paid a little more
attention to it!)
Bryant folded the front passenger seat
forward so that I could slip into the rear seat. He hopped into the
front next to Granddaddy. Mr. Sitton leaned over to check the gas
gauge.
“Oh, good. You have almost a quarter
of a tank. That should be plenty. You all go have fun.”
With that, he slapped the hood of the
car and we pulled out of the lot.
“Where are we going to go?” I asked
from the back.
“Well, I think we need to get out of
town and traffic so we can see what this baby will do,” Granddaddy
responded. “Why don't we drive up on Paris Mountain?”
“Let's do it!” Bryant and I agreed
in chorus.
As exotic as Paris Mountain sounded, it
really wasn't – being neither very far from Greenville nor very
high up – but it provided an open stretch of road where Granddaddy
could flesh out the Impala and we could enjoy riding with the top
down.
We sped out of town on Poinsett Highway
and took State Park Road to its intersection with Piney Mountain Road
to the right and Paris Mountain Road to the left. Granddaddy made
the turn and pressed on the gas pedal. The Impala responded
instantly. We all three let out shrieks of delight.
About thirty seconds later, the engine
began to sputter and lurch and sputter and lurch until it finally
heaved one final gasp before cutting off, leaving Grandaddy to coast
the car to the side of the road. He turned the ignition off and on
several times – nothing but a guttural sound. Bryant suggested
that they look under the hood. Granddaddy reached down under the
dashboard for the hood latch. In doing so, his eyes crossed over the
gas gauge ….. the needle resting so far left of the Empty “E”
that it looked to be taking a nap.
“Oh, my Lord,” Granddaddy shook his
head. “We're out of gas!”
“How?” Bryant asked. “We had a
quarter tank when we left the dealership.”
“Well, I don't know how, but we are
out of gas.”
What you have to understand, boys, is
that this happened way, way, way before the advent of the cell phone.
We had no option but to get out of the car and walk back down the
mountain to the intersection and hope that the little grocery store
there was still open. Luckily, the proprietor had not locked up for
the evening. Granddaddy borrowed his phone and called Mr. Sitton,
who personally drove out with a 5 -gallon can of gas.
“I hope that's enough to get us
back,” Granddaddy joked, sort of. “I've never driven a car
before that gets 5 gallons to the mile!”
Bryant and I were crestfallen. We
loved that car, but after the test drive, there was no way Granddaddy
Schaefer would buy it. What we didn't know was that he, in spite of
all his pedestrian practicality, had always wanted a
convertible........(to be continued).
