Love is Blind

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 20^th 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).