[FONT=Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif] Archie and his hot rod Chevy In the spring of each year my mother would treasure a week end road trip somewhere within a days drive of home to spend some time with a family friend or relative. It was 1957 and I was going on 13 years old and I didn't really want to go on such a trip. I protested and stated my reasons and mother told me that a young man of 13 was too young to leave at home alone. My argument was I was too old to sit in a car with a bunch of sisters and travel somewhere I didn't want to visit. She said my protests were duly noted and kept them on a long list of complaints she stored in her mental file for future rules she may have in mind to enforce. Little did I know that this trip would change my life and be a turning point for a life long passion into the world of cars and a curiosity for all things mechanical. Thinking back to that week end I remembered that it was quite an ordeal for a large family of 9 to go on a road trip like that in 1957. The old car we went in was a black and white 1956 Mercury station wagon and it was packed to the ceiling with clothes, picnic baskets and cookware. We must have looked a sight when we pulled out of the driveway that day with a face in every window. We were headed for Route 1 south to Weymouth Massachusetts. When the city of Bangor disappeared from view and we all seemed to be settled in our seats my mother always took this opportunity to instruct us on our behavior and manners. Raising a litter of Feral cats required mentioning some boundaries that we could not cross. Driving to Boston in those days was arduous indeed. About once per hour the car was stopped somewhere on the road for you know what. My sister Polly seemed to need these stops more frequently than the rest of us. I think she just liked to get out and explore. One stop was very notable. My dad wanted a cup of coffee so he decided to pull into a roadside luncheonette somewhere in the southern part of Maine. This provided my mother another opportunity to school us on expected behavior and lays down the rules about bathrooms and warns us to "Touch nothing but yourself" when you go in. As we enter this roadside joint a sign reads on the door " Open 7 Days A Week, Except Tuesdays Because Of No Help" Inside the bustling diner the fatty hamburgers are hissing on a smokey grill and the cashier shoots a critical eye in our direction. The look is of the kind that silently warns my mother that there are not enough assurances in the world that would convince management that something bad wasn't going to happen. When we were seated at a booth that would have accommodated a football team mother begins to repeat instructions and suggestions of what we are allowed to order. Any variation from the plan when the ordering process was in motion could and usually did get you the evil eye from mother. From our vantage point in that corner I observed the old pressed tin ceiling with decades of sticky fly specks and remnants of scotch tape from old Christmas decorations long removed from the main dining area. When mother's back is turned I feel it is time to wander about the diner and take in the local color. There are a lot of big men at the counter leaning forward on squeaky stools showing their bare backsides for all to see. I posted that scene in my memory bank as being kind of gross and nasty. I changed my gaze from that disturbing sight to a hopping juke box pounding out an Elvis Presley hit. One that our church told us was a Mortal Sin if we listened to it. I think it was " Jail House Rock" At the end of the aisle near the back of the busy diner I saw a mop bucket with dark greasy water that partially blocked the entrance to the bathroom. The smell of this room beyond the poorly hinged door cranked up the warning bells that my mother planted in my head a few minutes back. I take a deep breath and try to hold it as I enter. Oh my God! Lord help us! This bathroom and all the others on similar trips was so disgusting that I know now why my mother was so frantic. Venturing into these grease pits called restaurants one always had the same experiences no matter where you went. I turned to lock the door and holy smokes. The lock is broken. What about my privacy? This is awful. Hello! Wait a minute. Look at all of these messages written on the walls. Oh boy! These are so bad that you can't go out and tell your mother that " So and so did something to So and so" That would not be cool. That would get me a real strong reprimand. To repeat it would be as bad as if I had actually had written it myself. Within an hour of leaving the "Pit" we arrive at Aunt Madeline's. Generous hugs all around for Mom and the kids. The men expressed themselves with big smiles and pumping hand shakes. A big tea pot was put on to boil and all the folks start to catch up on the news. We wait for an opportunity to corner Aunt Madeline and have her tell us how she lost her finger. Though she had told us many times she tells us again that she cut it off with a butcher knife while tenderizing a piece of steak. We were always hoping for a more romantic ending for a perfectly good finger. I begin to wander about the house and come close to snooping but fall short of opening drawers and such. I peered out one of the bedroom windows into the back yard and saw a long legged man in his early 20's working on a cool looking 56 Chevy. It's Archie. Cousin Archie. He's a cool guy so I head out to hang around him for awhile. Within minutes I gathered that he was a car guy. I told him I had a similar interest in cars but secretly I was so young I had no idea what he was talking about. When he explained his method of tuning up a 4 barrel carburetor or dialing in the timing, frankly I was lost. When someone fixes something they usually have to try it out. It is written that a real fast ride will tell the car doctor all that is needed to confirm his diagnoses. I was invited along to give a second opinion if necessary. I can't believe he asked me to go. I was so excited that I didn't even tell my mother I was going. As we pulled out of the driveway I began to look at this man as the master of his universe. Pushing on the pedals in ways that made springs, rods, and levers work in unison to tease his engine into performing like a team of sweaty horses on a cross country wagon race. We were flying at this point. The dash gauges were busy with their work and Archie was commanding his team ever onward. The T-shirt, rolled up dungarees, and penny loafers all added up to a very cool scene indeed. We were now approaching speeds that I had never gone to before. I casually put my arm over the seat back to appear cool but he had already reached that threshold where a person screams "STOP" a long time ago. You know something is happening but you don't know what it is. This fright and thrill at the same time created an addiction in me that I cannot put into words. In the mean time the eruption of body gasses were so close together that I was afraid I was about to shame myself. Archie turns the little car around and gives me another performance with more of the same hair raising features as in the last run When we get back to the house and it appeared that Archie was satisfied with his work he asked me what I thought. As I balanced myself on shaky legs I agreed with him on several points and nervously laugh at the experience of that run Riding in that car that night at such a young age was the first step in a natural evolution of becoming a collector and builder of cars for the rest of my life. [/FONT]
A great story, I also started hanging around the big boys in the garage next to our house when I was twelve. They took me to car shows and drag races and just to be seen in one of their cars made me feel cool. Since then I've been hooked.
This all sound too familiar. My vacation location was South Dakota farm country I was about eleven years old. My brothers and I first attempted to start a c cab truck NO JOY, Our second attempt with help from one of the cousins was a 32 chevy coupe it fired right up, I thought I killed my younger brother when I threw him off the running board in a corn field, but he bounced right to his feet and we continued on. Next up was a B tractor. I almost missed a corner at the bottom of the driveway because of speed, and just barely kept it out of a little lake. After that the cousin had a hopped up 56 chevy also, and on a dirt road at what I believe full speed, with a dust cloud in the rear I was hooked for life.
not too sure what got me hooked but i do remember my dad constantly bringing different vehicles home [not quite as exciting as the above storys being in england ] but the car that sticks out was a brand new ford corsair [similar front to a cigar shaped thunderbird] i also remember him complaining about american cars stop lights being combined with brake lights [i didnt agree thought it was so cool ] never thought i would end up rolling around in such cars when i got older
The Jalopy Journal
