Immaculate Conception School Poletown, Detroit
Pastor Father Cendrowski on the left.
Here's the story of my errant youth ... CLICK to read.
The Ethnic Cleansing of My Boyhood Neighborhood ... and, Some Memories
The neighborhood in this photo is where I grew up. It no longer exists.
At the center of that community we see the Immaculate Conception Polish Catholic Church. Grade school across the street.
My childhood neighborhood on the East side — the better side — of Detroit, Michigan at that time was virtually a 100% Polish tribe. "Ethnic." When I was a youngster in the mid-1900s a great many of the Babcias and Dziadzias and adults living there were émigrés from Poland.
I knew the slur, "DPs."; "Deported Persons." "Dumb Pollacks." They didn't speak Amercan, so naturally they had to be dumb. Didn't know the customs either. Scoffing and laughing at what's new and different. How dumb is that? [Even now when I shop at some ethnically rooted Polish stores, I see a sensibility which I can only describe as Polish. I can't put my finger on it, but there is something at play that gets lost in translation. It can come off as dumb. Hardly, though. If I myself am an example of that trait, it maybe in that we Poles are intelligent. That is, seeing the many sides of a situation and sometimes not knowing what's what. Educated guess.]
"Dumb Pollacks" was still in common usage. Even among Pollacks. Yes, even among the clan, there were the dummies. I grew up not proud to be Polish; even ashamed. That's on me. It may have driven my desire to leave after college and start a new life in that Big [Tempting] Apple, New York City. Now, however, just look at all the Polish names prominent in the news and in so many walks of life.
With all the wanting to get away, the imprint of one's culture is hard wired. It's still with me. Makes me what I am as a person. Hopefully now with some wisdom of age I can happily integrate every bit of it. The good, the bad, the ugly. [Hey, but that's life. Not just if you're Polish. "When life hands you Lemons." The Polish gene in me says, "When you go to bed and put your head on the pillow, you think 'Pierogi' ".]
Still some very crisp, fond memories from those days.
Got me to reminiscing ...
In 1981 most of my old Polish neighborhood was razed to provide GM the space to build its new, all-on-one-floor Cadillac factory. It's a big story. Read the coverage for yourself online. Here's something I wrote that talks about that historic event.
I purposely chose the term "Ethnic Cleansing". Huh? What? It's timely, don't you know. Did you hear about Gaza? There's an argument over whether right there next to the State of Israel it's "ethnic cleansing". Or, even "genocide". Or, it's just Israel "defending itself". Regardless, the reality is that a lot — A LOT — of people are being killed. [And the Super Bowl had the most viewership ever!]
I'm not at all suggesting that eliminating that Polish enclave was anti-Polish. Or, intentional ethnic cleansing. Yet, regardless of the motive(s), it boils down to the same thing. And, probably since it's just a bunch of dumb Pollacks anyway, no big whoop. Economically, for the city, no great loss either.
After the razing the erstwhile neighborhood has since been referred to as "Poletown". It wasn't a term before that in the day as best as I can tell. Yet, it fits. Very "Polish". Le mot juste.
Poletown had an ethnic flavor. "Polish." So, what is that?
One taste of Kielbasa ... you know. I don't know if it's a Polish thing, but in our family the quest for the best Kielbasa was a never ending odyssey. In fact, it's still a thing with me. Fortunately in northern New Jersey where I currently call home there are so many choices shopping at wonderful Polish stores. Some where servers only speak Polish. Believe me, each one has their own take on THE Kielbasa. With many varieties at the same store. The texture of the ground Pork; fine cut, or coarse. Seasonings. Garlic/no Garlic. Even types of wood smoke.
Bakeries sold Pączki. Fried yeast raised fried Donuts filled with jelly or Bavarian Crème. Sugar glazed for the jelly ones — Powidła [Prune lekvar/butter], Raspberry, Apricot, Rose Jam. A dusting of powdered Sugar for the custard. By the way, when you see a word in Polish with "ł" it's pronounced as a "W" ... whah. And, since we're getting all proper, a "W" is pronounced like a V. See, I told you, Polish has its own way. Supposedly a difficult language to learn. I know enough to say "thank you", and "give me a kiss".
On the streets, women wearing babushkas. Seemed everybody spoke Polish. My Grandparents spoke no English when they arrived in America in the early 20th Century; and still didn't until the day they died. My parents were bi-lingual. Like, the enclave didn't require it [English]. Some English came through; "telephone" had my Polish Babcia's spin: "Telephonuya". Her word to the wise: "No money, no funny".
In my early grade school years there was an attempt to teach the Polish language. Alas, it didn't get any traction. Don't know why. Well, I know. By the time I was in school Polish wasn't spoken at home. Except maybe when the parents didn't want me to know from something or other. My older Brother Arnold [by nine years older] his first language was Polish. Had trouble starting out in grade school at St. Hyacinth's on account of that. Took some teasing too. But, he learned English. Well enough way later in life to become the President of the Milwaukee Symphony Orchestra. Dumb Pollack, indeed!
Polish homes are famous for being well kept; inside and out. Mostly humble homes in Poletown, but spick and span. Flowers and shrubs growing neatly around the house in front; border gardens in the back yard. Small front lawns, never overgrown. Neighbors who didn't keep up were frowned upon.
[I had a Polish Uncle who kept his lawn as tight as a Golf putting green. Special push mower. All the shrubs ... topiary precise. Reindeer statues out front. Big ass blue reflector globe in the back yard. I remember visiting once to see him on his hands and knees with a knife, trimming the narrow precise lawn gutters around the walkways. His home was not in Poletown, but in Grosse Pointe. He moved on up.]
In the time of my youth stores were not open on Sundays. Seemed to me at the time that was the custom throughout the city of Detroit. And, well beyond. A corner convenience store opposite the Church was opened on Sunday; bit of a scandal with my Mother.
Neighborhood flavor. Everyone has their take. I was a sensitive lad. Tuned to the sensorium of life. The barrels of pickled Herring on the sawdust grocery store floor at Chene and Trombly Market, across from Chene-Trombly Lanes; kitty corner from the Candy Kitchen. Big barrels of Powidła [Prune Butter] too. Frankincense smoke wafting throughout the Church on special occasions when there would be an indoor procession. My Mother's delicious cooking.
Learned to bowl at the Chene-Trombly Lanes. Pinsetters were young boys. They were stationed right there next to the action, after each roll they reset the pins. Can you imagine that! When bowling was dangerous.
After homework sometimes I'd trek over the 3 or 4 blocks from our home on East Grand Boulevard for a Banana Split at the Candy Kitchen. Even in the thick of snow. Read all about it.
The Cunningham's Drug Store at the corner of Chene and Milwaukee. They had live Leeches for sale. Old timey. What to take the blood of that bloody eye. And the best licorice I ever tasted. A thick stick of hard chew Licorice, in a slim dark orange box with black lettering. Serious stuff. Licorice. I remember going to the corner store and testing the shop guy's patience trying to decide what types of licorice and other candies I would get for my few cents spending money. Licorice. The flavor of my youth.
I went to grade school at Immaculates. The grade school of the Immaculate Conception Parish. Felician Nuns. Strict. Seems the general consensus among the Good Sisters was we were little born devils.
In the early years in grade school we had a Nun whose name was Sister Mary Cantia. [I can't say I'm spelling it right. Just remember the sound of her name.] She would rag on us miscreants, frequently. Remember her complaining that if it weren't for us brats she could have been a movie star. We did not like Sister Cantia.
Fuzzy Fachinni sat in the first desk, nearest the door. One day he put a pencil down on the floor and Sister as expected took a tumble. We had our ways. Little devils. She sure knew how to bring it up in us.
One thing I vividly remember about Sister Cantia was her look. Her look of displeasure was so severe and frightening the devil himself would slink away from that deadly gaze, tail between his legs.
I was a budding photographer in my youth. One day I took my mini spy camera to school. Predictably, Sister gave us that disapproving look. I jutted out into the aisle and took a quick shot. Sister saw; "What's that?". Me ... "Nothing". The moment passed. I never developed the film. But, Dear Sister, the image is framed in memory.
Sister Maximia. She was reputed to be the toughest Nun in school. She taught the 8th Grade class. Once she got all the girls together and gave them a talk about tempting the boys. A few girls were rather well developed. Pretty too. I don't know the actuality of that talking to, but I heard rumors. Don't show off those tits, girls! Strict.
And, Sister Maximia liked me. For sure she changed the trajectory of my life. She pointed me to the University of Detroit High School, one of the top schools in the state. Jesuit. I got an education.
Our Pastor, Father Alexander Cendrowski, questioned me about why I was going out of the neighborhood for high school. St. Stanny's [Stanislaus] was the usual next step for high school for kids from this blue collar neighborhood. I don't recall what I responded. Just stuck to my guns. It was a college preparatory school. And I went to College. The University of Detroit. Also Jesuit. I was educated.
Cendrowski. First name Alexander. We didn't have a good relationship. I named my dog Alexander.
As a kid in 1st Grade we had the homework once to make Butter. Heavy Cream shaken in a jar. My Mother put some of my pristine product in a shot glass and covered it neatly with wax paper, secured with a rubber band. [Pre-plastic wrap days.] It was given by one of the Nuns to Father Cendrowski. Never heard anything more about it.
I was an Altar Boy at Immaculate Conception. Regular duty. Even during the summer recess months. One summer early morning mass, Father Cendrowski celebrating, I got sick. Queasy, dizzy. I didn't want to interrupt the Mass, so I just left. Later that morning Dennis Sczieda, the doctor's son, rides up the alley on his deluxe-doctor's-son Schwinn Phantom to tell me that I was kicked out of the Altar Boy's. That hurt. But, I didn't have the nerve to confront Father about the why's and wherefore's. Nor did he call me in to discuss it himself. A true authoritarian.
I probably had it coming. Not for that incident, but ... As an altar boy I had my style.
When serving Mass the two main boys knelt on the lowest of the three steps down from where the Priest stood at the Altar. We were assigned either "Bells" or "Book". One lad's task was to take the Missal from it's starting place on the right side of the Altar, bring it down the three steps to the center, then then up again to the left side of the Altar. Meanwhile the other boy positioned kneeling on the lowest step would move from the left side the right. The guy on "Book" was now free to take the spot on the left.
Now, the "Bells". To the right, a step just below where the Priest stood, was a little metal lid covering a set of push buttons for said bells. The bells were rung at the most sacred moment of the Mass; the transubstantiation of the bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ.
[Okay — look, I don't know how to paint this picture without getting into it. So thank you for your patience. You had to be there.]
Part of the set up for when the two boys would change places for the "Bells and Book" was to see to it that our missals were exchanged so that the respective missals would be in place where they arrived after the switch. Each stair was covered by a fabric rug. I loved to scoot the other guy's missal over, sliding it over on that narrow rug. Once I gave it so much juice it went flying off and landed way over on the left side of the sacristy, well to the left beyond the altar.
On bells, I once jazzed it up with probably the speediest rendition ever in the history of that Church. 1-2-3, 2-3-4, 4-5-6. Sacrilegious. Like I said, what Cendrowski knew, and the Good Sisters knew; I had the devil in me.
When I was young many times at Mass I would have this recurring fantasy. Just came to me. I didn't conjure it, or dwell on it. Just curious. Like I was taking a sledge hammer and breaking up the steps to the Altar.
The aisle floors in the Church and everywhere around the Alter and sacristy were covered in earthen tiles. From the locally Detroit famous Pewabic Tile. Beautiful shades of brown/black/orange/yellow/gold.
I found it curious at the time that such a strong visual would occur to me. Later, though, when I learned the
Church had been razed along with the neighborhood did it dawn on me that it may have been a premonition vision of that sad future. Interesting. Funny-strange, huh?
Photo Larry Wisniewski FB — I Went to Catholic School in Metro Detroit
In the 8th Grade play I was recast from being the lead on account of being unserious. So I was the Priest. Ironic, before I even knew the term. Father Cendrowski was famous for almost never being without a cigar. Mass being the only exception I know of. There he is, in the front row for the play, and I come out on stage ... holding a cigar. My idea. Way to stick it to Cendrowski. I think there are others too with whom he wasn't a fave.
I taught myself to play Tennis. From a book at the nearby Butzel Branch Library. Went often to the playground behind the school to hit Tennis balls off the back brick wall. There was also an incentive, since I hoped my crush Lorraine would see me. She lived in a house directly across the street from that playground.
In my high school years we went regularly to Sunday Mass. On some occasions there was a Father-Son breakfast after Mass in the Church basement sponsored by the Holy Name Society. Father Cendrowski asked me why I didn't want to join the Society. "I have nothing in common with anyone there. I don't see what's in it for me." Pretty bold, huh? But, it is what I said; and, how I saw it. I saw a future away from that community; not wanting to grow roots there. Father Cendrowski wasn't one to take me under his wing and try to understand this young whippersnapper. He was expecting compliance. He would rule.
Well, don't you know, very soon after that impasse at Mass one Sunday during the sermon, my buddy Cendrowski tells the story of a selfish young man who didn't see what was in it for him to join the Holy Name Society. Me, sitting right there, listening to him talk about me to the whole Church community. No names, but pretty withering nonetheless.
Years later, at my Nephew's high school graduation at Orchard Lake Academy in Michigan I met up for the last time with Father Cendrowski. He was retired at the seminary there. I was newly married, living in New York City. "Hello, Father Cendrowski, I'm David Wronski. Remember me?" Flatly, stone faced, he said, "I remember you." I wouldn't say the tone was disdainful, but certainly clearly indicating long held displeasure. Forgiveness is the Lord's. Not Cendrowski's; not that day anyway.
In his defense, I have learned that Father Cendrowski was a great help in supporting new Polish arrivals into the neighborhood. Helping with housing and furniture. He also was instrumental in persuading the powers that be to install a foot bridge across the new I-94 highway on Moran Street leading to the Church.
I'm praying that Jesus and the Saints have welcomed Father Cendrowski into Heaven. Maybe after a little good talking to? Thank you Father, because of you and Immaculates, I'm what I am today. Thank you. Truly. With maturity, and maybe some wisdom, we learn to forgive. And, see the benefit(s) in all our experiences. And, maybe, the best from the toughest.
At my 8th Grade graduation ceremony I played the Ave Maria on my Violin. Maybe gained some graces back for that.
That's Father Cendrowski on the left. Me, top row center [wearing "devilish-dark". I honestly don't recall how that choice got made. Don't think it was an act of rebellion. Cendrowski might disagree.]
PS That's my crush Lorraine on the left in the first row behind Father Cendrowski. On the opposite side to the right is Geraldine Fredericks. Just look at the beaming shiny Apple of a face. Later in college she invited me to a Sadie Hawkins dance. Roles reversed; the girl invites, drives, pays for dinner. Like that. Even said she studied about cars so we could have something to talk about. She really liked me. I would have none of Geraldine at the time. What a pill I was with her. Didn't even make the effort to be relatable. Just full of my own ideas about what's what. Such a lovely girl. What a dumbass her date.
Earliest Times
Earliest Times ...
I spent my childhood growing up in a Detroit neighborhood known famously as Poletown*. Alas, it is no more. Detroit gave the heart of it to General Motors to site a new Cadillac plant.
According to a the Detroit Historical Society ... "Under eminent domain, it was the most number of people ever moved in the shortest amount of time in the United States."
Here as some photos going way back ...
My Childhood Home 2125-27 East Grand Boulevard mid 1940s
Playing out front.
That's how Mom rolled ...
My Brother Arnold and me.
The view from our block south just after the razing in 1981.
The view from across the street looking north after the razing.
Pulling a Petitpren
I worked Saturdays for most of my high school and college years at a butcher shop — at one of the many stalls, really — at the Gratiot Central Market in Detroit. It's still there. And still busy.
I got the job from my older brother's friend who had worked there for his Uncle Norb Szcziegel during his school years until he graduated from law school. [If you are sensing a Polish connection, you would be correct, my friend.]
It was a lucky break for me. The job at the butcher shop opened just about when I had quit working for my Uncle Phil Gralewski at the Nortown Bakery Detroit's East Side. It's still is there, but now a derelict of its former Polish heritage and glory.
Mind you, that was every week I'd go straight to work after school on Fridays, working from around 4:30pm through to 6:00 the next morning. During Summer school recess too. Wow, was it depressing going to that job during the Summer.
Anyway, at the butcher shop when I first started, there was a fellow already working there whose last name was Petitpren. I think that's how it is spelled. He was a bit of a slacker. Often coming to work late. Sometimes lallygagging around instead of hawking customers as they walked by in that busy and competitive shopping mall.
After he left, my boss used this phrase for when he thought I was slacking off ... "You're pulling a Petitpren!" At least that how I'll recall when it got into the shop talk.
I want to set the record. I was a good worker. Gave it 100%, 100% of the time. Showing up for work at 6:30am every Saturday, rain or shine, or snow; and that's, mind you, after staying out quite late the night before carousing with the buds during my college years. It was brutal. But hey, you're only young once.
The butcher shop job started at a $1.00 an hour for 12 hours. Even at that it was a big jump from the usual 75 cents rate at the bakery. After a year I was making $2.00 an hour. Now that's some serious money for a young man about town.
Norb taught me a lot. At the end of the day on Saturdays we would want to clear out the merchandise. We offered sale prices if a customer would buy all of an item of whatever was left. One time I set a price with a customer. Norb heard what I said and interjected. He acted surprised at the price; but since I made the offer he said he would stand behind the [implied] "too low" price. Many customers couldn't get their packages into their shopping bags quick enough. For readers of a certain age, that gambit in the parlance of salespeople is called "Playhouse 90". [That's a reference to a drama series on TV in the late 50s.]
A woman once asked me if the Beef Liver was tender. Imitating what I heard from the boss, hand to heart with a mock sincere face, I said, "Lady, that Beef Liver is as tender as your Mother's heart!" One time it struck a nerve. As she stormed away from our stall she could be heard at full volume yelling, "My mother's heart ain't tender, goddammit, son of a bitch!" I was a cheeky fellow, huh?
You've probably guessed that I'm recalling a time, some time ago. Sure. 75 cents an hour was a wage — for a kid — at one point. It was in the late 1950s, a time when Oxtails were 29 cents per pound. [Instead of now when that delicacy costs more than steak — if you just count the flesh portion and subtract about half the weight in bones.]
Oh, yes. An important lesson I can pass along to you's, all my loyal readers. When I was new to the trade, I attempted to entice customers by claiming the meat was "fresh". My boss kindly and quickly corrected me about that. To say the meat is "fresh" automatically brings to mind that it might not be fresh. So, don't say it's "fresh". Of course it's fresh!
So, don't be fresh!
And, don't pull a Petitpren! Even if no one is looking.
Blast From The Past
In the early 1950s it was a kind of a thing — maybe because portable radios were fairly new tech then — for youths to stroll around outside with portable radios. This unit could be plugged into a wall electric outlet. It also could carry a battery.
I remember once trying to get in on the trend and went out with this radio on my shoulder. Early boom box.
Me and My Cars
[With Some Side Roads Along the Way]
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This piece originally appeared in another blog, Wronski's Wramblings. It is by far the most popular post on that blog. I'm posting it here since it covers some of the time when I was a boy. Even though it spans the period up to the present time, I justify featuring it here since, hey, when it comes to cars ... boys will be boys.
You should know, I haven't owned every car discussed or pictured in this piece. Not, anyway, in the have-the-title-in-my-wallet sense. But, certainly in my heart, and imagination.
Those which I did own, I specify. But, if you like automobiles like me, you probably have fantasies and memories of vehicles which drove through your life at one time or another. In one way or the other.
Here is my list.
I grew up in a car town. No, make that, THE car town. MoTown. Detroit, Michigan. "During the day we make the cars; at night, we make the bars." My first job was in HF I's factory, the first assembly line plant in the world, in Highland Park, Michigan.
The assembly line I believe is Henry’s contribution to the quest to amass a fortune at the expense of the working man. Think of those archival images of Model T’s coming off the line. By the time I arrived in 1965 after graduating from college the place was so old and so dark. Lit with incandescent bulbs and every surface brown/black with oil, and the whole place a noisy racket and smelling of dirt, oil, smoke, and perspiration. Once you take a whiff, you know . . . I don't know what, but you know. A multi-sensory time travel.
If the dehumanizing setting weren’t enough, the story goes that Ol’ Henry was such a hump that if you were on the commode he could drop in to see what you were making. Better have something to show the MAN. Later, of course, there were the unions and I am a proud former member of the UAW. When later I worked in the FoMoCo Surface Coatings Division R&D lab, in homage to Henry, the bunch of us crammed into the lavatory stall to get the boss’s signature on an important document. Boys will be ...
Here is an historic postcard of the Highland Park Plant.
When I was a boy the annual automobile show at Cobo Hall downtown was a DAY in my life. Every year me and my sidekick, Cousin Kenny, got an eyeful of all the new car models; some concept futurifics; and all those gorgeous, straplessly begowned models on the turntables with their graceful hands pointing out the car features. We came home with shopping bags full of brochures; full color on heavy shiny coated paper. In the mid-1950s I could list for you all the details of every model. (Kind of like how Corvette, Ferrari, Morgan, Jaguar, and Porsche aficionados are today. Or, those baseball fans who can tell you who batted last in any inning of any particular game in any given year. And … batting averages, life histories, and every other stat too. How about those Tigers?)
In younger days I also made the rounds of the many car dealers, domestic and foreign. My tastes went primarily to the imports. My Aunt and Uncle lived near a foreign car service shop and when we visited on Sundays I would mosey on over and sit in the cars in the service lot.
I was always on my bike exploring Detroit and suburbs and stopping in on the car dealerships. I remember a car salesman at a Fiat dealership. My bike (French Rochet Track...single fixed gear, no brakes) propped up outside the showroom window and me looking over a Fiat Abarth Zagato. Bright red with those unique twin bulges on the top, carried down to the back. Without any apparent reason he told me to go away and come back when I had some money. No goodwill created there. Thank God that car sales people nowadays are such wonderful enlightened examples of the species. Later when I had a license to drive I made more than a few visits to test drive some imported exotics. A Triumph TR3 and (almost) a Porsche Speedster.
I fondly remember cars in the neighborhood too. The 1947 Chrysler Town and Country Convertible and the 1953 Cadillac Convertible owned by some of the local young bachelors.
After that we owned a 1953 Chrysler Windsor four door. It was a bright cherry red with a white top and wide white sidewall tires. "Snazzy" it was, indeed. Same interior as in the 1947. I remember when my father bought that car. In those days the dealers affixed metal dealer tags on the back trunk lid. Even at that young age I was willing to forego the privilege of driving around advertising the dealership. I prevailed and saved having holes drilled in our classy new car.
And the very shiny black Hudson Hornet Convertible owned by an old man down the block. I used to go over and watch him wash and polish the car.
Or the Chrysler Airflow meticulously restored by a neighbor in my Cousin's neighborhood.
My Uncle Phil and Aunt Genevieve lived on Lake Shore Drive in Grosse Point Farms. (Phil was a baker [read about my time as his weekend baker boy] and he did very well for himself. "The flour gets in your blood" is something he once shared with me talking about his love for his craft. Aunt Gene was an amazing cake decorator and was in charge of the front of the house, with a small army of sales ladies on every Saturday. I visited them often. Aunt Gene was always most kind to me (the only person in the universe who will ever be allowed to call me "Davie." RIP Aunt Gene.) It also helped that they had a badminton court in the back yard and lived right across from the GP Farms Park. Summer splash time.
Anyway, I vividly remember the times seeing Mrs. Fisher (Fisher Body — General Motors) driving carefully on Lake Shore Drive in a Detroit Electric; my estimate, 1916 vintage. I always got the distinct impression that the old lady toodling about in that old thing was not just going for a joy ride. But that she was making a statement. I took it as a hint from her to not forget electromotive technology as an option.
So now it's the 21st century and look how plugged in everything is.
Anyway, I vividly remember the times seeing Mrs. Fisher (Fisher Body — General Motors) driving carefully on Lake Shore Drive in a Detroit Electric; my estimate, 1916 vintage. I always got the distinct impression that the old lady toodling about in that old thing was not just going for a joy ride. But that she was making a statement. I took it as a hint from her to not forget electromotive technology as an option.
So now it's the 21st century and look how plugged in everything is.
Speaking about Uncle Phil. He owned a Lincoln Cosmopolitan. Big shot car.
A vivid memory about that car was the time I was seated up front between him and Aunt Gene. It was a long drive from Detroit to the Port Sanilac area in Michigan for a weekend at a family cottage compound on Lake Huron. I fell asleep, and my foot accidentally fell on his. Phil was a scary guy to me. Always blustering and overbearing. (He would typically greet me with a withering handshake, rubbing the cut stub of his middle finger into the palm of my hand. Yuck!) He made a big dramatic display. I was chagrined.
The other memory with that car was sitting in back next to a teenage girl Cousin. She was, as they say, "budding". I stole several side glances into the secret precincts of her sleeveless blouse. Secret thrills of my errant youth.
She's also the one I embarrassed on a later public occasion. She was going into the water for a swim at a crowed beach. I noticed that the back of her one piece was unzipped. I made a big fuss, yelling at her to, "Quick, get into the water". Naturally, everyone saw her. She took it that I was stupidly naive. Never suspected my devilish intent. Oh, there was payback. Once at lunch with her at her home I was served Lemonade. In one of those colorful aluminum drinking glasses. It tasted to high heaven of dish washing liquid. I drank it; or, some of it. Didn't say anything. It took some years to figure out that she spiked my drink.
Looking in other directions. More boob fascination.
Is there as beautiful a shape on a car as the "Jayne Mansfield", bullet bumper on the early 1950's Cadillac?
Well, I don't always get it right. Memory is a tricky thing. Though my heart was in the right place, seems that the bullet bumpers of the day were called "Dagmars" (per a comment from a reader). I checked in an Internet search and the only reference to Jayne Mansfied and bumpers is my own photo! That's how history gets made!
Anyhow, you can understand from the accompanying photo how the term "Dagmar" came to be.
Or the radiator on any Bugatti.
When I was grade school the Fisher Body Craftsman Guild competition filled my imagination. I never got far enough into the process to submit an entry. For a lot of years I would visit the GM Building on West Grand Boulevard to ogle the beautiful futuristic winning models. I did spend a lot of time drawing side view renderings of my own car creations.
For some reason the scooped out wheel well made a big impression on me. Here is a 1954 Buick Skylark Convertible beautifully showing off that styling point.
In the 1950s American cars were pure styling, with nothing functional about it. Well, maybe, except the light shapes and the grill opening to let air in to help cool the engine. A prime example, those wheel wells on the Buick. Keeping them clean would be a nightmare. The wire wheel bolted on despite the knockoff spinners.
Yet, that style point was all around. Here in a 1961 Fisher Body Craftsman Guild winner by Ron Will.
Sometime in the early 1950s my brother Arnold came home with a Ford Model A. It was in so-called "original condition," with all its 30 years of use still there. A mixed blessing. But, it seemed really old to me then. Not like cars from the 50s and 60s or 70s seem to me today. I think that was because there were several large steps of design and style in the first half of the century. Several more since the fifties to be sure, just somehow those automobiles still got it going on. (Or maybe it's about when you come into the world. Everything that came before was old by definition.) I also believe there wasn't that great a desire to keep old vehicles up. The newness of things had people trading in and trading up regularly. Like with iPhones and other electronic devices in the current decade.
The other memory with that car was sitting in back next to a teenage girl Cousin. She was, as they say, "budding". I stole several side glances into the secret precincts of her sleeveless blouse. Secret thrills of my errant youth.
She's also the one I embarrassed on a later public occasion. She was going into the water for a swim at a crowed beach. I noticed that the back of her one piece was unzipped. I made a big fuss, yelling at her to, "Quick, get into the water". Naturally, everyone saw her. She took it that I was stupidly naive. Never suspected my devilish intent. Oh, there was payback. Once at lunch with her at her home I was served Lemonade. In one of those colorful aluminum drinking glasses. It tasted to high heaven of dish washing liquid. I drank it; or, some of it. Didn't say anything. It took some years to figure out that she spiked my drink.
Looking in other directions. More boob fascination.
Is there as beautiful a shape on a car as the "Jayne Mansfield", bullet bumper on the early 1950's Cadillac?
Anyhow, you can understand from the accompanying photo how the term "Dagmar" came to be.
Or the "gun sight" tail lights on the 1955 Chrysler Crown Imperial (one flipped to the side to access the gas filler cap).
Or the radiator on any Bugatti.
When I was grade school the Fisher Body Craftsman Guild competition filled my imagination. I never got far enough into the process to submit an entry. For a lot of years I would visit the GM Building on West Grand Boulevard to ogle the beautiful futuristic winning models. I did spend a lot of time drawing side view renderings of my own car creations.
In the 1950s American cars were pure styling, with nothing functional about it. Well, maybe, except the light shapes and the grill opening to let air in to help cool the engine. A prime example, those wheel wells on the Buick. Keeping them clean would be a nightmare. The wire wheel bolted on despite the knockoff spinners.
Yet, that style point was all around. Here in a 1961 Fisher Body Craftsman Guild winner by Ron Will.
My brother Arnold was in the US Air Force in the early 1950s, stationed in Germany . He brought back two very nice things with him after being discharged. First and foremost, and still after all these years, his most beautiful wife Hely. Second, a snazzy 1956 Volkswagen convertible. Since he had a special deal as a serviceman, my brother got the car shipped courtesy of Uncle Sam.
1967 was also the last year of the split window bus, and the end of the original first generation styling for the vans. As you will read later, I owned a 1973 Camper and it was still a great vehicle. But, a 1967 Camper, that's the cats nuts (to borrow a phrase from my dad when he commented on the new paint job I did on one of my other cars... "Shines like cat's nuts." Still don't know what that means.)
Also, after 1967, with the Beetles, the old-school bumpers were gone for good and the cars began to get larger into succeeding years. Now, when it comes to Beetles, there are other critical periods along the way, particularly noticeable in the evolution of the rear window. First, and most prized by collectors, the split rear window (1938-1953).
Then the oval rear window (1953-1958), also a lovely thing. After that the rear window was a large rectangle that kept on getting larger, as did all the other glass. I stopped tracking after the move to the rear rectangle. I did try to like it (after all, there was more visibility) but when even that started to get bigger, I was done.
The rig my brother brought back from Germany with him was a convertible. In the most beautiful shade of dark butterscotch brown. As near as I can figure the factory term for the color was "coral red". Maybe burnt umber. But, if you recall the color of the skin on your dish of home cooked butterscotch pudding, you will have the right idea. Here is a butterscotch Crème brûlée that I whipped up just to give the exact picture.
Whatever. It was fab. With cream colored accents on the wheels. The vehicle may or may not have been an export model. It was purchased in Germany and originally licensed there. I mention this because the unit had semaphore turn signals which didn't come over that year on the export versions.
Besides the dated semaphore turn signals, the single most memorable thing about that convertible car was that the top had an inner lining. Most American convertible tops in the 1950s were some sort of canvas supported by the usual folding metal framework, but with no inner lining. When the top was up, the frame structure was visible. The canvas buffeted and there was wind noise. No insulation.
With the VW convertible, there was a headliner and when the top was up it looked like, and felt like, a sedan. I mention this because it was a point of luxury to have that in a convertible. Unexpected, in a budget priced vehicle like the VW. It certainly made for a quieter ride. (Later, my Porsche 356A Cabriolet had the same treatment and it was very elegant driving, all snug and secure.) The only downside to those interior padded tops was their bulk. On both the VW and the Porsche, folded down, they perched on the back and didn't disappear like you would want for the coolest possible look. But, hey, you have to be cool to be square, n'est-ce pas?
It was a FoMoCo public relations center featuring displays of cars and technology. The highlight that day was a drive on a specially constructed banked track in a Lincoln Continental convertible. No seat belts. Just me and my Aunt Adele and Cousins sitting in that big old boat hurling at speed around this steep banked closed circuit course. Top down! Those were the days, for sure. I have to stress that, to even little wet-behind-the-ears me, I was totally blown away that Ford would have the nerve to give this kind of dangerous ride to anyone who got in line. Simpler times.
Just because times may have been simple, didn't stop the youth of America from innovating with their rides. At first, one of the single coolest things you could do was to lower the back end. Add bubble skirts, and some glass-pack mufflers. All that on a convertible, and with a continental kit...chick magnet guaranteed. After the lowered rear treatment was around for a while, then came the front lowered---"on the prowl," "on the sniff." Then back and front lowered. Think low rider. Then the back end and front end both went up.The one I never quite got was the front-only raised. It did have a pop the clutch comin' fast off the line kind of look, though.
In a category all by itself, moon hub caps. Chrome or hairline spun aluminum. Full moon's; later, baby moon's. Aero-dynamic!
Here is a photo (Unretouched, I swear! I kid.) of young grandson George and his truck outfitted with moon's. The boy seems to have inherited some of my genetics for cars and other wheeled vehicles. (They're hoping that's the extent of it.)
If you wanted to send the message that you were packing some serious heat under the hood, exhaust cutouts would do the deed. The basic setup was a short branch off the exhaust pipe sticking out just behind the front wheel well under the rocker panel, sealed with a three bolt cap until ready for use. Take off the cap and you get some heavy breathing and a HP boost. Illegal on the street. The work around for that was to have a in-cockpit remote mechanical switch setup. When you must have a race on the street, flip the switch. No need to get out and unbolt the cap; like you would do at the drag strip. After the action, switch it back. No one the wiser.
Speaking of "youth modifications." There was my grade school classmate, Fuzzy. Fuzzy Fachinni. His older brother was first called Fuzzy, and the nickname was handed down the line. Fuzzy was short, with his thick black hair greased heavily to hold a world record DA. Really, just like the Fonz. Before there was the Fonz ... there was The Fuzzy Fachini. In high school he had a hot rod 1949 Ford. I remember all us guys standing around watching him install some clear red plastic fuel lines. The air cleaner was off. When he started the car, whooh! Picture a 3 foot column of pure flame shooting straight up out of the top of the carb. Fuzzy lost some cool factor there. Eyebrows intact. Whew!
Still my all time favorite hot rod, jet black 1950 Mercury coupe. Lowered, chopped, and channeled. No badges or door handles...sanno!
Mercury + 1950 Buick grille
= The Ultimate Hot Rod
Be sure there's a flathead V8 under there.
Here's another photo that you might also like. Nice grill, huh? (Also, notice those long "leggy" cut outs.)
There were some friends and associates who drove some pritteey, pritteey, pritteey fancy rigs. [In the parlance of that ever so humorous Mr. Larry David. Hey, Larry. How's Jerry Seinfeld?]
In the high school years a school mate lived near me and I remember him getting to drive this big, heavy Jaguar Mark VII to school once in a while. The car was gray with cherry red leather upholstery. I have never since been in an automobile as plush in ride and interior as that behemoth. The feel and smell of those cushy wrinkled leather seats, the sight of the burled walnut dash, the soft rumble of that DOHC straight 6, the floating on a cloud ride. So foreign, so mysterious, so exotic. Those were the enthusiast days when motoring was a joy in itself and the right vehicle was a fully sensual experience.
Last, also in summer school, was the prettiest girl that until then I had ever seen. Her name was Heide: a blond angel. She and her (not so much) sister would show up from the rarified precincts of Bloomfield Hills in either a big black Cadillac limousine or, alternatively, some big old tank; also a black limo, but 1940's vintage. Alas, Heide had a boyfriend as good looking as she was; I didn't see I had a chance; that is, with Heide. But, a ride in one of those limo's would have been nice too. All that, it was never meant to be. Heide, if you are reading this, I love you! From afar.
You know, you can have a from-afar relationship with a car the same way you have a relationship with a beautiful woman whom you've never met directly. There's my Heide. Also, Paris Hilton, Carla Gugino, and Marisa Tomei; to name some of my top tier faves.
I made it a habit to visit the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn, Michigan. An absolute must see when visiting Detroit. A collection of just about everything American; especially industrial. Of course, cars. I remember at a very early first sports car show seeing up close my first Mercedes 300SL Gullwing Coupe. German racing silver. Red plaid interior. Wow! Even now, wow!
On permanent display there is a one-of-a-kind 1930 type 41 Bugatti Royale. The biggest thing you will ever see. Yet so graceful. And exciting. Think Mae West meets Marilyn Monroe.
Once at a family party one of the guests came in a gray 1957 Ford Thunderbird convertible, red interior. I still prefer the 1954-56 styling. The fins on the '57 were just not right. Oh, and that porthole on the side of the removable metal top ... lose it. That didn't stop me and my pal, Cousin Kenny, from asking for the keys and taking it for a spin. Pretty snazzy tooling around swell Grosse Pointe with the top down.
I am reminded of the time, also at a family get together, that my Cousin Theresa's husband, Richard Mazur, "let" [I hear tell Cousin Richard is doing very well for himself financial-wise. Didn't get there by throwing too much money around. Eh, Richard?] us polish his big white Buick convertible. No tipping required. It was just a treat for me and Ken to put our hands on that classy big rig. We used Simonize. And, if you know anything about the old type Simonize, you know what "elbow grease" means.
You're supposed to put a patch of wax on a small area of the car and immediately start wiping it to a gloss. Well, I had a better idea (my first time out with the product). We would apply the wax to the entire car, then wipe it off. Signs of brilliance even at that tender young age. Well, I don't think we ever got to finish it. When that stuff dries it's bulletproof. The pisser was that I thought it would also be a smart idea to wax the windshield too. I like to be thorough. Richard was not impressed. I never saw that car again; not much of Richard either. He must have been cursing us up and down on his drive home having to look through that cloudy windshield.
Then in my teens the reigning drag strip street machine “Triple Threat.” A jet black 1958 Chevrolet two door hard top packing three 2-barrel carburetion with a progressive linkage. Progressive linkage lets you drive on on carburetor in regular street mode. But, when you stomp on it, all three carburetors fire up at once. Economic, and boss.
1958 was the 50th anniversary year for GM and they went full tilt on all the models with probably the most chrome ornamentation ever and, the likes of which will never be seen again.
My friend John Medicus' dad worked for GM. Mr. Medicus was in the paint area; starting out pin striping wood spoke wheels and moving on up to be on the team that developed the first Corvette. [Ken and I used to visit the old General Motors Building on West Grand Boulevard and one day got to sit in the a first year 1953 Corvette! How cool is that? Pure white with a red interior.]
One summer in college John, another friend and I drove over to New York City for a week of adventure. We got to use his dad's car. A 1963 Chevrolet Impala Convertible. Dark maroon metallic with black bucket seats. Since Mr. Medicus had executive pull at GM he got to select his vehicle and, after a few thousand miles driven as a company car, he would take delivery of the vehicle at a substantial discount. The big deal on the car was that it had factory air conditioning. In the mid-1960s air conditioning was a pricey option. To have it on a convertible was over the top.
When the tranny went on the Valiant we limped it in to the dealership to trade (up) to a 1964 Pontiac Tempest. (Pictured is the GTO. Speedy version, but same lines.)
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Bright solid cherry red with black "naugahyde" interior with bucket seats and a shifter (no, it was automatic.) on the floor. And it was a two door hard top. No pillar between the front and rear side windows. A super cool feature. [Also ours was not a GTO. If it were, I don't think I would be here to tell the story.
It was a regular thing to pick up an "ad hoc" drag race on weekend nights prowling the town . Sometimes on the quite stretch of 8 Mile Road east of Gratiot or on the premiere road, Woodward Avenue on the way up to Ted's drive-in going north of Detroit. You would pull up or be pulled up on by another car, challenges exchanged, and the game was on. After waiting for traffic to disappear, both drivers would come to a full stop in the middle of the road and, on the count of three, put the "pedal to the metal" until one car was distinctly ahead of the other. No prize. Just lucky to survive to tell the tale. And an ego boost ... or, bust, more often than not.
I once borrowed my Cousin Ken's 1964 Pontiac Bonneville hard top for a Saturday date. On the way to fetch the lucky young lady, I took the opportunity to test the car's speed in a short street race. Hurtling down the street car to car, who should we pass going in the opposite lane: John Law. I took the next right and pulled over curbside and turned off the lights. Well guess who comes up beside me. The policeman asked me what exactly I thought I was doing. I flatly stated that I was trying to escape him. He let me off. Honesty is the best policy, my sainted mom used to say. True that. (If I was really bold I would have turned into someone's driveway instead of stopping on the street. I'll remember that next time I have to elude the law after a too quick ride down the lane.)
My most shameful automotive memory was one night on Telegraph Road coming back to Detroit after a night of drinking mass quantitiies at Mr. Winter's. He was the father of a college friend and entertained the boys lavishly whenever we came by for a visit. Mr. Winter lived on a small lake near Pontiac, Michigan. There was even a wood hull Garwood speedbout parked at the dock outside the house. He was a true original, and eccentric guy. Lived completely free to follow his interests. I think he had inherited money from a family member who was to have invented the rocker arm (?); or, something or other essential to the internal combustion engine. He was a car guy. In his museum garage there was a jet black Jaguar XKE, a 4 door Lincoln Continental convertible with an blown engine. (Not broken, blown; supercharged = blown.) Also, an American Underslung roadster. Fully restored. Same color scheme as in this picture.
Mr. Winter also had in storage a large new motorcycle parts inventory, enough supposedly to build several complete additional Indian's. Boy, talk about coveting your neighbor's property. The last I remember about Mr. Winter was that, out of an interest in late 19th/early 20th century farm equipment, in his travels to search out pieces to collect at country auctions, he became an autioneer. His younger son I think may still be in the business.
Well, back to the tale. My friends and I were driving home late one night on Telegraph Road. Mr. Winter kept a custom refrigerated cabinet just for a half keg of beer with a tap on top. Our state was slightly well lubricated that night. You should also know that this was a notorious road for accidents. "Bloody Telegraph" was the nickname. We were in two cars. I had this bright idea that we should pull up alongside the guys in the other car and moon them. My first and only attempt.
Well there we were, one fellow in front on the passenger side and me in back. Pete was driving and was having a big laugh at the sight of the two of us exposing our backsides to the shock of our buddies in the other car. Well, Pete forgot to keep his eyes on the road straight ahead. Not too far ahead was another car stopped at a red light. He slammed on the brakes, but not soon enough. We smashed into the back end of the stopped car; thankfully, not too badly. As we sat there pants down terrified in our seats, this old man comes out from the other car and peeks in to have a word with the driver. Me and the other perpetrator just sitting there hoping the gentleman would not notice how we were wearing our pants. Youth! Pete came to the fraternity dinner dance the following night with a gigantic busted lip. It was in the dog house for me and the other moonie. I remember cracking wise about the wonderfull full moon visible just outside during dinner. Ha, ha. Pete was not amused. No irony that night.
Now, forget about all that...
I have had the pleasure to own a nice string of cars over the years. Here is the list and few thoughts on each.
My first car was a 1953 Hudson Jet which I bought from my older brother Arnold when I was 16 and just obtained my driver’s license.
Like all kids everywhere and at all times, the temptation to add what's called "youth modifications" compelled me to strip the front hood and back trunk lid ornaments and fill in the holes with Bondo putty. That hot rodded customization never got past primer stage.
I nearly veered off into a life of juvenile delinquency in that car. Shortly after getting my license, there I was, racing through the woods on Bell Isle one summer night. The police pulled me over and my license, the ink barely dry, was suspended. They didn't search the car to find the stash of fireworks I quickly shoved under the seat.
Fireworks . . . I remember my dad packing me and my Cousins into the car for a trip to Toledo, Ohio just before the 4th to buy fireworks with our saved allowances. Legal in Ohio, not in Michigan. Imagine a kid buying a whole box containing a gross of what we called M80s and Cherry Bombs. Let's put it this way, in either configuration one firecracker was something like a good chunk of a piece of dynamite. My dad was a good man and a caring father. We just lived in a less controlled time. And there were no seat belts on the way either. I remember too, my Cousin Ken lived in the suburbs about two blocks away from the police station. One afternoon we set off this firework that shot up a hundred feet into the sky then exploded really like a stick of dynamite. We stayed indoors the rest of the day. Kids, huh!? Stupid innocence.
My first brand new car was a 1966 Morgan +4 Drop Head Coupe. That's the actual car is pictured. How about that?
Even in the Mid-1960s sports cars on the road were rare. When you owned one you were in a special unofficial club. I remember how when you saw another sports car driver on the road you honked and waved. If it was another Morgan, well … you would stop and have a chat. If the other Morgan owner was female, you could have an extended conversation at the nearest motel. (Fat chance. Back then I had never seen a Morgan owner who was female.) Not especially pointing at the ladies, but these days all you need is cash to buy just about any type of exotic transportation your heart desires. If one of those philistines sees another sports car on the road, all they do is sniff a bit and size up who’s got the flashier rig.
For those who may have heard the urban legend, Morgan’s are not built on wood frames. The chassis is steel just like any other such car. The ash wood framing was built up on the chassis and gave support and shape to the body. "Coach built" is the term. The Morgan Car Company has a long history, still building in the same way, only now with an additional line of very exotic and very expensive handmade super cars using the latest materials and technology.
I sold the Morgan shortly after moving to New York City. A friend kept the car at his home in Connecticut. He was tempted to buy it himself, but didn’t. He later bought a Morgan +8, the same as mine only with a ten times more powerful engine. (I understand there is a trend in some circles to what is called “slow car.” There is no denying that raw speed is a kick of its own, but there is the simple pleasure of running through the gears in an automobile with just enough for a peppy ride but designed with a nicely balanced power to weight ratio. Besides, where you gonna go at plus 80 mph?)
When I bought the Morgan my Cousin Ken, who was a Corvette guy, was puzzled over my seemingly impractical choice. Well, it was. The heater made more of a sound from the fan than any real heat. No windshield washers (I rigged up my own with some tubing, glass laboratory T connectors and a one way squeeze bulb). And rain leaked into the passenger compartment. Sometimes at speed the fasteners at the top of the windshield would work loose and the top would fly off. Did I mention that the Morgan was notoriously harsh riding. Even had a hand crank to start the engine in extremis.
Well, as you know, a car is more than a practical conveyance. There’s the see-and-be-seen factor. The joy of ownership. The satisfaction of belonging to a select club. And, of course, the impression it makes on the ladies. But, mainly, it's the driving experience itself.
Now, after all these years, Kenny is writing me about all the wonderful news items he finds about Morgan’s. It’s not easy being ahead of the times. It also seems that the car is a strong link to old acquaintances. When I finally located my long lost friend Joe Palazzolo (couldn’t for the life of me remember how many l’s and z’s) the very next thing he does is send me a framed 16X20 photo portrait of the car. Kenny had sent me the slides we took on our weekend drive to NYC from Detroit (me posed in a beret with the UN in the background). And very recently a work associate from FoMoCo emailed me with a set of pictures of the Morgan factory. Out of the blue. Why, I don’t know. Apparently I gave his daughter a ride in the car (didn’t lay a hand, honest). It probably made her day. Maybe even changed her life. Some things are unknowable.
My first New York City car was a Citroen 2CV. Actual is pictured.
Soon after moving to the New Jersey suburbs I found a 1958 Porsche 365B Cabriolet in the local classifieds. Less than $2,000 then. Today, if you want a nice example, pony up $125,000+.
Totally different driving experience from the Morgan +4.
The kids started to show up and I just couldn’t conscience driving them around in those things. (We once drove 14 hours straight in the Porsche to visit the in-laws. Baby Kate in a kiddy seat on the floor on the passenger side. Besides the questionable safety factor, there was a leak coming in from under the dash dripping on our little precious. I was crestfallen at the indignity I had inflicted on that innocent creature. By the way, she grew up just fine in spite of me, and is now raising her own little precious.)
So next was the 1972 Citroen D Special.
Brand new. Four cylinder, stick. Very high tech with a hydraulic suspension; very comfortable ride too. Slightly underpowered. Citroen first introduced that body style in the mid-1950’s and it stayed in production into the late 70’s. And it is still a great looking car. Very aerodynamic shape. Dealer service network however, almost non-existent.
The gas crisis of 1974 also arrived and it got me thinking about being strapped to too much of a high tech vehicle, so we traded for a 1974 Land Rover 88.
I sold the Land Rover to cover expenses training into a whole new career field. Living in NYC there isn’t really much of a need for an automobile. So I went carless for several years until it was time to find new digs outside the Big Apple. [My own take on why they call it that is because it is so full of temptations. You know … Adam and Eve … the Apple. Only bigger. OK, not such an original idea, but just in case it is really my original thought. Give credit where due.]
The vehicle of choice for a sojourn across the great USA was a Volkswagen Camper Van. 1973 vintage.
I have to say that van was probably my favorite of all the vehicles. So much living in it. If you fondly remember "getting it on" in the back seat of some old sedan, just imagine what get's on in a Volkswagen Camper Van with a full bed and privacy curtains.
We happened to be at a campsite in the mountains overlooking Boulder Colorado Thanksgiving-time in 1994. Bathroom facilities and a really hot tub a short walk in the cold snow, mountain lions reportedly prowling the premises. We got pretty good at camp cooking on the trusty Coleman stove and even hosted a friend one morning for breakfast around the small table in the van. Also, since it was that time of year, we met up with Santa (the real one, mind you; it was Boulder after all: that town where fantasy and reality are thoroughly mixed) and we have a great picture of the Big Man posing in the VW. I'll post it as soon as I can get into the file of film images.
On another occasion coming back north to Phoenix after the Tuscson gem show, our natural high from being around all that rarified crystalline energy was flattened by a most vigorous hail storm. Imagine all that roof on the van and all that hail. Fortunately the storm didn't put any real dents into the situation, but the din did give us a fright.
There is still a great vintage VW following in the rust-free states. After a few years ownership we sold it and recovered all the money we invested. Not too shabby. The van was wonderful in every way. Except in driving in city traffic, the manual transmission was a handful.
Soon began looking for a more everyday driver. The 1977 Mercedes Benz 300D was the ticket.
D for diesel. I was originally looking for a trusty Volvo but someone along the way said the MB was the better choice. A little skittish about the diesel; where do you get the fuel? Once you own one you begin to see the stations that, before you had the need, you didn’t notice. (Sort of like not ever seeing stores that sell monkeys until you wrap your mind around owning one. When I retire I plan to open a store that places cage captive, mature chimpanzees to worthy homes. Just back up the truck, open the front door, and let your new buddy loose. Live the barrel-of-monkeys experience! I kid.)
Well, back to the Mercedes. Bought it from an airline pilot. He had a neatly printed log of everything he ever did to the vehicle. It’s great to buy a pre-owned vehicle with that kind of documentation. At 177,000 clicks it was still only nearly broken in. MB diesels are famously bullet proof and live to 500,000 and beyond. My car was non-turbo and just about the slowest thing on the road. We drove it for another 100 thousand before selling it to trade up to the big boy, a 1982 300SD.
With 160,000 miles, more room for Big Dave in the seats. Longer wheel base, comfortable, and a turbo. Starts in half a crank and jets down the trail. I still prefer the smaller 124 body 300D for its tight agility. The bigger 126 chassis is plush. That 300SD stickered at $37,000 in 1982! We're talking plush.
That’s it so far.
I do have fantasies about future auto possibilities, however. Click here for a view.
The song below kind of catches us up on the current situation in Detroit. It remembers a time when a kid like me could bicycle free everywhere. Summers, I would leave home in the morning and come back for supper. Just roaming around on my bike, exploring. Not a care in the world.
The song below kind of catches us up on the current situation in Detroit. It remembers a time when a kid like me could bicycle free everywhere. Summers, I would leave home in the morning and come back for supper. Just roaming around on my bike, exploring. Not a care in the world.
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