Car Culture
The first car I remember that my family ever owned was a 1952 Dodge. This was in 1959 or '60. I was 11. Maybe 12. I'm not sure it was designed this way but the car had a clutch that you depressed to move from one gear into neutral. Then you'd have to let the clutch up, then depress it again to move from neutral into your next gear. It was called a double clutch. Nowadays, with a manual transmission, you depress the clutch only once between gears. Progress.
The car didn't have any air conditioner so my sister and I would stick our heads out the windows like dogs catching a breeze. There were no seat belts, no air bags. It might have had an am radio, but I doubt it. It smelled of oil and sweat and cigarettes. I was at that age where I could name every car on the road and looked forward to the yearly preview of new car designs. So imagine my little prepubescent delight when my dad came home one day in 1961 with a brand new midnight blue Chevy Impala. The car that haunts me to this day.
Simple. I couldn't afford a new car and, since every one I knew had a Volkswagen, this was close enough in looks and style that I was able to retain the impression of individuality while still conforming. There were two problems with the car. It had a screen that you pulled up over the radiator so that it would heat up faster in the morning. Trouble is, I would drive around forgetting to release it so that no cool air was sucked in and the radiator would always overheat. The other problem was a bit more personal.
Remember, I was now a teenager. Dating. And parking. But none too successfully. My car had a floor mounted transmission just like the Volkswagen. But unlike it's smaller cousin, the front seat of the Volvo was too large for me to be able to be suave, smooth, or seductive before getting slapped down for being presumptuous. I could not surreptitiously slink my arm over the adjoining seat and onto my date's shoulder because I couldn't reach her. And how many times had I tried to climb over to my date's side of the front seat when she seemed eager, only to somehow miscalculate in the dark and come down hard upon the gear shift knob?
Is it any wonder my voice did not change until I was 24?
Maybe that's why I'm still a tenor to this day!
The car didn't have any air conditioner so my sister and I would stick our heads out the windows like dogs catching a breeze. There were no seat belts, no air bags. It might have had an am radio, but I doubt it. It smelled of oil and sweat and cigarettes. I was at that age where I could name every car on the road and looked forward to the yearly preview of new car designs. So imagine my little prepubescent delight when my dad came home one day in 1961 with a brand new midnight blue Chevy Impala. The car that haunts me to this day.
My parents refused to smoke in this car and even went so far as to have clear vinyl seat covers factory installed. The seat covers had a continuous raised pattern so that, in summer, you not only burned yourself when sitting, but you branded yourself with the pattern when you stood up. My sister was more embarrassed by the red welts on her skin then she had ever been with her head out the window of the Dodge. But I was in heaven and used to beg my dad to take me driving so my friends could envy me and our new car.
So why, in 1964 when I was 16 and ready for my own first car, did I choose a 1959 humpbacked Volvo?
Simple. I couldn't afford a new car and, since every one I knew had a Volkswagen, this was close enough in looks and style that I was able to retain the impression of individuality while still conforming. There were two problems with the car. It had a screen that you pulled up over the radiator so that it would heat up faster in the morning. Trouble is, I would drive around forgetting to release it so that no cool air was sucked in and the radiator would always overheat. The other problem was a bit more personal.
Remember, I was now a teenager. Dating. And parking. But none too successfully. My car had a floor mounted transmission just like the Volkswagen. But unlike it's smaller cousin, the front seat of the Volvo was too large for me to be able to be suave, smooth, or seductive before getting slapped down for being presumptuous. I could not surreptitiously slink my arm over the adjoining seat and onto my date's shoulder because I couldn't reach her. And how many times had I tried to climb over to my date's side of the front seat when she seemed eager, only to somehow miscalculate in the dark and come down hard upon the gear shift knob?
Is it any wonder my voice did not change until I was 24?
Maybe that's why I'm still a tenor to this day!
Interesting parade of cars, replete with the ever more interesting ramifications of model choice. So you were lip sync before there was lip sync....
ReplyDeleteWondering if you would perhaps have a similar saga about elevators through the years?