Vehicles I Remember: 1957 Chevrolet

I felt proud of the 1957 two-door Chevrolet Bel Air Hardtop Coupe that my parents bought when the car was only a year or two old with very few miles on it. The car sported fins and futuristic hood ornaments reminiscent of rockets. As a kid, I enjoyed waxing the car, but, invariably, I pinched a finger when making rapid passes of the polishing cloth under those hood rockets. I just couldn’t learn to avoid cramming my finger back too far! Ouch!

1957 Chevrolet Bel Air Coupe in a Pine Village Winter

The roof was white; the body was pink, not the coral color that many people today insist was the only “pinkish” color in the 1957 Chevrolet lineup. The abundance of chrome was nothing short of magnificent! What a splendid show the automobile made at the drive-in movies and drive-in restaurants!

Chevrolet Bel Air with Original Pink Paint, Not Coral

It happens that my parents’ ownership of the ’57 Chevrolet coincided with one of the happiest times of my childhood. My family drove to Lafayette, Indiana, more than once a week for various activities, such as shopping at Graves Bakery, the Ayres branch in Market Square, and the new Smitty’s Supermarket. The Chevrolet faithfully took my brother and me to piano lessons. My family attended concerts and plays, and we visited Battleground and Fort Ouiatenon. What fun we had!

During the summers, the Chevy made frequent trips to Williamsport for the county fair. Every Christmas, the car took us to the Purdue University Christmas Show, which was wonderful each and every year! The Chevrolet was a major contributor to our life. In many key respects, we had a life because of the Chevy!

Unfortunately, I am prone to motion sickness. I always begged my parents to permit me to sit in the front seat, where I was less likely to be plagued by the dizziness and resultant nausea. Of course, my father and mother wanted to sit next to each other in front, and they were dismayed to relinquish the front passenger seat to me again and again. I often had to be tough and try to survive a trip seated in back. One time, I told my parents that I was feeling ill. We were returning from Lafayette and were nearly home. My mother urged me to keep calm until we pulled into our driveway. As my father turned off the highway, I vomited onto the floor in back. I couldn’t have waited another minute. My mother volunteered to clean the car. As the Chevy was a two-door model, she had a difficult time reaching around the front seat to shampoo the carpet in the floor well of the back seat. For a long time, the car had an odor that was partly the result of bacteria that grew in the carpet, no matter how frequently and skillfully my mother mopped the nap. I deeply regretted what had happened, but, to this day, I know that I could have done nothing differently.

Eventually, my parents decided that the ’57 Chevy had enough miles and that they should find another car. My father kept the Chevrolet; in fact, he still had it in his garage in the 1970s. It was parked beside the Hudson and the Packard. My father called me at Indiana University and said that he would like to sell either the Packard or the Chevrolet. Naively, I thought the Packard would be worth more down the road. With only mild hesitation, I advised my father to sell the Chevy, which he promptly did. What a mistake! That Chevy would soon have been worth far, far more than the Packard, the value of which steadily declined. Oh, well! Lesson learned!    

Vehicles I Remember: 1953 Packard

One morning over our breakfast of cornflakes, my father mentioned that a Packard Clipper automobile was for sale in nearby Attica, Indiana. I was a high school junior who was suddenly alert. Could I own my own car? The concept was dazzling! Freedom! Mobility! Taking the keys and going for a spin whenever I felt like doing so! Of course, my parents would quickly rein me in, but the idea of having my own car was about the most exciting idea I had ever had. My father added that the seller was a widow and that the sale price was $125.00. I could afford the vehicle! “When can we take a look at it?” I asked. We could go that very morning!

1953 Packard Clipper Like Mine (Only Green, Not Silver)

When my father pulled over to the curb of a pleasant street in Attica, I immediately spotted the car that I hoped would be mine. It was parked in front of a tidy house. The Packard was a 1953 model with silvery gray paint. I wanted the car at once! My father and I rang the doorbell, and a small, neatly dressed woman with white hair and a happy smile answered. After some conversation, she handed me the key. My father and I took the Packard for a test drive. It ran well. I liked the fact that I sat up tall in the seat and could see all around without restriction. I had feared that the car might be similar to the 1951 Hudson that featured in my previous blog; the windows in the back of the Hudson were so small that I felt I could not see everything that needed to be seen for safe driving. The Packard was the opposite; I had an unobstructed view in all directions.

I loved the car! I readily handed the seller my hard-earned $125.00, and I was never happier to part with money at any time in my life. My father followed me as I drove the Packard home.

The car was by no means perfect. The bottom of one taillight cover had been broken out. It had been made of red glass. I found a red plastic container, cut it in two, and taped half of it where the glass had been. (In those carefree days of long ago, a taped piece of plastic was considered a legitimate repair by a high school student.) Rust had bubbled through the sides of the body just behind the back wheels and just above the headlights. Whenever I waxed the car (which I frequently did), I had to be careful not to cut my hand on the sharp edges of the rusted areas. The upholstery of the front seat had been torn, but a seat cover made of a rather flimsy gray material served the purpose of hiding the tear, even though it could be felt through the cover. Unlike the Hudson, which my grandfather had loaded with options, the Packard had no extras. It was as basic a Clipper as it could be: truly a no-frills car. All the same, it took me faithfully to school on those rare mornings when I missed the bus.

I drove the Packard to the Hoosier 4-H Leadership Center for Ouibache, a summer camp for which I served as a counselor, and I took my car to the nearest towns, such as Oxford and Williamsport, for errands. I never drove it a long distance. It continued to run smoothly, as it was never run for long at a time.

Years later, when my father passed away, the Packard was one of two cars parked in a garage. (The other was the Hudson.) I felt emotionally attached to the car, but I knew that I could not restore it or keep it. It was sold at the estate auction for $200.00, somewhat more than I paid for it originally! As it turns out, the 1953 Clipper was arguably the least desirable car that Packard ever made; for that reason, mine, which was rusted out, was worth no more than the amount the buyer paid for it. As undesirable as it was for a collector, the car occupied a lasting place in my affection. To this day, I recall it with tremendous fondness.    

Vehicles I Remember: 1951 Hudson

My grandfather bought a new Hudson in 1951. It was a Commodore 8 Sedan in basic black. He purchased many (if not all) of the optional features. A few years later, when I was old enough to appreciate cars, I thought Grandpa’s vehicle was the most spectacular automobile on the road.

Seymour Alfred Rhode's 1951 Hudson Commodore 8 Sedan

I was intrigued with the push-button radio. For better reception, a knob above the windshield could be turned to rotate a small antenna into an upright position. When doors were opened, small lights in the door panels came on so that the driver or passengers would not trip over the doorsills at night. The upholstery (dark green and golden tan, as I remember) felt swanky.

On Easter one year when we were boys, my brother and I were dressed in matching brown suit coats with brown shorts and brown caps with small bills. We were invited to sit in the back seat of the Hudson while Grandpa drove us the mile from our house to the church. I felt that we were riding in a high style indeed!

The exterior of the car was shaped like the back of a duck. Now that I think about it, the contours probably gave the automobile superior aerodynamic properties. I recall that the Hudson wanted to go fast down a highway.

When my brother attended Indiana University, he needed a car, and my parents agreed that he should have the Hudson, which they had inherited. I was an entering student at IU, and I enjoyed weekends when my brother and I took the Hudson off campus to visit neighboring towns. One of my favorite recollections is driving along with the windows down on a crisp fall day with the spectacular autumn colors of the Brown County landscape passing by. Life really did not get much better than that!

As I contemplate vehicles I have known and loved, I think what a difference various cars and trucks have made in my existence. While I have appreciated various cars that I have owned in recent years, none of them have carried the mystique that surrounded those automobiles that first entered my developing consciousness. Was I so young that I was more impressionable then, or were the vehicles themselves more exciting? I can attest that riding in the Hudson was a thrill in any year from the time when my legs swung off the edge of the seat until I was a college freshman.

When my father passed away, the Hudson was in a garage where it had been parked since my brother no longer needed it. While my brother and I were preparing for the estate auction, we discussed whether he wanted to restore the car. It had been sitting for so long that the tires were flat. Mice had invaded the interior and had destroyed the once luxurious upholstery. My brother wisely decided that a restoration would be a challenge too great for him at that time in his life. We sold the car at the auction. I hope whoever bought it brought it back to its former glory because it was truly a thing of beauty!

Vehicles I Remember: 1951 GMC Pickup

The first pickup that I remember was a 1951 GMC. It was rated a half-ton model, but it had a ¾-ton bed. My father kept it seemingly forever! It must have run well, as I have no memory of it in a repair shop. It was a silvery pale blue. It boasted a 1940s underdash heater that was an aftermarket installation by Glen Bisel, who owned the Sinclair station in my hometown; he found it in a wrecked Oldsmobile car. The heater was shaped like a shield and had two doors with round metal doorknobs. When a door was opened, the heat poured out. Actually, the heat poured out even when the doors were closed! I always sat between my father and my brother on the bench seat. The heater was close to my knees. On bitterly cold winter days, the heat felt good; otherwise, the heat was too intense, and I compulsively drew my knees back into the seat as far from the heater as I could get.

My Father and the 1951 GMC Pickup

On a farm, a pickup truck gets constant use; for that reason, I have scores of memories of the faithful old GMC! My father often chose a rainy day to load two or three hogs to take to the market. If the loading went well, my father would not sustain a scratch; frequently, though, he had to wrestle with the pigs to get them up and into the bed of the pickup, and he would be cut. As my father bled freely from even the smallest nick, he would soon have a trail of blood over the back of his hand or on his forearm. Once the pigs were loaded, he would run to the house to wash his hands and coat his scratches with tincture of merthiolate (an antiseptic in a bottle with a thin glass tube attached to the lid). The tincture left orange stains. My father would hop behind the wheel, and we would be on our way to one of the livestock sale barns near our home.

The rain would slosh across the windshield from side to side as the wiper blades worked back and forth in a lazy rhythm. I was a youngster sandwiched between my father and my brother. I would listen to their conversation and the peaceful beat of the raindrops. Our damp clothing and the scents of earth within the cab mingled in waves of tropical heat exuding from the heater slung beneath the dashboard. Slowly but surely, I would fall asleep.

That sleep was the soundest sleep that a boy could have! I wish I could experience such tranquility today! I felt secure and toasty warm. I assumed that life would go on like that forever.

Of course, life didn’t go on in that same way, but I have the memories of that comfortable time when I was really young. Such recollections sustain me now.

I can hardly conclude without mentioning that I often washed and waxed the good ol’ GMC. In waxing and polishing vehicles from the decades of the 1950s and 1960s, jammed fingers were always a possibility. Where I most often rammed my fingers into a space too small for them on the GMC was between the back fender and a vertical support for the pickup bed. My hand would smoothly slip down the rounded curve of the fender and get caught near the bottom of the curve. Ouch! No matter how many times I told myself not to do that, I did it anyway!

What would I not give to return to the 1950s for another ride in that GMC truck? Maybe my father would be hauling sacks from the feed store in town to our storage shed for livestock. The sun would be shining, the heater would be turned off, and we would be sharing a small bottle of Coca-Cola. How did I let those wonderful days slip away?   

Vehicles I Remember: 1950 Chevrolet

The first car in my memory was a 1950 Chevrolet. It was black. In front of the regular windows on the driver’s side and passenger’s side were triangular windows (wing vents) that could be turned in such a way as to force a blast of wind against the face. That breeze felt so good on a hot day! The windshield was in two halves joined by a thin metal connector moulding. As a child, I always experienced motion sickness, which was far worse if I were in the back seat. Even when I was lucky enough to sit in front, my eyes would focus first on the metal moulding then on the distant view then on the connector again, until I was well on my way toward nausea!

My Mother, My Brother, and the 1950 Chevrolet

My parents drove differently. My father was far-sighted and enjoyed perusing fellow farmers’ fields to his left. Meanwhile, he slowly veered the car to the right until the right wheels were off the road and onto the berm. Miraculously, he never lost control of the vehicle but gradually brought it back onto the pavement, only to repeat the experiment immediately. My mother, meanwhile, played with the throttle. Her small foot, usually wearing a flip-flop in summer, wore out the gas pedal by depressing it and lifting up right away, depressing it and lifting up right away. The car lurched forward and hesitated, lurched forward and hesitated accordingly. To ride with my father at the steering wheel was less nauseating but more frightening.

One day in the good old summertime, I was riding with my mother at the wheel. Down went the gas pedal, up it went, down it went again, back up it came, and so on. I was a youngster still short enough to stand on the front seat. I was near the passenger door and was trying to keep my balance while the car briefly gained speed and momentarily slowed, gained and slowed, gained and slowed. I remember being slightly dizzy. I could smell my mother’s new permanent. (She had to have curls in her straight hair!) We were lurching and hesitating along a gravel road lined by tall corn on our right. We came to an intersection with another gravel road. My mother obeyed the stop sign, but the corn was planted so close to the road that she could not see around it. She entered the intersection only to discover that a road grader had almost entered the intersection from the right. The big machine had been hidden behind the corn. My mother slammed on the brakes, and the road grader just missed the front bumper!

The sudden braking made me lose my balance. My mouth struck the hard metal dashboard. I lost both of my upper baby teeth in the front. My mother yelled, “Why don’t you ever stand close enough to where I can grab you?”

A long time after the incident, when my two permanent teeth came in, they were separated by a gap, or diastema. Whether I liked it or not, the diastema became a trademark. I still have it, although the gap has lessened over the years. Terry–Thomas was a popular British comic film actor in American movies of the 1960s. I always enjoyed his performances because, like me, he had a pronounced diastema.

I am old enough to be mindful that young people today have such perfect teeth! When I was growing up, children lacked such gloriously white, exactly spaced teeth, the result of costly orthodontics. (Incidentally, antibiotics given for ear infections, from which I frequently suffered, turned children’s teeth yellow.) Visiting an orthodontist was just becoming an option for rural kids back then. My parents took me to one in Lafayette, Indiana, but, when they learned how expensive it would be to close the diastema in my front teeth, they asked me if I really wanted to have my incisors properly aligned. I hated dentists. With vast relief, I said that I would just as soon avoid going to the orthodontist. Also relieved, my parents did not have to pay the thousand dollars to close the gap in my teeth.

Whenever I brush my teeth, I recall the dashboard of that 1950 Chevrolet.