A SUNDAY RIDE

My stepdad owned only one new car in his life of driving.  And that was before he married my mom.  Once he took on an “instant” family he inherited other priorities.  And it seems now looking back for mother a “new” car wasn’t one of them.

And he certainly could pick the most embarrassing array (for a teenager that is) of autos ever procured.

In my day and I suppose today, the car illustrated just what level one resided in the stations of society.  All drivers were labeled by their car.  There was a distinct division – much like the caste system of ancient India – between a “Buick Driver” and a “Chevy Man”.   And there was even a great distinction between a new and used car owner - the haves and have not players in a big part of the American Dream.

We were relegated to the “untouchables” according to some of the clunkers my dad chose as our family mode of conveyance.

And to make matters worse my dad refused to buy a car which contained a radio in the dash – he insisted that it reduced our enjoyment and conversation on our family Sunday drives. (A torture I face after Sunday school – mainly in fear that someone I knew would see me in our 5 year old Chevy Custom)  And when I started to date - this lack was very hard to explain to a gal who wanted to listen to some rock and roll music as we motored along.

A Chevy Custom no less was our current auto.

  

This was a model that was so diminished from the Chevy Belaire that it sometimes was mistaken for a British Checker Cab.  Ours was a fashionable two toned “insipid cream” with a robin egg blue top – a color combo I never saw once in the 2 years we drove around in it. It had to have been the choice of the colorblind first owner.  (One of my dad's prerequisites for buying a used car was that it could only have been once removed from its original owner.)

The “custom” model’s only standard features seemed to be a motor and 4 wheels.  The car was devoid of any excess of style.  The only chrome found on it was the bumpers and the front grill.  AC? In my day air conditioning involved rolling down the windows.  (Editor’s note for those under 50 = we had to turn a handle gizmo about 39 times to lower the windows on most cars – except the Caddie)  The seats looked like they had seat covers – but the mesh I found was the standard fabric for this model.  The unkindest cut of all - we rode on black walled tires in the day of the obsequious sparkling whitewalls. 

Ok, now I know what you are thinking – I should feel lucky we even had a car.  But this was the late 50’s and everybody had a car, a TV and button down shirt collars. 

This car strained to do 40 miles an hour as its minimal horsepower gave us all it had.  We never attempted to pass a car – it was not an option.  With the smallest Chevy motor available this beaut still only got 12 miles to the gallon. Thankfully gas guzzling wasn’t too hurtful as gas (and there was only one kind at the pump) was 19 cents a gallon.

Another Sunday arrived and after church the following conversation was repeated once again.  Dad said, “Will hon, where to?”  My mother’s standard reply as I guess she too would have rather gone home and ironed stuff – “Oh, I don’t know?”  And we zoomed away at 12 miles an hour building eventually to our Sunday cruising speed.  

“How about Bridgeton Zoo?”  Yikes not again I thought to myself.  We had been there at least 1000 times to see the every growing population of white tailed deer and two very tired raccoon who hated being up in the daytime.  My mother replied “gee let’s get some custard instead …that would be nice…" (Muffled yawn).  And off we went to the “Blinker” custard stand.

The Blinker was new and it offered two flavors of a new confection just introduced to our area – soft ice cream, called custard for some strange reason.  To me custard was not frozen and it came in a bowl, was a lot like bread pudding.   I ordered vanilla as always.  (An example of my standard of sophistication in those days)

And then the drive torture was over.  

My dad had gotten his need to ride around aimlessly out of his system for this week.  Sunday dinner lay ahead for us and another family tradition – the aroma of my grandmother-baked chicken filled the house and I settled down in the back yard with my transistor radio and listened to the Phils game until our dinner was ready (the only dinner for the week as on weekdays we had supper exactly at 5 PM)