Cars

The first car my dad owned, at age thirty-two, was a twelve-year-old ’39 Plymouth. Had he even been able to afford one before then there was no need for an automobile in New York City where he was born and had grown up. Now, for five years, with wife and son he lived in a New England city of a couple hundred thousand but for the extended family in New York, none of whom had ever traveled north, he lived in “the country.” My folks did not have much money and the old Plymouth, stripped down, was all they could manage. With a floor mounted gearshift and tattered seats, the car ran well enough to get around town but they did not trust it to drive the two hundred miles for our yearly visit to New York. We took the train.

In 1955 when I was nine years old my dad had saved enough to replace what he and my mom called the old jalopy with a brand-new Ford Fairlane. When it came to cars he held on tightly to his money. It was the least expensive model, two doors, and no accessories. He celebrated the fact it had a heater and defroster. He did finally buy a radio on the aftermarket and had it installed thereby saving about ten dollars.

He drove his new automobile to New York, the three of us on something of an adventure, at least it seemed so to me. We went along state roads through small towns and past large tobacco sheds. Finally, we arrived and parked where my grandparents had saved a spot; right in front of their tiny First Avenue store that had for years supported them and my dad and his sister a penny or a nickel at a time by selling newspapers, magazines, comics, penny candies and the offerings of a diminutive soda fountain.

Uncles, aunts, cousins and other assorted family came by and gathered at the store to see us as they always did when we visited. I was, as always, a bit overwhelmed by so many folks, young, ancient, and in between speaking loudly, yelling it seemed to me, with that typical first and second generation New Yawk accent. I stayed to one side, enjoying the products of the soda fountain and reading Uncle Scrooge and other Disney comics. One after another the relatives looked at and admired “Bennie’s” new car while my dad extolled the virtues of a Ford product, and proudly so. I felt pretty good about it myself.

As the years passed and my folks did better financially, they were able to afford a modestly comfortable though not affluent life. That made no difference to my dad who would hold onto his cars for several years, seeing no need to trade in, or up, every couple of years. He continued to purchase the least expensive model and never added options or accessories He never financed an automobile, instead saving until he had enough to buy his next car. His tight grip on his money, so far as automobiles, did not weaken.

Eventually my mom learned to drive. My dad taught her. While I was never in the car during those lessons more than once they returned with a scowl on my dad’s face, my mom silent as he went off to get the Maalox. One day, she burst into the house radiant after a lesson to proudly announce she had driven “all the way” to the end of our street – a distance of two blocks.

Sometime in the early 1960s after my mom had finally earned her driver’s license we became a two car family. Still, for her as well, my dad always bought the least expensive model and continued to see no need for such as automatic transmission, power steering, air conditioning, or any other option.

Even after I was grown and on my own, and my folks had become even more financially secure they, meaning my still frugal dad, continued to buy modest no-frills automobiles. Certain features such as automatic transmission and the like were now standard equipment but options were still avoided.

“What do I need it for?”

My dad had already entered his seventies when I visited one day. He had bought a new car and happily, proudly, showed me all the features. Not only was it not the least expensive model, but it was loaded with options! He delighted in showing me this and demonstrating that. I celebrated his happiness with him and shared his joy over the various gadgets, geegaws, and doohickeys.

Of course I was surprised at this change in his lifelong approach to cars and asked him what had caused him to decide after all these years to indulge himself with an automobile that offered much more than the basics.

“Well, it’s probably the last car I’m ever going to buy so I figured what the heck.”

That was a response that for me came not out of left field but from well beyond the ballpark and caused me to figuratively, and perhaps literally, stand silent with my mouth open, slack jawed and speechless.

Finally I asked, “What do you mean? Is something wrong?”

“No, I’m fine. So’s your mother. I’m just being realistic at my age. Chances are it’s my last car.”

There was no more to say. The implication of his mortality, of a real limit to his life was something I had not had to confront before. He had always been there, a constant, a permanence. It was disquieting, upsetting. Yet he had not seemed at all upset with his recognition of reality. It simply was. Of course he was correct. At his age it might well be the last automobile he would buy. If after all these years, a lifetime, he finally had a reason to go beyond the spartan that was good.

I was happy that my folks were well, that my dad had given himself a treat. He had certainly earned it. He seemed more comfortable with the recognition of his – and that would mean my mom’s as well – limited lifespan than I was. I could not forget what he had said and many times, really whenever I saw his fancy car, would recall that brief explanation and feel a certain sadness, and almost a wistfulness for those earlier times in inexpensive automobiles when my dad was in the prime of his life.

My dad drove that special car, enjoyed that automobile, for a number of years. However, he had been wrong, though barely so. He finally replaced it with another car, returning again to his habit of buying an inexpensive model without options. He had had his fun, I guess. He drove that final car very little, then not at all. It was sold.

Image by Lars-Göran Lindgren Sweden CC BY-SA 3.0 Via Wikimedia (Cropped image)