An Op-Ed Column from November 24, 2010
Pontiacs–history. Oldsmobiles–gone. Gas-guzzlers–outlaws. The auto industry needs a ton of changes, pronto. But, I fondly remember the age of cool cars. I grew up in Michigan.
Denying that the mitten state is intertwined with the car industry is to deny nature’s mixture of hydrogen and oxygen to make water. As a youth my friends and I waited excitedly for September when dealers would yank the sheet off or color in the silhouette revealing the new car models. We stared in awe through such innovations as wrap around windshields, dual headlights, and of course, fins of every dimension. There were also the oddities like the hard top folding into the trunk and the ill-fated Edsel. We could identify year and model of every car.
Upon reaching our teens, cars became an obsessive pastime. First, there were the ones we actually drove. My best friend’s mom had a 1952 Studebaker we drove all over the countryside. We’d often pool our pocketful of change to buy enough gas to get us through the evening. The Michigan winters were full of opportunities to spin out on icy roads and test the drivers’ education theories of tapping the brakes and turning into the slide. Of course we had to do the opposite to see if one method worked better than the other. Thankfully, the only casualties were a couple of mailboxes and a fence post.
My ride, when I got a chance to back out of my own driveway, was Mom’s 1954 Ford station wagon. It was an eyesore then, but I’d give my savings account to have it today–it had wooden sides!
Then, there was that glorious day when my steady girlfriend’s mom decided their family needed an upgrade. She traded the faded red, 1955 Buick sedan for a brand-new, 1962 Chevrolet Impala convertible; sea foam green with a white top and leather seats. I’d drive the station wagon over for our dates and, bless her heart; Mom would cede me the keys to the shiny new ragtop. When we broke up, I’m not sure if I missed Sue or that car more.
I bought my first fifty-dollar car, a 1948, black Chevy in 1965. It soon blew an engine rod and was replaced with a 1959, baby blue Ford convertible. With all caution (and sense) aside, my fraternity brothers and I would let a pound or two of air out of each tire, which would cup nicely over railroad tracks. Then we could idle down the tracks on a slow moving joyride without having to steer or accelerate.
Sadly, there was the black letter day in 1968 when I went Benedict Arnold and traded my 1961, Ford Falcon in on a Datsun (Nissan in its infancy) sedan. It was a box on wheels, easy on gas, and what I could afford. Little did I know by doing so I sprung a leak in the dike before it became a full-fledged flood of foreign autos. That was the beginning of the end of the sweetheart relationship between Michigan boys and their cars.
But the dream was not over quite yet. There were the cars of pop songs and daydreams. Some of those cars showed up on my radar. We waited excitedly for several nerve wracking weeks for a friend’s 1968, Pontiac GTO to be delivered. It did not disappoint. Another friend’s Chevrolet Corvair Monza Spyder was the best even though it was pronounced “unsafe at any speed” due to the rear engine and its propensity to explode upon impact. I donated two dollars to a fraternity at the University of Michigan in 1966 to drive a Shelby Cobra around their circle driveway at a speed not exceeding ten miles per hour and loved every second. Finally, spring meant socializing by driving our back road loops near Olivet College with a mate who had returned from Vietnam sporting a 1968, poppy orange, 289, Mustang convertible. (Sigh).
I know the era is over. I know the auto industry has been stubborn about considering fuel efficiency and power alternatives. I understand the reality, and I accept it. Luckily, I still have those sweet memories that cannot be tarnished by greenhouse gas emissions or a downward spiraling gas tank needle. Good luck to General Motors and their pending IPO.
