Three days after our psychedelic nocturnal arrival in America, my family arrived at our final destination: Iowa City. The transition was a rude awakening: from a fantastic dream straight into a bad nightmare. We’d traded Austria’s alpine vistas for New York’s towering skyscrapers and wide freeways, only to watch the World of Tomorrow evaporate in the blazing August sun, replaced by endless corn fields and arrow-straight gravel roads. I sought and found spiritual consolation in the air conditioned GM dealerships, having traded the stone Church of the Sacred Heart for the glass Temple of Saint Mark of Excellence.
I landed in the US at a critical turning point in Detroit’s styling evolution. The Harley Earl era of gaudy fins and excess chrome was ending, and GM’s new styling chief, Bill Mitchell, was just beginning to exert his artistic influence. The 1960 Corvair was astonishingly clean and lean. The full size 1961 GM cars were smaller, lighter and more graceful, having shed several hundred pounds of fins and bling. I became a seven year old Mitchell acolyte.
I covered every square inch of my new bedroom walls with the dreamy icons of his handiwork, thanks to Life magazine. The Wide-Track Pontiac ads rendered by Art Fitzpatrick and Van Kaufman were the standout; the automotive equivalent of vintage “Vargas Girl” Playboy paintings. I became a chronic sinner, mentally-masturbating at the eye-candy as I fell asleep.
Having been car-less in Austria, I looked forward to our first set of wheels with high expectations. I was hoping for a replication of the his-and-hers matching navy blue 1960 Pontiac Bonneville hardtop and wagon sitting in the driveway across the street. My father, who somehow forgot to consult me, brought home a dull, plump 1954 Ford sedan. On frigid winter mornings, Mom used to pray for divine intervention that St. Henry’s elderly sedan would start. The big Ford’s main compensation: an ample rear sofa upon which the four of us kids could fight.
A year later, in an inspired display of paternal sadism, Pop traded in the geriatric blue whale for a barely mid-sized black hair-shirt 1962 Fairlane sedan. For the coup-de-grace, he bought transparent smooth plastic seat covers, as an additional opportunity to speed our time atoning for our sins in Purgatory. With his hyper-sensitivity to drafts, he barely cracked the windows. Trapped in that stuffy, cramped torture chamber, summer road trips made Abu Grhaib look like the Ritz. Wearing the mini-shorts of the day, we literally had to peel each other off those searing seats.
In 1964, I unwittingly co-opted my family to fulfill my spiritual need for the auto-Hajj. The 6.75 of us (Mom was seven months pregnant) drove three sweltering August days to NYC to join the teeming hordes of hot and sweaty pilgrims in circling (counterclockwise) and entering that most hallowed car-Ka’aba: GM’s Futurama exhibit at the 1964 Worlds Fair. Sacred vows prevent me from revealing the other-worldly experiences of those precious hours in that heavenly temple. Suffice it to say, I was now fully initiated in the cult of St. Mark of Excellence.
On the Sabbath, I would take the wheezing (but GM!) bus downtown to the local Chevrolet/Buick/Cadillac dealer for my weekly worship. I gladly spent the better part of the day just hanging around– especially on summer weekdays when the service shop was open. I sat for hours in devotion, preferably in the magnificent white and tan ’63 Riviera chapel, facing the altar of its heavily chromed and jeweled dashboard, with a stack of sacred scriptures in my lap.
Photographic memories of those heavy-stock bibles flash before me– especially the Cadillac books with the onionskin protecting the impeccable color plates. And like a Sunday-schoolboy reciting the Ten Commandments, I can still regurgitate every GM powertrain detail, including name (“Turbo-Thrift”), horsepower, bore and stroke, compression ratio, camshaft type and carburetion.
The annual high-holy days occurred each fall, when the dealers unveiled the new objects of veneration. Days before, I would poke around the dealership, hoping to catch an uncovered glimpse of the revelations to come. On the appointed day, a pious crowd would gather to partake in communion of hot chocolate and doughnuts. Once the veils were removed, spontaneous hymns of praise to the high-priest Mitchell rang out into the crisp autumn air.
Having passed the test of sitting four straight hours in veneration in the Riviera (I was allowed to alternate between the front and back seats) I became an official altar boy. That allowed me to freely wander the sacristy, where the religious objects were serviced and prepared. I considered cars to be living and breathing entities, and the shop reminded me of the hospital where Dad worked. Cars were poked, probed, and elevated. Bodily fluids were drained and oral medications administered. Watching the mechanic hook up the enormous Sun Engine Analyzer was analogous to the EEG tests my father monitored for crucial brain functioning.
Observing my favorite priest pull the engine out of a ’55 Chevy and disassemble it right in front of me was almost too much, though. A painful memory of having witnessed a hog being eviscerated flashed before me. Watching that Chevy’s small-block heart and soul reduced to piles of parts was the unraveling of a deep mystery and my first religious crisis. But hardly my last.
That black and white photo of the dealer up top immediately tapped into the anticipation I felt each August as a young boy awaiting Septembers launch of the new models.
I recall driving by a dealers with my Dad and craning my neck to catch a glimpse of those glamorous, shiny cars gracing the showroom floors. I couldn’t wait to grow up and be able to walk into a dealer to buy the car of my dreams.
In those years of the 60′s and early 70′s the Impala was the best seller…and each year it became a game, waiting to spot the first new Impala on the road.
Too bad young people today who may be interested in cars won’t have the same experience…most cars are utterly boring, in appearance anyway, and new cars seem to come out all year long.
That exact building is still in Eugene, and has been empty (at least in the front) for many, many years now. Friends and I have long thought it would make a good concert/show venue, as it is less than a half mile from U of O student housing.
I too was a devotee of GM until it was determined that the blood of Oldsmobile needed to be spilled to appease and feed the remaining Gods. Oldsmobile had committed no sins that I could discern, and certainly no sins that warranted the ultimate punishment of death. I turned away from the one true American faith that day… and after insult was added to injury and my Cutlass was stolen and stripped… I bought a car that frugal old St. Henry himself would have appreciated, a 1997 Ford Escort station wagon. Thrifty and utilitarian. My next purchase one of the last of the 10th generation F-150s with a fairly unchanged body style and powertrain for nearly 10 continuous years (something St. Henry would have appreciated.) I continue in my heresy and it will take much effort by the gods themselves to return me to the fold.
I can remember like it was yesterday, a cool October day when I saw my first 63 Parisienne. My dad,some of his buddies,my 12 year old brother and myself all looking at the showroom. The dealer had just pulled the cover off of the most beautifull vehicle ever created, in my 8 year old judgement. Even now,some, nearly 50 years later I can see my dad and smell his old spice. “Mikey”….. {believe it or not I’ve been MIkey my whole life}”…… Mikey”….said my dad” I’m going to buy that car”…..I didn’t understand at the time the Parisienne was beyond my dads means. However the blue Laurention we took home was just as cool.
We had a 53 Ford much like yours but the Mainline 2 door. Flathead 6, three on the tree. Dad got over 100,000 miles out of it. Rare back than. Great memory
Nothing more beautiful than gazing at the machines from back before liberalism destroyed America. A real testament to the beauty and promise of their era. None of the hideous bloated government mandated monstrosities of today are fit to be called an automobile in comparison.
Ben, Ben, Ben, no need to turn an innocent web site devoted to automobile history enthusiasts into something else. There are plenty of other outlets to serve your brand of patriotism.
My advice…turn off Faux, get out of the house, and find yourself a life partner that will bring you happiness.
The subject here is cars.
I am so damned tired of hearing ‘liberalism’ used as an invective. The cleaner air we enjoy, the disappearance of eyesores like rivers that catch fire and junkyards full of unrecycled crap, the lack of fear that our very food might be tainted and make us sick, the fact that we can cohabitate with our someone without fear of being fired or arrested, and the civil rights that we enjoy are all due to ‘liberalism’. The USA that the conservatives pine for was toxic and needed to change. I hate to feed the troll, but I needed to vent.
ben5, threadshit your political opinions elsewhere.
MarcKyle64, around the same time the clean air and safety regs came, the GMO (genetically modified) food revolution started and one example that shows that we might still have to worry about what is on your plate tonight is that to make a certain nut resistant to something, scientists took part of a gene out and replaced it with a fish gene so even though you have “lower” chances of food poisoning now, sour chances for allergic reactions with foods are MUCH higher now and statistics can prove me right.
I’m sorry but I just had to get it out of me.
Warmest regards to all,
Alfasaab99.
ben5,
I join caljn and MarcKyle64 when I say,”Go peddle yer papers somewhere else”. When I log onto CC, it”s with the purpose of getting away from political bickering!! Having said that,I too,remember the anticipation of the new model year.I knew where all the dealers in town kept the new cars.I’d ride my bike around to the lots on Sundays(they were closed,remember blue laws?),lean the bike against the fence and climb up on the seat.I can clearly recall the first time I saw a ’59 Chevy,late October,1958. I thought the Martians had landed! Pity,I just can’t see any kid today doing the same thing to catch a glimpse of the new Hyundai Sonata.
Great religious references, I found them clever and amusing. My heritage being Bavarian and Croatian (and having Bosnian relatives), all of the references have a delicious double-entendre that had me laughing out loud. Hard to explain to my Protestant Scotch-Irish wife… You have a good point, this hobby of ours IS like a little sect or cult. Another thing I was laughing at was the non-A/C Fairlaine, we too, had an austere ’62, after the much better equipped ’57 irritated my father for the last time.
I’m 48, so by the time I can remember much, the annual new car changeover was not the spectacular it had been. By that time, a new large shopping mall had been built in our area (not a plaza- that was so 1959), and the new car dealers that had been an easy 20 minute walk from my house were now on the outer fringes… by the mall. However, whenever we did go to the dealership for something or another, I would invariably wander into the showroom and sample all of the wares. In our case, we were a Mercury family, so I’d slide into everything from the Capri to whatever version of the Mark was being peddled at that time. It was usually the highlight of my week when that happened.
Then I became aware of girls…
I too often observe the long vacant GM dealership building , pictured here in black and white, as I pass by. I think it would make, maybe because of it’s shape, a great skateboard store. Some of my earliest memories of Eugene are of guys riding short skinny hard wheeled skateboards on sidewalks in Skinner’s Butte Park in the mid 60′s. I was then being blessed with riding in either a dark green ’50 Chevy two door sedan (a little longer than a coupe, also not a fastback), or a white ’62 VW Kombi bus. The bare model , literally bare gray metal inside, it was not a passenger model as it had no seats. Us kids sat on the engine cover , restrained by a seatbelt Dad installed from one side to the other, where we could listen to the purr of the little engine that could, and on cold days, warm up from it’s heat.
Great article! As a boy growing up in San Rafael (11 miles north on U.S. 101 up from San Francisco), come the last week of August; 1st week of September, I’d ride my bike to all the (domestic) dealerships – in the late 60s/early 70s most of them in San Rafael were on West and East Francisco Boulevard – and ride around to the back fenced in lot areas to see if the newest ‘next years’ models were desposited out back.
Fords at Ames Ford/Wayne Cross Ford usually were first. I’d see the new models usually show up in late August. Sometimes, I’d get lucky and if it were after school, I might see them coming down off the trucks. By the late 60s/early 70s when I was of age where I could ride a bike around all over the place by myself, the only two dealerships downtown were Bianco Motors (Pontiac/Cadillac/Ramber – AMC and eventually Honda), which was on Fourth Street and Bugna/Marin-Bay Lincoln Mercury on Third Street. Remember viewing my first 1967 Firebird (around February ’67) while getting shoes at a shoe store with my Mom a block away from Biancos.
We had in our family two Bianco Pontiacs – the ’61 Catalina Safari wagon and my first car (from a lady down the street) – a ’61 Catalina Sedan with only two optional accessories – the piece-of-crap three speed RotoMatic Hydra-Matic and a heater. No power steering – no power brakes – 230hp 2bbl 389.
The very first time I saw a CRX, it was through the open service dept door of Bianco on 4th. I have NO idea why I was walking on that end of 4th street though. It was long before I lived in SR, and not a part of town I often visited. It a Bananas at Large music store now. Just not the same.
It was at Jack L. Hunt down the street where I saw the twin-engine CRX for sale many years ago (and many years later). If I could have afforded it, I would have bought it in a heartbeat.
As a kind reminder to all of us out there in comment land on this – the most EXCELLENT of all car sites – this site is about CARS – not about who is politically right/wrong/left/right/middle/up/down or whatever. Blame (spilled milk) transporation-wise can be laid at the doorstep of all political affiliations who were in charge of various administrative posts locally or nationally throughout the years. What was then is now history – what may be is heresay, rumor and not yet written in black and white or stone.
Let us enjoy what we drove, the machines we wanted to have driven, what we now drive or want to drive and what we like or dislike about said cars – the CARS.