I saw this second-generation, 1978 – ’79 Ford Bronco on my way to the drug store after deboarding my CTA Red Line train back to my neighborhood after work a few years back. I want to state from the beginning that the disaster in question had nothing to do with the Bronco itself.
When I see this particular generation Bronco, it doesn’t remind me vaguely of something sordid from the 1990’s involving a slow-speed freeway chase between a police department and a retired football star. Instead, I’m transported to a childhood trip from Flint, Michigan in the family Plymouth Volaré to a Ford dealership in Detroit in 1979. I was about four and a half years old.
Our family had planned to move to my father’s country, Liberia, in 1980, to be near Dad’s side of our extended family. Dad was a professor, so I assume today that his plan was to teach in one of the universities in the capitol city of Monrovia. We had made all kinds of preparations – listing our house for sale, saying our goodbyes, getting our affairs in order.
My folks had started me in Kindergarten a year early, at age four, anticipating some adjustments we’d be making to life in that part of western Africa. Below is a picture of me taken spring ’79, doing my best Clint Eastwood with a water pistol next to my beloved Schwinn, probably from right around the time my parents told me we’d eventually be moving to Liberia. That’s our ’77 Volaré coupe in our garage behind me.
The part I had struggled with the most was saying goodbye to the family, friends, places and things I loved here in the good, old, familiar United States. I was an American kid, and I loved my McDonald’s, Toys ‘R Us, Matchbox cars, Lucky Charms cereal and Saturday morning cartoons. And when would I get to see my (maternal) Grandma & Grandpa and their pretty, peaceful farm in rural Ohio again? I took comfort in the fact that I had my two brothers with whom to share what would certainly be an adventure.
There was the matter of purchasing a tough, reliable vehicle that would be able to withstand the mountainous terrain of upcountry Liberia, with no paved roads for miles and miles. Pathways that were often sloping, narrow, and/or muddy with large, slippery ruts carved by torrential downpours during rainy season were the rule and not the exception. It wasn’t going to be just a romp through the swamp.
Neither Dad nor Mom knew a whole lot about vehicles and in hindsight, it makes sense to me now why they had decided that a big, American, Ford truck-based Bronco would be just what the Dennises needed to navigate the paved streets of Monrovia and the rugged terrain of upcountry. In theory, the Bronco would be well-suited for both worlds, as a no-nonsense machine with a touch of civility and room for us all. Most of the folks we knew in Liberia who were living away from the capitol city were driving J40 Toyota Land Cruisers, with only a handful of J60s being driven by the more affluent and missionaries.
I remember the Bronco we looked at being beige or tan, with the white roof section on the back. It seemed like a very nicely-appointed truck – in my mind’s eye, I think I remember seing an AM/FM radio in the dash. Mom said it even had A/C, and that it was a factory-ordered vehicle. We ended up not buying this Bronco in Detroit that day, much to the chagrin of the salesman, according to Mom. Parents shield their kids from certain, unpleasant things, and apparently, this salesman really gave my parents the business in his office, rightly or wrongly, for not making this purchase. Water under the bridge.
We were mere months away from getting ready to leave our old house in Flint (pictured above, in February 2011) which my parents had sold, when Liberia went into one of the worst, longest-lasting civil wars in its history beginning on Saturday, April 12, 1980. In the interest of avoiding politics (which is far outside the scope and intent of this forum, and probably just boring to some), I’ll summarize by saying that Monrovia, Liberia’s then-modern capitol city, was basically reduced to ruin, and that finding a new vehicle to navigate Liberian roads was no longer a concern for the Dennis family. What’s true is that if we had moved at that time, it’s about 98% certain I wouldn’t be alive to type this today.
We did eventually live for a year in my grandfather’s ancestral village of Vahun near the border of the neighboring country, Sierra Leone, several years later when I was in the fourth grade (1983 – ’84). The picture above is of me with some of my friends and fellow Mende tribesmen, with a toy plane my buddy, Saa, had made for me. I rode in many F40 and F60 Toyota Land Cruisers during that eleven month period, and to this day, the sight of any old Land Cruiser can transport me back to the days of thinking it was actually pretty fun to be riding in one as it slid, basically sideways, down a slippery, muddy mountain “road” at what felt like a thirty degree downward slope.
I thought of Dad when I saw this Bronco. I thought of his crushed dream of returning to live in the place he considered home. I also thought of how much differently my life would have turned out during a time and in a place when and where this Ford would have been a regular sight for me. I believe that everything happens (or doesn’t happen) for a reason, and also that I’m exactly where, what and who I’m supposed to be, flaws and all. My father has since passed on, but the sight of an example of this two-year-only (1978 – ’79) style of Ford Bronco SUV will probably always remind me of a childhood road trip to the Motor City to test drive a truck our family ultimately didn’t buy, for a permanent move we never made.
Bronco photos as taken by the author in Edgewater, Chicago, Illinois.
Monday, November 5, 2012.
What a bittersweet story, Joseph. I’m glad you didn’t move.
Must have been really sad for your father to see his homeland fall into such turmoil. And so interesting that the sight of a car can spur such memories from a time so long ago.
Will, thank you so much, and I also can’t imagine… One gift I’ve never taken for granted is my insane memory for small details. 🙂
Neat story Joseph. I am glad eventually there were peaceful times in which to get to know both sides of your extended family.
I think the Bronco could have coped with the terrain in Liberia and being new would not be in need of parts. I wonder if the unleaded fuel requirement would be the downfall. I imagine most of the Land Cruisers there were diesel.
Thanks, John. And I often had the same question about the Ford’s potential longevity in upcountry. In Vahun, the missionary family up the hill appeared to be able to do light-duty repairs on their FJ60 Land Cruiser and keep it running, and their cohorts in neighboring villages probably also provided parts or labor support. But I probably saw only a handful of Fords of *any* kind, including in Monrovia.
While traveling in more remote areas, I remember being haunted by the sight of mildewy carcasses of miscellaneous, orphaned vehicles (a VW Bus comes to mind) that looked like they had broken down in unfortunate places with no way to fix them.
I’m pretty sure the Land Cruisers were gas-powered, as was our Honda generator we used for electricity off and on. Our lanterns burned kerosene.
A very well written and touching story…thanks for sharing!
+1 on this.
Nice story, you are a very good writer.
A great story, and a great night shot of the Bronco.
One of your very best pieces, Joseph. Every car does indeed have a story. I would never for a moment thought of Liberia when seeing one of these, but I will now.
That must have been a terrible time for your father, being so close to going home, then finding that there was really no home to go home to.
I wonder how this big Ford Bronco would have fared in Liberia. I have heard reports all over the map about how these fared. Some were tough as nails, others needed regular pep talks at the local Ford dealer. Probably not many Ford dealers in Liberia.
Jim, thank you so much. As I was mentioning to John C. above, the Bronco’s durability might have been a craps-shoot. But it might have been fine. To think of it, I don’t ever remember seeing *any* Ford dealerships in Monrovia. I remember feeling all homesick whenever I saw an American-branded car. It was all Toyotas, Mazdas, Brisas, Ladas, even an FSO Polonez or two! I wish I had been taking photos back then, but I was 8-9. Some of those cars are etched in my mind, like the wrecked and gutted Austin Allegro sitting in a median of a well-traveled road in Monrovia, with its doors ripped off.
Wow, that’s quite a story. Great writing!
Thanks for sharing this chapter of your life, which fortunately wasn’t ever written.
The pull back to the home country for immigrants can be very powerful. In the first few years after moving to the US, my mother would often say if anything happens to your father, we’re moving right back to Innsbruck That generated ambivalent feelings, because there were times I almost did wish something would happen to my father, but I didn’t want to move back to Austria. And it made me realize how much my mother didn’t want to move, and how hard it was on her.
Thanks, Paul. It’s true that until maybe the last ten years of my dad’s life, he still talked about wanting to return to his home country, if not to live by that point, but just to go back. He stayed in touch with many of his countrymen well into his 70s, but with those numbers dwindling as time passed.
Great read! I second everyone else’s notion that you are a great writer; thanks for sharing a wonderful story with us.
Wow, Joseph! What a story to be able to tell.
My grandparents actually owned a ’78 Bronco like the one you describe – tan/gold with the white top. They lived in rural southwest Michigan (just off M-62 between Cassopolis and Dowagiac, in case you know that part of the state), where they needed 4 wheel drive and sometimes even a plow attachment for the front of their truck to get out in the winter. It did that job very well and was very reliable for them. They owned it until they passed away.
Thanks, Jim. I do know exactly where Dowagiac is! I pass through Dowagiac every time I ride the Amtrak between Chicago and Flint. It’s looks like a charming area. I like looking at the cars from the train as I pass through certain areas of Illinois, Indiana and Michigan.
I remember well seeing the Amtrak trains running through Dowagiac when I was a kid.
My father’s dad really did move back to the old country. Pop was born in Brainerd, Minnesota, where his father had a farm. But his father decided that things were maybe better back in Denmark, so he sold the farm and moved the family back to Jutland. It only took a few years for everyone to realize that this had been a mistake, and they re-emigrated, this time to upstate New York, where my grandfather then lived the rest of his life.
For this reason, stories like yours, Joseph, always intrigue me.
Glad to hear you didn’t leave a little sooner and get caught up in the mayhem. Great story.
Joseph ;
You say a lot with few words , very good writing here .
I hope to never have to move back Home (New England) although I do like to visit .
Glad you’re here with us , nice to see you eventually made it to Vahun where it looks like you were happy .
-Nate
Nate, thank you so much. The crazy thing is that while I was only 8 – 9 years old, and very homesick sometimes, I realized at that time that this was not an experience that many kids my age and classmates got to experience. I recognized that life in Vahun was something special, and I think it made my dad happy and proud to see his American-born family enjoying life there.
It is true Joseph , traveling broadens your horizons in many ways that Young Folks don’t realize until much later in life .
We were like Gypsies , constantly moving around New England until I went Way Out West in 1969 .
I made sure my young Son traveled far and wide , not only with me and his Mother but off to Guatemala for Summers with his Grandparents beginning when he was 6 Y.O. and surely didn’t want to go but when he returned he was jazzed about seeing new places & faces , wanted to go away every Summer from then on .
-Nate
Wow, this was a terrific story. You are indeed correct about things happening for a reason.
Wow, what a wonderful piece! Living in your dad’s ancestral village in Liberia must have been an amazing experience!
The old phrase, “you can’t go back” is patently true. When you’ve been abroad for many years, your experiences make you a different, but better, person. Problem is, all your friends and family have not had the benefit of living abroad, so you’ll have little in common to them. When I returned to the little hick town where I grew up, my friends were still talking about pick up trucks, chainsaws and woodstoves. They were older, fatter and the same. I was also older, but skinnier, and different.
@ Canucknucklehead :
‘ How ya gonna keep ’em down on the farm once they’ve seen gay Paree ? ‘.
So true .
I went back many times and was amazed at how provincial it all seemed .
Travel is fatal to hatred and bigotry .
-Nate
Thanks, everyone, for the kind words and for taking the time to read this post. I feel sometimes that my desire to move back to Flint at some point is very similar to Dad’s desire to move back to Liberia. Both places have changed vastly from their respective halcyon years, but like Dad’s love for Liberia, I still find much to love about Flint, which is the place I consider “home”. From what I’ve read, things are moving in the right direction in both Flint and Liberia. Flint may not have all the car factory jobs and people it used to, but I read positive news stories regularly about new developments. Perhaps one day, it can happen for me.
I have to agree that this is some of your best writing, but it has also ocurred to me why I enjoy all of your photography.
In addition to documenting some interesting cars, you do an excellent job of showing off the city of Chicago. From midday in the Loop, to the dusk & evening shots in the neighborhoods, your shots are almost as good as a visit.
Extraordinary recollections Joseph. Thanks.
Really a wonderful piece of writing, and fortunate for you and your family that it was only a “what might have been”!
This reminds me of the time I was offered a position as a translator at the American embassy in Moscow right out of college. Just as I was about to send in all the paperwork, I turned on the TV one evening. It was August of 1991. Tanks in Red Square, nobody knows what’s going on. There went my diplomatic career…