Little GTO
This is a story of a boy and his car . . . two boys, actually, one being me. Tangentially, it is a story of 58,220 boys, but that will be explained as we proceed. For now, the focus is on that one boy, who was my brother, and his car, which was a 1966 Pontiac GTO. How he came by the Little GTO is a long story, and it began in a little Idaho town in the mid-sixties that has been referenced before in my COAL series. https://www.curbsideclassic.com/cars-of-a-lifetime/simca-1204-stranger-in-a-strange-land/
My brother and I hailed from a place high in the Rockies (6000 feet for those who are counting) bordering a large lake whose main claim to fame, aside from it’s turquoise splendor, was a purported creature in the mode of the Loch Ness Monster. No one seems to know for certain where the legend came from; some claimed that it originated with the Shoshone Tribe, whose homeland my ancestors acquired by the usual means. Others laid the origin of the tale at the feet of of our great uncle who had a reputation for convoluted pranks, including writing messages in invisible ink on the eggs that he sold to the locals. Once boiled, writing appeared out of the void, frightening some segment of the population while bemusing the others.
Whatever the explanation, I never personally witnessed said monster, despite years of looking, so odds are it is either legendary or defunct. Other exotic creatures in our little community were real enough, including moose, bears, elk, and other critters that thrived in the high mountain valley. One of the tasks assigned to my brother and me was to keep watch over any domesticated stock that were assigned to flourish and fatten in time for market, as our father owned a cattle ranch. At times the question of who was actually in charge was posed as some male members of the Hereford breed were perfectly willing to assert their dominance and would charge even in the absence of a red cape waved in front of them. Being chased by a quarter ton of beef is actually enough to give you religion, even in the absence of any recorded cases of someone being caught and trampled, which lends credence to the suspicion that the bulls in question were messing with us for their own amusement.
By the time I turned twelve, however, all such hijinks came to an end as my father grew tired of low prices on the literal stock exchange together with the swords crossed with the federal government over the issue of range rights. In retrospect, the government had good reason to limit the number of cattle sh*tting in the clear mountain streams and trampling the native vegetation, but of course concerns about actually earning a livelihood were uppermost in Dad’s mind at the time. In any event, the ranch was sold and my family moved lock, stock, and barrel across the valley to a railroad town, population 3000, which was ten times larger than the village we left behind.
All this occurred as I was twelve and my brother fifteen. He’d had just been elected president of his class at the local high school. Uprooting us meant that we were tossed into the milieu of a new school and a different social pattern. Well, as they say, kids are adaptable, and in the end we adapted each after his own fashion. For me, it meant a chance to buy my first electric guitar and join a band. For my brother, it meant being let off his leash to some extent. Now, my closest sibling was an interesting case: he was one of those effortlessly brilliant people who is perpetually annoying to those of us with lesser gifts. Aside from possessing a penchant for mathematics that totally eluded me, he was also tall (6-4), handsome, and charming. Up to that point he had been a model child, the apple of his parents’ eye, a pliable and unquestioning son who did his duty and didn’t complain.
Our move, or maybe it was the zeitgeist, seemed to trigger a bout of intellectual and spiritual turmoil, or maybe he just fell in with what was then termed ‘the wrong crowd’. At least that’s what the general parental consensus was. Again, looking back over the span of years it seems evident that someone with his intellect would naturally want to push the boundaries of convention and explore what was out there in the much wider world. Maybe if he had displayed that kind of attitude before my parents would have been less concerned and less confrontational. Who knows?
Madison Avenue paradox.
In any event, he found an outlet by procuring a job at the local grocery store, which allowed him to save up for a car that no doubt offered a certain degree of freedom–at least of movement–all while maintaining his 4.0 G.P.A. I don’t actually recall when that first car appeared, but the other particulars I remember clearly enough: it was a 1963 Chevrolet Impala SuperSport, gold, with a 283 V8 and four speed transmission. He probably would have preferred a 327, or even a 409 (she’s. so fine), but they must have been relatively rare and, of course, more expensive. As it was, the 283 had enough oomph to get him in trouble with the law, and he soon began to collect speeding tickets and a more than passing acquaintance with the local constabulary.
The SuperSport
I likely never drove the Impala much, even though I got my first driver’s license at the age of fourteen, given that we were residents of Idaho where the argument went that kids hardly in their teens and barely able to see over the steering wheel were competent enough to pilot a two ton Detroit automobile with massive external dimensions, marginal brakes and questionable handling, ostensibly so they could be allowed to drive tractors to and fro on the local byways. Needless to say, as a newly minted fourteen year old I heartily concurred with this flawed notion and actually found myself doing the yeoman’s share of the driving on a summer trip to Southern California the summer after I was awarded my license. I should note that Dad did have some misgivings when it came time to drive on the California freeways, where I was relieved temporarily of my duties.
The Kid’s had a four speed manual, not a Powerglide.
All that aside, I was old enough to appreciate the Impala SS, not because it was the end-all performance car circa 1967, but because the SS on the fender did lend it some cachet, as did the four speed manual, dual exhausts (I may mis-remember this, as authoritative sources insist that they were not an option on the 283), rear speaker between the seat backs in the rear, and the faux engine turned appliqué on the dash. Other than that, memory dims. Whether or not my brother made any engine mods or other gestures toward hot-rodding is lost in the mists of time. Suffice to say that no matter the rated horsepower, it was enough to get him into some hot water, but at the time speeding tickets were considered to be a rite of passage and we all reaped the whirlwind, although I confess I made it to the ripe old age of 21 before scoring my first moving violation, partly due to dumb luck, partly because I’d spent a chunk of the previous years in Italy, where I had also managed to escape the wrath of the Carabinieri.
Note the speaker nestled in the rear seat back!
Speeding tickets were one thing, but at some point the stakes were elevated when Dad got a call from the county jail, where my brother had spent the night after . . . siphoning a gallon of gas out of a school bus as a prank. This tale reads like something out of Arlo Guthrie’s “Alice’s Restaurant” with a foolish stunt somehow ending with a carload of kids in the slammer with their belts confiscated so they wouldn’t hang themselves in their cells. Officer Obie had nothing over our town cops as they gathered up their self-importance and charged the kids–and our Kid–with an actual crime. For siphoning a gallon of gas as a joke.
Needless to say this situation did not go over well with my father, who was a pillar of the community and unaccustomed to bailing close relatives out of the cellar of the county facilities. Some screws were deemed in need of tightening and restrictions were set on our Kid’s activities. They were mostly ignored. The atmosphere grew icy in our new home and I for one found myself walking on eggshells, trying to maintain a positive presence in both camps. Of course given that the Kid was sixteen and I was all of thirteen, mature thinking wasn’t much of a factor, but I’d grown up with my brother as a sole influence given that my next closest sibling was ten years older than me, and I did not have it in me to abandon him.
The Kid and I were mostly on the same wavelength in many matters in any case, and though he might act out according to whatever demons in his psyche were in ascendance, with me he remained generally even-handed and open. As it was the mid-Sixties, music was our language and for years we’d spent our nights listening to the rock and roll emanating from KOMA out of Oklahoma City, whose 50,000 watt signal reached all the way to our little Idaho town, By the time I was twelve all my pocket money was going for 45’s and LP’s, but I was vastly outspent by the Kid, whose burgeoning auto fund was constantly depleted at the record store. Eventually, I left the record buying to him and spent my money on guitars and amplifiers, but I am still the beneficiary of his taste as I still have his extended collection of LP’s.
Sears Silvertone Twin Twelve: my second ever amp.
Our unsettled situation simmered for a couple of years as the Kid completed high school, finishing up as valedictorian his senior year despite the school principal lobbying for someone without a prison record to represent his hallowed institution. Nevertheless, the honor was his by merit and it was left to him to give the valedictory address at commencement. Additionally, he’d been awarded a four year university scholarship, which tended to ease household tensions somewhat. However, his driver’s license had been suspended after one too many speeding tickets courtesy of the SuperSport, which resulted in an awkward situation as it fell to me to drive him where he needed to go. He had a job on a ranch that summer, cutting, raking, baling, and hauling hay, and moving sprinkler pipe in the early morning hours. Sometimes he persuaded me–I forget by what means–to assist, and so I spent my summer rising at dawn and being feasted on by mosquitoes, but I was happy to be with Kid, and he always kept me entertained . . . we had long, convoluted discussions that always seemed to have a mind of their own and ranged far and wide.
Our Kid, giving his valedictory speech.
I’d turned sixteen by this time and my actual, official job was running the projectors at the local movie theater, which meant I was often up past midnight and had only a few hours of sleep before I was up at dawn to assist the Kid. This did result, though, in one amusing interlude as the Kid’s girlfriend also worked at the theater and I often gave her a lift to and from work in the Jeep Ambulance, referred to in my very first COAL back in the mists of 2022. It so happened that I was giving “AJ” (name withheld to protect the innocent) a ride home sometime after the witching hour when we were unceremoniously pulled over by the town cop. I knew I hadn’t committed any infractions as I was very conscious of minding my ‘P’s’ and ‘Q’s” due to the often tense circumstances at home . . . I hadn’t been stopped by the police since I was thirteen for riding a motorcycle on the street without (obviously) a driver’s license. I rolled down the window and handed my license to the officer without a word; he turned and walked to his squad car where he sat for moment, and then promptly got back out of the car and returned, this time looking me square in the face. “Who the hell are you?” he asked. He thought he’d caught the Kid, apparently, as he recognized the Jeep and even the Kid’s girlfriend. Deflated, he returned my license without a word and waved us off. He’d imagined he had the Kid dead to rights and I’d gone and ruined his evening.
And so, with limited time and means to get in any further trouble, the Kid, his driver’s license restored, went off to college in the fall and things settled down to some degree. He’d drive home some weekends, mostly to see “AJ”, but I imagined that he liked to see me, too. I would hear his car pull in the drive late on a Friday night and listen for him to come down the basement stairs, where he would open my door a crack and peer in to see if I was still awake, as a I always was. If I close my eyes I can still see him, a tall figure highlighted against the shadows. Some things you don’t forget.
One Friday night he was very late getting home and I didn’t hear him come in. I found out why the following morning when he related the story of the SuperSport blowing its engine somewhere west of Laramie. I have no idea how fast he’d been going and would just as soon not know. Small block Chevy’s are sturdy beasts, after all, but the Kid, whose mechanical sympathy was never something to write home about, had somehow managed to overcome its bulletproof reputation. Or maybe he’d forgotten to add oil. In any case, he was temporarily without wheels, although the tow truck operator had made him an offer on the Impala. No doubt the tow guy could source a small block for cheap and the rest of the car was in good shape. Now Dad hated the very idea of an unreliable car and whether or not it was his or the Kid’s idea to replace the Impala, I can’t say. Dad may have even offered financial assistance in a gesture of detente.
More Madison Avenue.
No matter where the idea originated, the Kid was immediately out looking for a car and soon found one the next town over: a used ’66 Pontiac GTO. The salesman said it had been traded in by a lady school teacher, a fact I found somewhat suspicious (at least it wasn’t an old lady who only drove it to church on Sunday). On the other hand, although the GTO had the ubiquitous 389 of song and legend, complete with four speed, there remained a few clues that pointed to the possibility that the used car sales guy may have been telling at least the partial truth: you see, the car was Fontaine Blue, a very light shade of blue, and it had a white vinyl top, or Ivory in Pontiac sales brochure parlance, maybe one of the very last choices on the macho man list. Searching the net, I find very few Ivory top GTO’s extant, and it does seem possible that they were ordered mostly by women rather than men. Also, the interior, too, was white (Parchment), so odds are that the car’s original owner may have very well been a woman, school teacher or not.
The louvered taillights have never been matched.
Now the GTO was in great shape, understandable as it was only a couple of years old, and white furnishings notwithstanding, it remained one awesome automobile. So far as I can tell, it was most likely the 335 horsepower version rather than the 360 as it never seemed high strung or in a particularly high state of tune. Still, a 389 in a GM intermediate was a pretty quick car by the standards of the day, although you wouldn’t want to run for pink slips with some of its stablemates, such as the 396 Malibu SS. And from my perspective, it was drop dead gorgeous. I mean, I get the whole nostalgia business and how people of a certain age think that anything from their late teenage/early adult years remains without peer, but I’m not one of those people. I don’t sit on my porch and yell at the neighbor kids to get off of my lawn and I actually appreciate a variety of new things whose origin wasn’t in the 1960’s . . . nevertheless, GM in the mid-Sixties seems undeniably a high water mark so far as automotive styling goes. It’s hard to believe that it all went to sh*t only half a decade later, ending up in the Brougham era, the low water mark of Detroit history.
Stratobuckets . . . did Fender consider a lawsuit?
Schoolteacher Parchment interior.
I mean, just look at that ’66 GTO–not a bad line on it; sleek, purposeful, timeless. No wonder it’s regarded as a classic, together with a number of other Detroit designs from that period.
Much more common black vinyl roof.
So far as how it drove . . . I remained a novice driver with very few cars under my belt, so of course it impressed. What’s more, the Kid let me drive it to my Ninth Grade Middle School one day. Seriously, a fourteen year old with a Goat? In 1967 Nirvana was still a state of enlightenment, not a band, and I came close to it that day. I took a select few friends with me and the Kid’s trust was repaid as no mishaps or incidents occurred, and no county cops pulled me over, so win-win.
And the awesome wood rimmed steering wheel and walnut dash.
I wish I could end on that note, but this story’s ending goes on, I regret to say. The Kid decided to drop out of university the following spring and he went off to some new-fangled computer school in Kansas City, ready to ride a wave that wouldn’t crest for another few decades, but he was already out in the bay, paddling his board, waiting for the wave to hit. And then . . .
The county cops struck again. When he came home from Kansas Cit that summer, one ostensibly innocent thing led to another and our Kid was charged with a complete made-up crime based on false evidence and spurious testimony. According to our father, who of course was the last person to regard the Kid as a model citizen, the evidence was all a sham and a disgrace to the American system of justice. What’s more, the judge, whom Dad had known for years, completely bought the cops’ dog and pony show and rendered a verdict that became a proverbial death sentence: either the Kid could serve time, or he could go into the Military. In 1968. Yeah, thanks, judge.
By fall, the Kid, resigned to a fate decided by small town cops, was in the Army, which upon recruitment had offered advanced computer training at some unnamed military school and so, of course, he was assigned to the Infantry instead.. His training took place at Fort Lewis, just down the road from my current residence, where he applied himself to the usual Kid standard and excelled. Case in point: the drill sergeant promised breakfast in bed to any recruit who could pass a certain elevated score on the rifle range, safe in the knowledge that no one had ever grabbed the brass ring. I have a photo of the drill sergeant handing the Kid his breakfast tray in his bunk, the Kid with a cautious smile, the sergeant notably grim.
Our Kid being served breakfast in bed by the Sergeant.
In June, our parents, together with “AJ” and me, drove to Salt Lake City to put the Kid on a plane to L.A. followed by more exotic ports. I travel through the SLC airport occasionally and nothing remains of that long-ago facility save for a world map set into the floor; it was once in the very center of the airport, now it’s tucked off in a corner in baggage claim. It was in place when we said our fare-thee-well’s to Our Kid and then returned to our mundane world to wait for letters that were sporadic and often much delayed. My contribution was to tape the latest hits on a cassette tape and ship them off to the tropics, and so I supplied the soundtrack to a few jungle nights in the summer and fall of 1969, Jimi Hendrix being the headliner.
Sometime in late summer a man who had been staying in the motel Dad owned while while working on a local construction project enquired about the GTO and the Kid somehow passed on his permission for it to be sold. I accompanied the buyer in the Pontiac to his hometown in Wyoming and spent the day riding horses with his younger sister and eating his mother’s enchiladas while he signed the paperwork at a local bank for a car loan. We then made the return trip back to my town, and that was the last I ever saw of the GTO. I hope that it is still out there somewhere, whole, unmolested, and rust-free, but of course I have no way of knowing as I don’t have any record of the VIN or other essential information.
——————————-
At the beginning of November I was sitting in History class when someone knocked on the classroom door. The teacher opened it, spoke to a shadowy figure in the hall for a moment, and then came back to call me out of class. The man in the shadows was our clergyman.
Of course that knock on the door was not an unfamiliar phenomenon in those days; it happened 58,220 times, after all, so I can’t pretend to have any exclusive insight into the experience except to acknowledge that I know what it feels like and I have continued to empathize with all those who have suffered the event in all the ensuing years and all the wars that followed. I do know what it means to hold a father who has displayed nothing but stoicism his entire life as he weeps for his lost son. I recognize the prospect of bleak days that seemed to stretch out into infinity. I understand how it feels to attempt to live life for both yourself and another, and I learned that is a fool’s errand as you can only live your own life. I still lie awake and wonder about what might have been, about nieces and nephews that never were, as well as long-ago times the two of us spent playing the latest Rolling Stones record or peering over the edge of an engine compartment. I still worry that had he come home he likely would have suffered from PTSD given the horrors that he witnessed (as recorded in a journal that came home with his other effects; he would never have written about them in a letter home). We might have drifted apart, as brothers do, but of course any such thought is only conjecture.
Not many remain who remember him . . . Dad has been gone thirty years, Mom twenty-five. I have one remaining brother and one older sister and I like to think that we are close, although we remain separated by considerable distances. I reconnected with “AJ” some years back, and she is my other sister, bound as we are by that black road that we traveled in the wake of the loss of Our Kid. And just to prove that fate sometimes proves ineffable, our daughter married the son of Vietnamese refugees and so we have a son-in-law and three grandchildren of Vietnamese heritage. In addition, we had an exchange student from Hanoi live with us for a couple of years and now she our honorary daughter. Things change and those changes are seldom foreseen, but there always seems to be good to counter the bad.
Sometimes I look at the listings on Hemmings or Bring a Trailer and think maybe I should try to find a GTO to buy, but I know it’s too late for that. Prices have gone out of reach and it would only sit in the garage most of the time, a drain on time, space, and finances that I can’t justify. In the end it would only be a reminder of trying times, and not a panacea for whatever ails me, but that’s okay. Still, a year ago when we were visiting my sister and walking in her neighborhood, parked a few blocks from her house was a Fontaine Blue GTO, sans vinyl top, but otherwise remarkably similar to the one we let go, and once again I remembered and recited to myself the tale of Our Kid and the GTO:
One last look . . .
Great writing…thanks so much for sharing
Thanks for reading, Eric…and thank you for you kind words.
I don’t really have any words so won’t really try but can’t not say anything. I think I knew where this was going from near the beginning based on some other inklings from the COALs but stuck with it although it makes me terribly sad, such a waste. I just can’t really imagine it not having lived it except being glad for myself that is the case and somehow experiencing it a tiny little bit from afar through this. In my world I can only imagine your brother as Brian Cooper if you understand the reference. The piece was excellent, thank you.
Thanks for sticking through till the end of the story, Jim. I think the waste is the one thing I can’t reconcile. So many had–and have–so much to offer and it all came to naught. I will check out Brian Cooper. Thanks for your kindness.
My heart breaks.
And I believe all the broken hearts add up to something profound. Thank you, Dennis.
A powerful story and loving tribute to The Kid by a brother who really knew him, most certainly better than all others.
As a college student graduating in 1966, the timing of this beautifully written story created a foreboding shadow in my mind as I read it. I hoped for a better ending, but sadly the growing fear was eventually confirmed.
Reading The Kid’s story made me think of an old Jewish prayer: As long as we live, they too will live; for they are now a part of us; as we remember them.
Thank you for letting us get to know The Kid’s story, and for sharing this both beautiful and tragic part of your life on this forum.
Thank you RL for the Jewish prayer. It’s something I will remember. Maybe a few more will remember the Kid from this short piece–that would mean a lot to me.
Regarding the subject matter, I couldn’t possibly offer anything more than others before me already have. A sad story beautifully told.
What I’d much rather highlight though, is the richness and wit of the writing. You’re a wonderful storyteller, and a gifted writer.
Thank you so much, MTN. Your kind words are appreciated.
Nothing I can say is of any help. But, just know I’ve read it. And, like it happens with several other contributors…I come for the cars, but read for the life. Thanks for your writing, Steve.
You’ve expressed the real strength of CC…the stories. I’m proud to be a small part of this forum. Thank you, Rafael.
Being close to the same age as “The Kid” I had friends lost in similar manner. My older Brother was in the USAF at the time. Came close to going to ‘Nam. However he was delared a short timer as his hitch was ending too soon. so he didn’t go. He would have, proudly. But I can honestly say I am glad he did not. The sense of foreboding increased as I read on. I also had a 66 GTO in my teen life, My Brother in laws. A sage green with matching interior and the usual Black vinyl roof. Thank you for your story.
I’m glad your brother made it through okay. Thanks for your kind words, Jason.
My condolence, a great but sad story did you end up getting the GTO I didn’t get to read anymore. God bless you and your family.
My thanks to you, Anthony…
Steven, thank you for this superbly-written tribute to The Kid. It’s one of the more moving things I’ve read anywhere for some time. You’ve really captured the zeitgeist of those times as well as the immense waste and tragedy of war. And yet it keeps happening…
And that’s the hardest part…it keeps happening. If it ended, we could all sleep at night. Thank you, Paul
Paul has it, incredibly well written and what a tribute to your brother.
Our son spent 6 years in the Canadian Armed Forces, in the infantry, including a NATO tour in Eastern Europe. As parents we always dreaded that knock on the door so I can imagine what your parents must have gone through after your brother was deployed. In our case it all worked out, but reading your story was much more emotional than I was expecting. Thank you for sharing this.
Trainman–I’m relieved and happy that your son made it home okay from Eastern Europe. I think a lot about what’s happening in Ukraine now and the completely unnecessary and tragic loss of life. I still find it hard to understand how anyone can willing start something they know will destroy so many lives and resonate through generations. How can anyone justify such a thing in any way?
Thank you for reading the Kid’s story. I feel like his story might live a little longer…
You honor your brother by telling his story, and now we can remember him a bit with you.
If a few more remember the Kid, then I will deem my work as a success. Thank you for giving him a moment of your day.
A moving story that tells the story of a great Brother and the link to an iconic American car.
I also grew up in that era. A friend of mine’s Mother had a 1967 GTO. Phil, (same name), since passed, went with his Mother to the Pontiac dealership in Cheraw, SC to look at a new car. She liked the Lemans two door, but Phil talked her into buying the GTO! She did. I enjoyed a few rides in the GTO with Phil and Mary Beth, a classmate of mine, Phil’s girlfriend and later wife. Sadly, her GTO was soon traded for a more sensible Catalina. Oh well.
Thanks, Phil…you’re right, he was a great brother. I understand the logic behind trading in the GTO on a Catalina, but it’s still a sad story.
I remember the Cheraw, SC Pontiac dealership well. I have lived my entire life over the state line in Hamlet, NC.
As someone whose draft lottery number brought him perilously close to conscription and transport to the Viet Nam theater of war, I can relate to your dear brother’s plight. I cannot, however, imagine the suffering endured by you and your family. I compliment you on your ability to recount what must be an eternally difficult story to relate. You are to be commended for your love of and respect for the memory of “the Kid.”
My lottery number was in the 300’s but then Congress changed the standard from sole surviving son to surviving family member and was no longer eligible, but I know the shadow that the draft cast on our generation. I remember a good friend who drew a number in the teens–he commented it was the only thing he ever won.
I think the hardest thing is that the casualties never seem to end. If we could believe that a lesson had been learned then the sacrifice wouldn’t seem to be in vain.
I’ll echo what others have said here, that this is an impressive piece of writing. In reading this post, I felt like I was with you along this difficult journey.
Thank you for joining me on the journey, Eric. I can’t say how much it means that others know the Kid’s story now. Somehow it brings some resolution.
Thank for sharing “The Kid” with us, Steven. This had to be difficult to write, even 50+ years after the fact. He will live on in all our hearts.
Thank you very much, Tom. The effort was very much worth it given the kind response. Your kind words will be remembered.
Like all your COALs, superbly written and riveting. But for completely different reasons. My older sibling turned 18 in 1970. But she was my sister, so we never had to worry about this. And I am just younger enough to have avoided the draft entirely. Our son is active duty in a non-combat role but I still worry. Thank you for sharing the story.
Many thanks for your kind response. Glad your sister and you made it through that period unscathed. And I will remember and think of your son.
A moving story so well told.
I recall a girl in my elementary school class being “pulled” from the classroom to be informed of the bad news about her father. Everyone knew what was going on, but nothing was said, and it was a somber day for everyone. I remember our teacher was in tears.
Thank you, Dutch. I can relate to your story of the girl in your school. When you are in the center of a tragedy you don’t sense the circles that radiate out. I know what happened had a large impact on our small community, but I will never know the whole story. But I know your story of the little girl you know still affects me emotionally all these years later. We humans have a large capacity for empathy, I think…
What a poignant story and a beautiful tribute to your older brother! And the 1966 GTO represented the pinnacle of the first generation, IMO. I’d love one in light blue with a white interior (but skip the vinyl roof).
I came of age in the 1960s also and remember the daily body count on the evening news — we were lied to of course by our government, as that war was totally unnecessary. I recall Robert Kennedy railing about the useless fight for “Hamburger Hill,” one of the many skirmishes in that conflict.
My mother would have done everything in her power to keep my brother and me from being drafted to serve in Vietnam, if it had come to that. We had distant relatives in Canada at the time.
The reason is that she lost her husband (my father) at the age of 29. He had leukemia, and she believed the Army knew about it but kept it a secret when he was suddenly discharged from stateside active duty during the Korean War. He had served in the Pacific Theater in WWII and had been sent into Hiroshima after the atomic bomb was dropped.
And…lying policemen — who would have thought? /s
Many thanks…and I would skip the vinyl roof, too.
Before the lottery for my birth year, my parents sent me to stay with my sister in Italy. I think their unstated plan was for me to remain there if I drew a low number. In the end, Congress decided that surviving family would not be eligible for the draft, so staying in Europe wasn’t necessary. I ended up staying anyway…
I’m sorry about your father. That is a genuine tragedy that touches me deeply…
We are from the same generation. As an only child I yearned to have siblings, especially an older brother. I am honored to know The Kid through your loving and admiring memories.
We lived in small town Indiana and one student out of my small high school class was part of the 58,220 individuals lost, within weeks of his arrival in that far-off land. I did not know him well and thus was surprised at my overwhelming sense of loss when I first found his name on Maya Lin’s stunning memorial to those Americans killed in Vietnam. He was 19 years old. Maya Lin was 21 and from an immigrant family when she was selected to design the memorial. The war propelled me – at age 18 – into campaign work for RFK during the Indiana state primary in 1968, another story that did not end well.
It is possible to hold fond memories of the 1960’s and at the same time recognize that the greatest of human failures shadowed the fun times and progress toward a more equitable society.
Cars have stories but only people like you can tell them this well. Thank you.
Thank you, CA. And thank you for giving the Kid a moment of your day.
The Vietnam Memorial is such a powerful statement and I have great respect for Maya Lin. And RFK–I was very firmly in his camp in ’68 and all the tragedies of those years still weigh heavily. Thanks for being a part of his campaign.
I feel the same way about the ’60’s. I think of Bob Dylan’s lines: ” I’m glad I fought, I only wish we’d won.”
Many thanks for taking the time to read.
I read your story this morning and it has been haunting me all day. It is beautifully written. Thank you. I think we are about the same age and it truly hits home with me.
I appreciate your kind words, Bob. Thanks for taking a moment to comment–I’ll sleep easier tonight knowing the Kid’s story has made it into a wider world.
Steven, thank you for sharing. An excellent piece of writing.
Many thanks, Jeff.
A very well written tale of long ago, but not forgotten memories. You honor your brother well. 🙂
When I took my family to see the Memorial……..it was funny, seemed to start raining…….at least my eyes thought so. We Marines had the “joy” of spending 13 month tours there; how lucky could one get…..particularly during Tet ’68? A true waste of lives for all those years.
I didn’t buy my first car (a ’64 Pontiac Tempest Custom…6 banger) until I returned, but I did have my ’57 Triumph 6T Thunderbird waiting for me in Riverside, CA……with a large bill for the work I told them to do from Nam. That gave me $ummthing to look forward to, back in THE WORLD!! DFO
Ah, the Memorial. The rain does come. I appreciate hearing from someone who spent 13 months in Vietnam. And during Tet. I’m glad you made it home okay. Much respect. Happy you had the Triumph waiting for you.
Thanks, Dennis…
What to say?
What a moving and thought provoking piece, so carefully expressed and told. You tell the story of your car, your brother, your family and your loss and, for those of us who can only imagine the grief of such a tragedy, remind us that that war may be over, but never will be for you and never was your parents.
One of the best pieces I’ve read on CC, ever.
Many thanks for your kind words, Roger. I’m overwhelmed by the positive response, but mostly I’m glad to be able to acquaint everyone with the Kid. He’s worth knowing…
Thank you for sharing those great stories of The Kid, the cars, and a glimpse into how things were back then.
May his memory forever be for a blessing.
And I thank you, Tom…and thank you for reading.
All the kind expressions have been a blessing, too.
I didn’t expect this, but thank you for writing it and sharing it with us. I know it must have been difficult to do so.
By coincidence today I thought about modern day Vietnam and the war. They seemed to have nearly fully embraced capitalism there now, if both sides could have looked into the future and had seen that, would they have fought?
It’s a shame so many people had to die.
Thank you for reading and taking the time to respond.
And yes, given that our honorary daughter is from Hanoi I have had all my preconceptions jarred. I look at her and wonder how her people could ever have been perceived as an enemy and a threat. For her, the war is ancient history, but we’ve never discussed it in depth. It’s a place we can’t go to.
All those people who died…and all those who continue to die. It never seems to end, does it?
Thank you for sharing such a deeply personal and thought provoking story. To say it resonated with me is an understatement so I did a little research. It appears the military learned from such abominable legal arrangements and is now legally prohibited from engaging in them.
And thank you, and thanks for your research. It’s gratifying to know that the military has learned some lessons from experience. I only wish they’d learned them much earlier…
I was moved to tears by your beautiful story. Your love for your brother is a palpable, living thing and your memories of him have blessed us all. Thank you for your excellent story telling and your generosity of spirit.
And many thanks to you for the encouragement, and thanks for being willing to listen to the Kid’s story…
“The Ode” expesses it better than I ever could. Your story brought a lump to my throat.
“They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.”
Ah…Laurence Binyon’s WWI elegy. Peter Jackson’s documentary borrowed its title from that verse, and was an amazing project that brought that long-ago war into our time. I’d recommend to anyone who hasn’t seen it.
Thank you so much, Chris, for reminding us of it…it really strikes home.
Steven, this is one of the most moving things I have read in a long, long time. As the piece began, I remembered your mention of your brother’s end in the war, so I knew the story would not end well. I was young enough (and fortunate enough) to never see the personal side of this kind of loss from that war. This story made it clear just how fortunate I have been.
I never had a big brother, but I did have experience with a 66 GTO owned by an older lady. My next door neighbor was another kid my age. His mother was in her 40s and bought a new 66 GTO 4 speed. Hers was another unusual combination in being painted Mission Beige – possibly the dullest color Pontiac offered that year. At least she had the black vinyl roof and black interior which made it a little better. When she traded it on a Verdoro Green 68 GTO, I’ll bet somebody had a great buy at the used car lot.
Many thanks, J.P. I have other stories of Vietnam vets to tell, too, but some are best left unsaid. I did have a vet that served with the Kid call up out of the blue about ten years ago just to talk. I’d never met him before. He was looking for my brother’s grave…that was one of the most remarkable conversations of my lifetime.
I never quite understood why someone would choose a beige car, but then I remember that I’ve had one myself. Our Aerostar wasn’t so much a choice as resigning ourselves to what the dealer had on the lot for the best price. We’ve seen a couple of stories now of women buying GTO’s, so the Kid’s acquisition may not have been as rare as I initially assumed.
Much as I like the GTO, that Impala SS hardtop looks damn good too. I think I’d have had a hard decision back then deciding what to buy. It would either be a Chevy or Pontiac, and either a mid-size or full-size model, but not a compact. I know that much!
I like the Impala, too, but it seems so big now. I think it suffered a bit in my estimation because my older sister had a white Impala four door family car at the same time, so that image sort of rubbed off on the more exotic SuperSport. But both were nice looking cars. I always liked the way the two door’s roof mimicked the folds of a convertible top. I can see the appeal of both, and even the GTO seems large now. We don’t see cars with long tails like the old models have. I guess trunk space was more valued then.
Steven, thank you so much for sharing this story, and letting us get to know your brother a bit. Sounds like he was a hell of a guy.
This was the most moving story I’ve read in a long time, you told it wonderfully.
Thank you for reading and for taking the time to learn about the Kid. You’re right, he was a hell of a guy. I feel a sense of accomplishment in sharing that with the fine people of this forum. And I appreciate the kind words.
Thank you Sir .
Well said .
Your brother live on in your memory and now with others too .
The 1960’s were a strange time indeed .
I nearly went to Asia and am not sure if I should have or not .
I didn’t appreciate Goats when new, I sure do now .
-Nate
Thank you, Nate…and thanks for taking a part of the Kid’s story to heart. It means a lot to me.
And yes, the ’60’s were definitely a pivotal time for those who who lived through those years. I’m glad you didn’t have to go to Asia. I don’t know anyone who came back unscathed.
It does seem that the legend of the Goat has flourished while some other performance models of the time have faded. I’m sure the styling is a large part of it as there were faster cars, but there really is something timeless about the GTO’s look…
A very moving story, by a very gifted writer. Thanks for sharing so much of yourself and your brother (and father) in its telling.
Best wishes, Steven.
Thank you very much for the compliment. We writers tend to work in isolation, so it mean a lot to have someone spend the time to read your work and find it worthwhile.
Best wishes to you, and take good care.
Anything that I could say would only echo the sentiments always expressed concerning your incredibly moving personal story. I appreciate the fact that you could expose yourself in a way that I could never do! Suffice it to say, that despite a VERY low number lottery “winner”, I didn’t get drafted, but ended up enlisting a couple of years after finishing school. The pain that I felt when seeing names that I knew on the Wall is still with me.
There’s so much power in the way all the names are presented on the Wall. We were in D.C a few years ago and visited the relatively new WWII monument–it came off as bombastic and overwrought in comparison to the stark and emotionally powerful Wall. In a way I feel sorry for any artist who had to design public monuments after the Vietnam Memorial. I can’t imagine anything matching it.
I’m glad you made it through your service period okay. I’m with you in your reaction to the Wall. I knew only a few of those whose names are engraved there, but in a way you feel the weight of each name equally.
Thanks for sharing this with us. From now on, your brother will be remembered by a lot more people.
And both cars were gorgeous, wow.
Thank you for reading, Pete. If a few more people can carry some memory of the Kid with them, then my work here has been successful. That means a lot to me…
And yes, those were gorgeous cars, weren’t they?
Steven, this is hand down one of the most memorable and moving pieces I have read on this site. Thank you for sharing your family’s story.
Thanks for the kind words, Kevin. And thank you for taking the time to read and reply.
Wonderful story Steven – thank you
Many thanks to you for reading, Adam…best wishes to you.
Life can be so many things; mundane, beautiful, terribly tragic. Steven, your story captures this and arouses emotions, as well as anything I’ve read for some while. I didn’t personally know anybody lost in Vietnam. But I did know older brothers of my friends, who came back, and I saw how deeply affected they were.
My brother had a very low draft number and so quickly joined the Coast Guard. If not, he could well have joined the 58,220.
Thank you for sharing your story. Know that the story, and the Kid, will be remembered. And I’ll be passing this story on to others.
Mark–I thank you for your words of encouragement, and I appreciate you taking the time to read.
I had a very close friend who did make it back from Vietnam, but he only made it a few more years before he could no longer cope. That was another loss that made a mark. I’m glad your brother was able to take the safe route in the Coast Guard.
Thank you so much for carrying on the Kid’s memory. I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate that…
Steven, thanks so much for sharing this, I like others cannot articulate the words to say how moved I was to read your story and of the terrible loss of your brother. Thank you again.
Thank you for reading and responding. Your support is much appreciated.
Steven,
The GTO may have been a powerful car, but for you that power is not found under the hood. The GTO’s real power lies in the memory it triggers of your brother. That ain’t a bad thing.
Writing to family members was one of the toughest duties in the Army. You’d often know so little of a soldier’s life before your unit. Hard as it was to try to find words of comfort for a family, I can only imagine how infinitely harder it was to be on the receiving end.
Condolences to you and everyone else “The Kid” left behind. May every GTO you encounter trigger warm memories.
That’s a good approach to thinking about my relationship with the GTO, Rob. I’ll remember that.
I can’t imagine the having the task of writing letters to the families. I recall reading letters that Abraham Lincoln wrote to relatives of the deceased and how simple yet heartfelt and profound they seemed. That seems like a gift to me.
And thank you for your kind words…
Like good music, such good writing somehow transforms the pain of sadness. Thanks for sharing your story.
I have no interest in cars other than the sound system and getting to and from the trailhead, but such a story brings cars to life for me.
I crashed my older brother’s ’67 Mustang when I was about 18. No-one got hurt, but I’ve always felt that my carelessness took something really delicious away from him. Thankfully, if I remember correctly, he escaped Vietnam by drawing a high draft number, and is still with us today, placidly driving his 2013 Toyota Corolla.
Glad your brother’s still with us .
Most of my buds who went came back FU-BARED for life .
One was beyond nuts when he signed up, they sent him to Germany (SCORE !) and he pitched a bitch until they sent him in country for his last year .
It didn’t change him much go figure .
-Nate
This story really rang true with me……living in Preston I could invision the lake the small towns and even the monster. Most of all I can very much relate to the time and circumstances. Growing up in the 60’s my first car was a 61 chevy impala, my junior year in High School I upgraded to at the time was considered the poor mans GTO, a 67 Lemans, hurst 3 speed black interior and red exterior. After graduating the draft was looking at me my draft number was 7 so I was going, instead of getting drafted I joined the Navy and spent two tours off the coast of vietnam. I felt lucky that i was at sea and not boots on the ground. I lost friends over there and I have always felt great sadness that they gave their all.
Enough of that, just want to end this by saying I have owned a 1966 barrier blue GTO
fir over 30 years now and it has been over the mountain many times visiting your beautiful valley.
Garry
When the regular contributors were asked to pick out two of our own favorite submissions to rerun during this Christmas break, I was going to sit it out this year as this particular post has been the single best (and most affecting) thing I’ve read all year, not just here, but anywhere, and I had trouble considering my own efforts banging on the keyboard from this year worthy of being side by side with it; Paul had to contact me directly a couple of days ago to guilt me to find a couple anyway so he and Rich could take a few days off 🙂 . For some reason I’ve thought about this particular story repeatedly since I first read it and for many reasons besides just that aspect I consider it the best thing that I can remember from the last year, and perhaps even any year on this site. We write in all kinds of styles, about all kinds of subjects, some writings/posts have a humerous slant, some are more fact-laden, some more technical, some personal, all of which are great and I don’t take away from any of them, however this one (in my opinion) simply transcends all of that and is next level. It’s a bittersweet laurel considering the subject, nevertheless it is that and my hat is off.
I remember the Cheraw, SC Pontiac dealership well. I have lived my entire life over the state line in Hamlet, NC.
I missed this when it was initially published. I will long remember it.
Thank you, Paul, for attracting writers of such distinction.
I know it was a long time ago, but sorry for your loss Steven. I’m not sure how much foreshadowing there was, but as soon as your brother went in, I knew what was coming.
Oh yes, the GTO. I was several years from my license when it came out and not really into cars all that much. More dirt bikes. But I remember one parked on the street in front of my house one day and all of us guys in the neighborhood were oohing and ahhing over it, it was quite striking and had quickly acquired a reputation.