It’s not the first time I’ve said it, but for me, 1954-1956 was the high water mark for Cadillac in the post war era. The ’48-’49s were handsome, but a bit too conservative. Then from ’50-’53, they got too bulgy and fussy for me. And as you know well, I’ve never been a fan of the lower cars that came along in 1957-1959. The ’54- ’56 got it right: Enough length to be impressive without ridiculous overhangs, and enough stature to be imposing. It’s what a luxury car should be. And although I’m generally not a convertible fan, I could make an exception for this one, especially in this lilac color.
Of course the “Dagmars” on the front are ridiculous and over the top, but if you’ve got it, flaunt it.
Here they are in full profile. Pedestrian safety and damage inflicted on the butts of poor little British sports cars was clearly not a concern.
And since I forgot to mention it earlier, I prefer single headlights too.
Safely ensconced back in that vault is a softly-purring 331 cubic inch V8 that was rated at 250 hp in 1955, thanks to a bump in its compression ratio. As my father used to say: Paul, 250 hp is the maximum any car can safely handle. Maybe that’s why I like these so much; I wouldn’t want to be unsafe. Come to think of it, I’ve never owned a car with more than 250 hp. The early influence of parents can be long-lasting.
Now that’s a steering wheel! More like two, actually. Unlike pedestrians, occupants’ safety was being given some thought with that padded dash. The long chrome baton directed the Hydramatic Quartet in the Concerto Automatico in Four Movements.
The seat that dare not be ever sat in.
Except like this, of course.
That delicious bootie has so many fine details.
This license plate “topper” is the icing on this plum cake. “World’s Playground”; a lot more colorful than Eugene’s modest “A Great City for the Arts and Outdoors”.
This is exactly where the fin mania should have ended. Oooh; love those protruding exhaust ports in the bumper. I remember Miss Welch’s ’54 sedan blowing miniature mushroom clouds on cold January mornings. When we were kids, we used to make a point to stand in the warm clouds in the church parking lots while folks idled their cars to warm them up. Smelled good to us. But then we were raised at a time when trucks spewing giant clouds of DDT in the air drove up and down the streets to try to save the elm trees.