Father’s Lemon, My Sanctuary

As strange as it might sound, some of the greatest memories of my childhood are tied to a car my parents owned. It was not a special automobile. It wasn’t fast or luxurious, just an entry model Chevrolet. Today the sight of a 1960’s white Chevrolet can calm my nerves and bring about a sense of zen as the memories flood out of the recesses of my mind.

My father bought all of his vehicles from Applegate Chevrolet on Saginaw Street in Flint Michigan. A purchase of this size was never considered, much less transacted, unless he had the means to pay cash. Growing up poor and surviving the depression molded him into a spendthrift. Both of my parents made a decent wage at the Chevrolet Factory, still the bulk of my clothing came from Goodwill. We canned the harvest from our vegetable garden. Father did not believe in wasting money on silly things. A portion of each paycheck was set aside for a rainy day or a major purchase such as a new car. He never in his 71 years, had a car loan. Every vehicle was purchased for “30 days, same as cash”. His logic was that if the car was a lemon within the first 30 days, back to the dealership it went and he was free of it.

In 1963 my parents bought a brand new Chevrolet Biscayne. It was a two door in Ermine White. It was big, so big to a small boy it was a gargantuan vehicle. The interior was red vinyl that seemed to scorch your skin off, it had been sitting in the sun. Father being frugal never bought power brakes, power windows or air conditioning, these were just more things that could go wrong. Mother insisted that it must contain a radio. AM radio was the cheapest and so that was included.

It never for all the years they owned it ran right. The dealership could not repair the shimmy that developed between 45 and 50 miles per hour. My father hated that car.This road worthy goblin of transportation began the shimmy at 31 days. Dad was stuck with it. 

To me the memories of this family sedan instill feelings of happiness, comfort and satisfaction. These were days, predating seatbelts, if a sudden stop was made, the parents arm reacted on reflex to protect the children. At that young age, I often found myself snuggled and wrapped in a blanket, half dozing in the massive back seat. The ginormous back window, with the cardboard deck became my platform to watch the world from. The gap between the seat bottom and back became a treasure chest. The radio softly emitting the sounds of WTAC, AM 600.

Father and Mother worked at the Chevrolet Metal Stamping factory on Van Slyke. He often worked weekends that mother had off and so that she had transportation for the day, we drove him to work in the mornings. Swaddled into a blanket on those mornings and laid snug and warm in the backseat as we prepared to  begin our journey. The gentle sway of the car and constant motion as it moved upon its suspension placed me in a state of childish happiness. The hypnotizing effect of the ride continued until the dreaded moment we reached the plants entrance. The road took a tight, rousting circle that traveled 90 degrees into the plant’s parking lot. Mother always took the curve faster than recommended, my body sliding across the seat, occasionally bumping my head on the metal door handle. Moments later, after a sudden stop and hurried goodbyes, father exited by throwing the passenger door open allowing the chilled morning air to invade the interior. After slamming the door shut, he headed for the plant’s entrance gate. Mother shifting back into drive, headed us back homeward.

An errant Uncle, occasionally gave into his darker side, disappearing,  visiting the local Beer Gardens and not returning home in the mornings. Considered by the family to be a “good man”, the errant beck and call of “demon rum” often overtook him at times.  After a few nights, Mother and Father, hearing the cries and begging of my Aunt, raised their hands and volunteered to go looking. These trips were made late at night, at that hour his location was certain to be one of the popular watering holes in the city. Again wrapped in a blanket, dozing, watching the streetlights and headlights create a child’s version of the aurora borealis across the back seat. Honky Tonk music filled my ears as Father exited the vehicle to check for the missing Uncle. Most ventures into the city's nightlife took more than one stop. When at last he was found, he became a temporary resident of my Vinyl Upholstered Kingdom. Smelling of stale beer and cigarettes, shirt misbuttoned, pompadour hair messed, he happily climbed into the car, more than ready to return to life. Often he pulled me into his lap, ruffling my hair and softly singing Johnny Cash songs to me.

Late night trips home from my grandmother Edmonds house, following family holidays shaped my feelings of being safe and secure in this environment of red vinyl seat covers and cloth headliners. No gathering of this former coal mining tribe ever ended without the mandatory fistfight and visit by the Mount Morris Police Department. After the fisticuffs of my drunken Uncles, Mother carried me quickly to my space in the back seat. My parent’s  soft spoken words as we drove home stilled the fear brought on by my dysfunctional family.

Every year, our small family took two vacations. Summer time took us up the east side of Michigan, across to Traverse City and then straight down the middle of the state back home. The rear bumper of our chariot was adorned with countless tourist trap bumper stickers. “Call of the Wild”, “The Mystery Spot” and “Paul Bunyan Monument”, must be visited each year. Proof of that visit must be displayed on the rear of the car to brag to neighbors that world travelers lived on their street. The backseat became littered with cherry pits, rock candy boxes, maple candy and peanut butter fudge wrappers. 

Thanksgivings were spent in southeast Missouri with my Father’s family. The Missouri vacations included a mad dash to the “Show Me State”, father could  not get there soon enough and for these trips, we drove straight through. Gas stops were a frenzied event. As Father filled the tank we sprinted to the restrooms, fearful of being left behind. The Mississippi River was crossed in Caro, Illinois on a single lane bridge. Hair and loose items in the car blowing around as the windows must be down to get that first taste of Missouri air. Boredom and mindfulness could have filled me, yet I found diversion and using my imagination as the scenery passed by filled those long hours.

During these road trips, that shelf in the back window hosted a literal Crows Nest for me to watch the world travel by. Truckers blowing their horns at the lookout posted, as they passed. The often successful search for cows in pastures required the accompanying “Moo”. Sights to be seen, truck stops to visit.

To occupy time in my realm an enormous collection of Army Men, cowboys and horses were stuffed in the gap between the cushions. Countless battles were won and fought across the barren transmission hump running through the center of the floor. Scouts sent to sneak looks in the cavern under the front seats. 

My alert ears, always listening, ever vigilant of my parents' voices and tones solidified my emotions. No matter the situations that occurred, their conversations and discussions were conducted with love and concern, thus calming me. 

The car continued to haunt my father for ten years, leaking oil, draining the battery at will and refusing to run straight down the road. He had her dressed up with an $19.99 Earl Scheib paint job and sat her in the front yard for sale. His recently acquired 1972 Buick LaSabre, a used Flint City Police cruiser, taking her place in the garage. I was thirteen and at the time never looked back, not realizing then the hole in my life left by that vehicle's absence. 

Roy Richard
June 2024