My Dad always bought the crappiest cars. We had the '63 Chevy Corvair, the one that made Ralph Nader's career.
It was always so cute how tired the three us us in the backseat were and how they had to carry us into the house after family parties. How come they didn't notice we were purple?
The Studebaker wagon was cool. I remember a ride every summer of all the block kids he could cram in, sometimes 14, as I reckon, and head down to batting practice 10am for the 1pm game at Comisky Park. My Dad would flash his badge, talk to a few chums and as all of us would have free range over the entire empty stadium.
When we did settle down and joined back together in Upper Deck third base down the line, I learned baseball and fundamentals watching and it was just what a Little Leaguer needed. Another time much later in life, I saw Jose Conseco hit one armed home runs. Quite impressive. And One Dog had a real pus arm Sox fans.
We, I mean the Gary Peters led White Sox, were there to play the Baltimore Orioles. Hank Bauer, present coach and long time O's and Yank's great outfielder was hitting fungoes in front of us. As batting practice was winding down, we were all yelling down to Coach Bauer, "Hey, Hit one up here!" and dang if he didn't turn and hit one our way. It looped up and came down... right under my father's seat. He never moved a muscle as it was coming his way. The gang of kids diving under his seat, covering him, fighting, to get the ball is a very pleasant memory of youth, baseball, Comisky Park, and my father.
He had a real Al Bundy mobile - the 1965 Plymouth Fury. It was kinda like a Valiant with the push button transmission. I remember the windshield wipers wouldn't work in the rain, dry days fine. AM radio all the way WIND 500, Clark Weber, good country. My dad and I had a mental game when we got stuck by a train which was often anywhere in Chicago. We'd say GO and silently count the number of cars that went by. It was tougher on the Southeast Side because they tended to back up and subtraction was needed. But when we declared STOP, it was always close, one time 370 cars. Maybe he just wanted to shut me up, could be, but I liked the game. I remember going to wrestling matches at the International Amphitheater, and getting stuck on the way home by a train in the Plymouth Fury with my Dad counting train cars on a rainy night.
... and the Rambler. To this day my impressions of this most defective crapazoid wreck of corroded machinist quackery at a young age made me never to buy a AMC product. A station wagon, natch, for three young boys and a grocery grabber. Ran like a tank, or an Old Harley. The 10 day furlough escape to a Southern WI resort was the highlight of the summer. We jammed every thing we could into the jalopy, headed North and got on the brand new TriState Toll Way. We got a flat tire, on the side of road we had to empty a part of the cargo and change the tire. My Dad was pissed, he needed a country blow with his bros.
We got to Twin Lakes, checked in and settled and the Rambler got us around until my Dad had to make a tight turn leaving the fruit market. I was walking up at the time ready to get in the car and the left front tire completely collapsed, the axle broke, I assume, but the tire was 90 degrees from roll. I can't remember how we got home from that vacation, a la, Mr. C. Griswold, but I don't think it was in a pale green Rambler station wagon.
It's a skeleton in the closet, but in a Father's Club raffle at the high school fundraiser, he won a Buick Riviera. Copper colored, just a huge big beautiful machine, 1971, circa. I think the 9 gazillion hp, front wheel drive whoop-de-do engine was a bit too much for Dad. He wrapped around a telephone pole two days after receiving it from the dealer. When my brother had to retrieve the wreckage the next day he said it was wonder how he even survived.
Just memories...
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Memoir, not factual
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