In going through some old, but not-so-old photographs that they’ve turned sepia toned, I came across two that jogged my memory. (At my age my memory doesn’t jog as much as it saunters.) If my father thought that paying more than $2.50 for a Christmas tree was an extravagance, you can begin to imagine how that translated into buying a car. It was basic all the way for him. No plush anything. And if he could have managed with three tires, he would have done so.
He bought his first car the same year I was born. I don’t know which came first. Me or the car. All I know is that when my parents got the call to pick me up at the Foundling Home they didn’t go by car. I came home the NYC way. By subway.
But that’s the subject of another story. This is about the Begley family car. A dark almost black blue 1948 Chevy that I believe was made from a WWII German U-boat.
The exterior of our 48 Chevy was the opposite of sleek. It had more curves than the fat lady at the circus. It was built to withstand an earthquake measuring 62 on the Richter scale. But it is the inside I remember most. The seats were covered in what I can only describe as “hide.” Perhaps it was made from the skin of an old donkey. Sitting on it for any length of time left marks all over your body that didn’t fade until I was 10.
The rear seat was low and the back of the front seat was high as were the sides. And because all my height was in my legs, meaning I sat low in the back seat, all I ever saw while driving in the car was donkey hide all around me. Even when I tried to sit up high I couldn’t see out any of the car windows. It was like taking a drive inside a box. I’d get in the car in our driveway and an hour or two later I’d get out in some other driveway.
Thank God I could listen to the music coming from the car radio. Oh, did I say listen to music? Well, it had to be music playing inside my head because our car didn’t have a radio. But it did have a heater…if you were lucky enough to be in the front seat. And in the summer I would lose on average of three pounds of water that poured out of every pore in my body.
I compensated for all our 48 Chevy didn’t have by sleeping. I’d be out cold before my father pulled out of the driveway and would have to be pried out of the car when we eventually arrived at our destination…which was usually Brooklyn.
I believe the car is now a taxi in Tijuana.
In 1959 my father was ready to buy a new car. He had his eye set on the bottom model of the 59 Chevy line. It was a Biscayne. It had no details other than paint. The Impala, on the other hand, had all the trimmings. (Too extravagant for my father.) But…it did have a radio set to station that only gave traffic reports.
1959 was a big year for me. I was receiving the sacrament of confirmation and as a special privilege I got to pick out the color of our new car. It was a no brainer for me. I wanted fire engine red.
My father came home in a sapphire blue 59 Chevy. (But in my mind it was always red.)
The grey interior was a cross between plastic and linoleum. In the winter the surface temperature of the seats was about 16 degrees below zero and in the summer you could cook a steak on it.
I had grown enough to be able to see out of the windows and couldn’t stop yelling out things like” “Look at that, a building!” or “Do you see all the other cars?”
I learned how to drive in our 59 Chevy. A car that was standard with the shift on the column, a car that had no power steering and had no power brakes. It was literally like driving a tank. Parallel parking was an Olympic event, and trying to start on a hill was friggin’ scary!
In 1965 my father bought his third Chevy. It was shaped like a box.