I grew up in a car town. No, make that, THE car town. MoTown. Detroit, Michigan. "During the day we make the cars; at night, we make the bars."

My first job was in HF I's factory, the first assembly line plant in the world, in Highland Park, Michigan. The assembly line I believe is Henry’s contribution to the quest to amass a fortune at the expense of the working man. Think of those archival images of Model T’s coming off the line. By the time I arrived the place was so old and so dark. Lit with incandescent bulbs and every surface brown/black with oil and the whole place a noisy racket and smelling of dirt, oil, smoke, and perspiration. Once you take a whiff, you know...I don't know what, but you know. A multi-sensory time travel. If the dehumanizing setting weren’t enough, the story goes that Ol’ Henry was such a hump that if you were on the commode he could drop in to see what you were making. Better have something to show the MAN. Later, of course, there were the unions and I am a proud former member of the UAW. When later I worked in the FoMoCo Surface Coatings Division R&D lab, in homage to Henry, the bunch of us crammed into the  lavatory stall to get the boss’s signature on an important document. Boys will be...

When I was a boy the annual automobile show at Cobo Hall downtown was a DAY in my life. Every year me and my sidekick, Cousin Kenny, got an eyefull of all the new car models; some concept futurifics; and all those gorgeous, straplessly begowned models on the turntables with their graceful hands pointing out the car features. We came home with shopping bags full of brochures; full color on heavy shiny paper. In the mid-1950s I could tell you all the details of every model. (Kind of like how Corvette, Ferrari, and Porsche aficionados are today. Or, those baseball fans who can tell you who batted last in any inning of any particular game in any given year. And…batting averages, life histories, and every other stat too. How about those Tigers?)    

In younger days I also made the rounds of the many car dealers, domestic and foreign. My tastes went primarily to the imports. My aunt and uncle lived near a foreign car service shop and when we visited I would mosey on over and sit in the cars in the service lot. I was always on my bike exploring Detroit and suburbs and stopping in on the car dealerships. I remember a car salesman at a Fiat dealership. My bike (French Rochet Track...single fixed gear, no brakes) propped up outside the showroom window and me looking over a Fiat Abarth Zagato. Bright red with those unique twin bulges on the top and carried down to the back. Without any apparent reason he told me to go away and come back when I had some money. No goodwill created there. Thank God that car sales people nowadays are such wonderful enlightened examples of the species. Later when I had a license to drive I made more than a few visits to test drive some imported exotics. A Triumph TR3 and (almost) a Porsche Speedster.  I fondly remember cars in the neighborhood too. 

The 1947 Chrysler Town and Country Convertible and the 1953 Cadillac Convertible owned by some of the local young bachelors. My father owned a 1947 Chrysler Windsor and the most memorable things about that car, besides the huge back seat, were the dash and the "Highlander" upholstery.

And the very shiny black Hudson Hornet Convertible owned by an old man down the block. I used to go over and watch him wash and polish the car.

And the always snazzy Uncle Max and his snazzy fully loaded 1953 Pontiac Chieftain Eight Deluxe Convertible.



My brother Arnold was in the US Air Force stationed in Gemany in the early 1950s. He brought back two very nice things with him after being discharged. First and foremost, and still after all these years, his most beautiful wife Hely. Second, a snazzy 1956 Volkswagen convertible. Since he had a special deal as a serviceman, my brother got the car shipped courtesy of Uncle Sam. If you know from VW's there are certain watershed moments in the marque's history. "Marque?" VW, a marque? Well you get it, or you don't. Nothing more to say. The big divide in Volkwagen chronology is 1967-1968. Anybody who knows from anything VW-wise is squarely on the pre-1968 side of things. After 1967 things started to get more "up to date". Meaning, plastic and less original 1950's styling.  1967 was the last year of the split window bus, and the end of the original first generation styling for the vans. As you will read later, I owned a 1973 Camper and it was still a great vehicle. But, a 1967 Camper, that's the cats nuts (to borrow a phrase from my dad when he commented on the new paint job I did on one of my other cars... "Shines like cat's nuts." Still don't know what that means.) 

Also, after 1967, with the Beetles, the old-school bumpers were gone for good and the cars began to get larger into succeeding years. Now, when it comes to Beetles, there are other critical periods along the way, particularly noticable in the evolution of the rear window. First, and most prized by collectors, the split rear window (1938-1953). As beautiful a shape on a car as the "Jayne Mansfield", bullet bumper on the early 1950's Cadillac. 

Or the "gun sight" tail lights on the 1955 Chryler Crown Imperial (one flipped to the side to access the gas filler cap), or the radiator on any Bugatti. 

Just because times may have been simple, didn't stop the youth of America from innovating with their rides. At first, one of the single coolest things you could do was to lower the back end. Add bubble skirts, and some glass-pack mufflers. All that on a convertible, and with a continental kit...chick magnet guaranteed. After the lowered rear treatment was around for a while, then came the front lowered---"on the prowl," "on the sniff." Then back and front lowered. Think low rider. Then the back end and front end both went up.The one I never quite got was the front-only raised. It did have a pop the clutch comin' fast off the line kind of look, though. In a category all by itself, moon hub caps. Chrome or hairline spun aluminum. Full moon's; later, baby moon's. Aero-dynamic! Here is a photo (unretouched, I swear!) of young George and his truck outfitted with moon's. The boy seems to have inherited some of my genetics for cars and other wheeled vehicles. (We are hoping that is the extent of it.) 

If you wanted to send the message that you were packing some serious heat under the hood, exhaust cutouts would do the deed. The basic setup was a short branch off the exhaust pipe sticking out just behind the front wheel well under the rocker panel, sealed with a three bolt cap until ready for use. Take off the cap and you get some heavy breathing and a HP boost. Illegal on the street. The work around for that was to have a in-cockpit remote mechanical switch setup. When you must have a race on the street, flip the swith. No need to get out and unbolt the cap; like you would do at the dragstrip. After the action, switch it back. No one the wiser. Speaking of "youth modifications." There was my grade school classmate, Fuzzy. Fuzzy Fachinni. His older brother was first called Fuzzy and the nickname was handed down the line. Fuzzy was short, with his thick black hair greased heavily to hold a world record DA. Really, just like the Fonz. Before there was the Fonz...there was Fuzzy Fachini. In high school he had a hot rod 1949 Ford. I remember all us guys standing around watching him install some clear red plastic fuel lines. The air cleaner was off. When he started the car, whooh! Picture a 3 foot column of pure flame shooting straight up out of the top of the carb. Fuzzy lost some cool factor there. Eyebrows intact. Whew! Still my all time favorite hot rod, jet black 1950 Mercury coupe. Lowered, chopped, and channeled. No badges or door handles...sanno!



 



There were some friends and associates who drove some prittee, prittee, prittee fancy rigs. [In the parlance of that ever so humorous Mr. Larry David. Hey, Larry. How's Jerry Seinfeld?] In the high school years a school mate lived near me and I remember him getting to drive this big, heavy Jaguar Mark VII to school once in a while. The car was gray with cherry red leather upholstery. I have never since been in an automobile as plush in ride and interior as that behemoth. The feel and smell of those cushy wrinkled leather seats, the sight of the burled walnut dash, the soft rumble of that DOHC straight 6, the floating on a cloud ride. So foreign, so mysterious, so exotic. Those were the enthusiast days when motoring was a joy in itself and the right vehicle was a fully sensual experience.

 

I am reminded of the time, also at a family get together, that my cousin Theresa's husband, Richard Mazur, "let" [I hear tell cousin Richard is doing very well for himself financial-wise. Didn't get there by throwing too much money around. Eh, Richard?] us polish his big white Buick convertible. No tipping required. It was just a treat for me and Ken to put our hands on that classy big rig. We used Simonize. And, if you know anything about the old type Simonize, you know what "elbow grease" means. You're supposed to put a patch of wax on a small area of the car and immediately start wiping it to a gloss. Well, I had a better idea (my first time out with the product). We would apply the wax to the entire car, then wipe it off. Signs of brilliance even at that tender young age. Well, I don't think we ever got to finish it. When that stuff dries it's bulleproof. The pisser was that I thought it would also be a smart idea to wax the windshield too. I like to be thorough. Richard was not impressed. I never saw that car again; not much of Richard either.

Then in my teens the reigning drag strip street machine “Triple Threat.” A jet black 1958 Chevrolet two door hard top packing three 2-barrel carburation and progressive linkage.

1958 was the 50th anniversary year for GM and they went full tilt on all the models with probably the most chrome ornamentation ever and, the likes of which will never be seen again. 

There was an intersection on the east side of Detroit with a gas station on every corner. Price wars! One summer the price per gallon got down to 14.9 cents. Ken and I pooled our allowance money and took his dad's Plymouth Fury for a day’s spin. Cruisin'.      

 My friend John Medicus' dad worked for GM. Mr. Medicus was in the paint area; starting out pin striping wood spoke wheels and moving on up to be on the team that developed the first Corvette. [Ken and I used to visit the old General Motors Building on West Grand Boulevard and one day got to sit in the a first year 1953 Corvette! How cool is that? Pure white with a red interior.] One summer in college John, another friend, and I drove over to New York City for a week of adventure. We got to use his dad's car. A 1964 Chevrolet Impala Convertible. Dark maroon metallic with black bucket seats. Since Mr. Medicus had pull at GM he got to select his vehicle and, after a few thousand miles driven by an executive, he would take delivery of the vehicle at a substantial discount. The big deal on the car was that it had factory air conditioning. In the mid-1960s air conditioning was a pricey option. To have it on a convertible was over the top.

At one point we owned a Plymouth Valiant. A silver 4-door with red interior.

My dad gave me some license with the car and so I made some "youth modifications" of my own. Red checkerboad for the egg crate grille. Replacing the sharp oval tail light lenses with flat red plexiglass. Not so bright, but ever so cool. And the really unique touch...the wheel wells, the gas tank, and the rear differential in bright red. Not noticeable by day, but at night illuminated by others' headlights...stunning. But, still, it was a Valiant. It had a push button transmission! What it lacked in real cool factor I made up for in my imagination. When the tranny went on the Valiant we limped it in to the dealership to trade (up) for a 1964 Pontiac Tempest.

Bright solid cherry red with black "naugahyde" interior with bucket seats and a shifter (No, it was automatic.) on the floor. And it was a two door hard top. No pillar between the front and rear side windows. A super cool feature. [The lady in the shot was a neigbor who showed me how to get on down the road in her spare time. Just kidding. It was a red car, remember. The photo of the car is the main idea. Just came with the babe.] Also ours was not a GTO. If it were, I don't think I would be here to tell the story. It was a regular thing to pick up an "ad hoc" drag race on weekend nights prowling the town. Sometimes on 8 Mile Road east of Gratiot or on the premiere road, Woodward Avenue on the way to the drive-in going north of Detroit. You would pull up or be pulled up on by another car, challenges exchanged, and the game was on. After waiting for traffic to disappear, both drivers would come to a full stop in the middle of the road and, on the count of three, put the "pedal to the metal" until one car was distinctly ahead of the other. No prize. Just lucky to survive to tell the tale. And an ego boost...or, bust, more often than not.

I once borrowed my cousin Ken's 1964 Pontiac Bonneville hard top for a Saturday date. On the way to fetch the lucky young lady, I took the opportunity to test the car's speed in a short street race. Hurtling down the street car to car, who should we pass going in the opposite lane: John Law. I took the next right and pulled over curbside and turned off the lights. Well guess who comes up beside me. The policeman asked me what exactly I thought I was doing. I flatly stated that I was trying to escape him. He let me off. Honesty is the best policy, my sainted mom used to say. True that. (If I was really bold I would have turned into someone's driveway instead of stopping on the street. I'll remember that next time I have to elude the law after a too quick ride down the lane.)

My most shameful automotive memory was one night on Telegraph Road coming back to Detroit after a night of drinking mass quantitiies at Mr. Winter's. He was the father of a college friend and entertained the boys lavishly whenever we came by for a visit. Mr. Winter lived on a small lake near Pontiac Michigan. There was even a wood hull Garwood speedbout parked at the dock outside the house. He was a true original and eccentric guy. Lived completely free to follow his interests. I think he had inherited money from a family member who was to have invented the rocker arm (?); or, something or other essential to the internal combustion engine. He was a car guy. In his museum garage there was a jet black Jaguar XKE, a 4 door Lincoln Continental convertible with an blown engine. (Not broken, blown; supercharged/blown.) Also, an American Underslung roadster. Fully restored. Same color scheme as in this picture.



 

Arguably, the Jet was one of the first of the US compacts. Unibody construction and economical on the mileage. I paid my brother $450, all my savings from working in a butcher shop on weekends at Gratiot Central Market. My dad told me that the car wasn't worth it, but my brother needed the money. What...huh? Ouch! But, it was through my brother that I got the job; so, now in my wiser years, I chalk the high price up as his earned commission. Like all kids everywhere and at all times, the temptation to add what's called "youth modifications" compelled me to strip the front hood and back trunk lid ornaments and fill in the holes with Bondo putty. That hot rodded customization never got past primer stage. I nearly veered off into a life of juvenile delinquency in that car. Shortly after getting my license, there I was, racing through the woods on Bell Isle one summer night. The police pulled me over and my license, the ink barely dry, was suspended. They didn't search the car to find the stash of fireworks I quickly shoved under the seat. Fireworks...I remember my dad packing me and my cousins into the car for a trip to Toledo, Ohio just before the 4th to buy fireworks with our saved allowances. Legal in Ohio, not in Michigan. Imagine a kid buying a whole box containing a gross of what we called M80s and Cherry Bombs. Let's put it this way, in either configuration one firecracker was something like a good chunk of a piece of dynamite. My dad was a good man and a caring father. We just lived in a less controlled time. And there were no seat belts on the way either. I remember too, my cousin Ken lived in the suburbs about two blocks away from the police station. One afternoon we set off this firework that shot up a hundred feet into the sky then exploded really like a stick of dynamite. We stayed indoors the rest of the day. Kids, huh!? Stupid innocence.

My first brand new car was a 1966 Morgan +4 Drop Head Coupe.

My first New York City car was a Citroen 2CV.

It’s something that you either get it or you don’t. Centrifugal clutch; it would automatically disengage at idle. Right headlamp turned with the wheels to see around corners. Full sun roof. A suspension that was like floating on a cloud. 40+ mpg. And a body with probably less impact protection than a sardine can. Directly opposite the kind of confidence you get from driving a full size SUV. Soon after moving to the New Jersey suburbs I found in the local classifieds a 1958 Porsche 365B Cabriolet.

When I arrived at the seller's the car was under a cover like some kind of jewel. Owned and apparently meticulously maintained by a dentist. (When I took it to a repair shop they were reluctant to hoist it up lest the suspension would fall off. The car was completely structured out of sheet steel and rust was the big bugaboo. It turned out that the dentist was more cosmetic than practical. The underside was fairly nicely rusted. Lesson—look under the hood…and the skirt, if you know what I mean.) Nice, nonetheless, and many miles of delightful motoring. Two tops, convertible and hard top. Just like the Morgan it was jet black with a cherry red leather interior. So very different from the English vehicle though. Smooth, refined. Shift lever action so light and, well, vague. (The Morgan’s shifter, stiff and notchy. Crrr-unch.) Both a true blast to drive. I couldn’t say which was better. Just each different is very unique ways. One British and one—how they say—Teutonic. The "coach built " Morgan drove like a buggy; very loose in all the joints, with a scary amount of flex in the chasis. The Porshe was one solid hunk; my first taste of a taught, one piece feel in an automobile. But, you’d really have to drive them to see the difference for yourself.

The kids started to show up and I just couldn’t conscience driving them around in those things. (We once drove 14 hours straight in the Porshe to visit the in laws. Baby Kate in a kiddy seat on the floor on the passenger side. Besides the questionable safety factor, there was a leak coming in from under the dash dripping on our little precious. I was crestfallen at the indignity I had inflicted on that innocent creature. By the way, she grew up just fine in spite of me and is now raising her own little precious.) So next was the 1972 Citroen D Special.

Brand new. Four cylinder, stick. Very high tech with a hydraulic suspension; very comfortable ride too. Slightly underpowered. Citroen first introduced that body style in the mid-1950’s and it stayed in production into the late 70’s. And it is still a great looking car. Very aerodynamic shape. Dealer service network however, almost non-existent. The gas crisis of 1974 got me thinking about being strapped to too much of a high tech vehicle so we traded for a 1974 Land Rover 88.

From Zagata Motors in western New Jersey. Mr. Zagata was an off road and camping enthusiast and his own Land Rover cab coupe was painted in zebra strips. Parking on the streets of Brooklyn the LR proved itself the sturdy beast I expected it to be. However, 17 mpg was a shock and top speed only 55 mph. Trade off, the satisfaction of somehow imagining myself close to a more rugged, self-reliant life style. Everybody would constantly question my sanity for having an off-road vehicle in the city. You take a ride around  those mean streets, then decide for yourself. And, now take a look at all those 4WDs and SUV whizzing by these days. Impractical or forward thinking. You decide. I sold the Land Rover to cover expenses training into a whole new career field. Living in NYC there isn’t really much of a need for an automobile. So I went carless for several years until it was time to find new digs outside the Big Apple. [My own take on why they call it that is because it is so full of temptations. You know…Adam and Eve…the apple. Only bigger. OK, not such an original idea, but just in case it is really my original thought. Give credit where due.] The vehicle of choice for a sojourn across the great USA was a Volkswagen Camper Van. 1973 vintage.

Bought it in South Dakota based on pictures and telephone calls. No disappointment. Rust free, beautifully restored to original and a souped up engine. That baby could boogie. For a VW van anyway. We spent three months driving west and camping in deserts and mountains to finally land in Phoenix, Arizona.      I have to say that van was probably my favorite of all the vehicles. So much living in it. If you fondly remember "getting it on" in the back seat of some old sedan, just imagine what get's on in a Volkswagen Camper Van with a full bed and privacy curtains.      We happened to be at a campsite in the mountains overlooking Boulder Colorado Thanksgiving-time in 1994. Bathroom facilities and a really hot tub a short walk in the cold snow, mountain lions reportedly prowling the premisies. We got pretty good at camp cooking on the trusty Coleman stove and even hosted a friend one morning for breakfast around the small table in the van. Also, since it was that time of year, we met up with Santa (the real one, mind you; it was Boulder after all: that town where fantasy and reality are thoroughly mixed) and we have a great picture of the Big Man posing in the VW. I'll post it as soon as I can get into the file of film images.    

On another occasion coming back north to Phoenix after the Tuscson gem show, our natural high from being around all that rarified crystalline energy was flattened by a most vigorous hail storm. Imagine all that roof on the van and all that hail. Fortunately the storm didn't put any real dents into the situation, but the din did give us a fright.     There is still a great vintage VW following in the rust-free states. After a few years ownership we sold it and recovered all the money we invested. Not too shabby. The van was wonderful in every way. Except in driving in city traffic, the manual transmission was a handful.       

Soon began looking for a more everyday driver. The 1977 Mercedes Benz 300D was the ticket.

Well, back to the Mercedes. Bought it from an airline pilot. He had a neatly printed log of everything he ever did to the vehicle. It’s great to buy a preowned vehicle with that kind of documentation. At 177,000 clicks it was still only nearly broken in. MB diesels are famously bullet proof and live to 500,000 and beyond. My car was non-turbo and just about the slowest thing on the road. We drove it for another 100 thousand before selling it to trade up to the big boy, a 1982 300D. 

With 160,000 miles, more room for Big Dave in the seats. Longer wheel base, comfortable, and a turbo. Starts in half a crank and jets down the trail. I still prefer the smaller 124 body 300D for its tight agility. The bigger 126 chassis is plush. That 300SD stickered at $37,000 in 1982! We're talking plush.