There’s a car commercial playing on TV now that shows a man running into one of his ex-girlfriends at a party and experiencing a romantic flashback. At first, he seems to be mentally cheating on his wife, but we soon see that he is recalling the good times spent with his first Subaru. I hate to admit it, but I know how he feels. Not that I ever run into my girlfriend from senior year, but I do remember fondly the car in which we first made out.
In my mind, it is always The Car and its improbable adoption into our family amazes me to this day. Back in 1968, when I was 13, my mother was in the market for a vehicle to replace her aging and non-descript sedan. Fortunately, a family friend, Don Fraser, Sr., was in auto sales, so she met him at the dealership to find something suitable for the twice-weekly five-mile drive to her medical office and other errands around town. You can only imagine our astonishment when my mother returned a couple of hours later with a brand-new Chevrolet Camaro. I don’t think we would have been any more surprised if she had appeared in our driveway at the wheel of a Formula One racer with Mario Andretti riding shotgun.
First of all, this was no family car. It was a sporty blue two-door coupe with bucket seats and a black vinyl roof. A fully-automatic transmission (a first for our family) controlled a throaty 327 cubic-inch Chevy V-8 engine. In short, it was a bombshell of a car that simply begged to cruise the boulevards looking for trouble.
That carnal desire was borne out quickly as, within a month, my sister introduced the shiny new Camaro to one of the local telephone poles down on the Redwood Highway frontage road. The mating did not turn out well. Fortunately, the car was fixable and quickly returned to the fold, with only a few new rattles to give voice to a troubled past. But it wasn’t through driving on the Wild Side. A couple of years later, it was almost totaled with my brother at the wheel and me in the passenger seat (see Love Songs and Glass, December 2010). Again, it was repaired (although it probably should have been a write-off) and was once again in our driveway, having made the “drive of shame” home from the body shop.
The Car may now have been a bit worse for wear--with more nagging noises, persistent leaks and the vinyl roof showing its age--but it was finally My Turn. I got my driver’s license in 1971 and, with it, the occasional use of the Camaro, my sister having moved on to a second-hand Ford Mustang of her own and my brother to an ill-fated love affair with Alfa Romeos.
Now you have to understand that I learned how to drive in the family station wagon, a car so decrepit that the only way my father could explain the vagaries of its stalk-mounted shifter was to “imagine you’re scooping up a large spoonful of bolts and then shove it into gear.” Compared to the Ford Falcon, the Camaro, with its power brakes and power steering, was nothing short of erotic. Not only that, it had an FM radio, an extravagant option my father refused to order for our other cars. We could finally listen to something other than the local news station and delved willingly into the steamy realms of (gasp) Contemporary Music.
To say that the Camaro was zippy around town would be an understatement. Not that I was macho enough to engage in anything like drag racing, but I did occasionally leave a stoplight with a certain youthful eagerness. But it was on the open road that The Car excelled. By this time, winter weekend trips to Tahoe were a regular thing as I pursued my ski racing hobby. Apparently, my parents’ concern over trusting me on icy roads with a souped-up pony car was trumped only by their not having to be my chauffeur. US 80 was both my weekly commute and my chosen speed for the drive from the Bay Area to Truckee and back. The ride was seductive and the lure of the blacktop hypnotizing. And, in the spring, with the windows rolled down, the radio blaring, and my skis and a bundle of bamboo slalom poles strapped to the roof; well that’s my nostalgic Subaru ad right there.
Yes, I do remember parking with Trudy P. in my mom’s Camaro for the first time on graduation night, but I’d be less than honest if I told you that I recall the taste of her lipstick and the smell of her hair more than the feel of the black bucket seats and the sounds of Crocodile Rock playing on the softly-glowing FM radio. But, like the guy in the commercial concludes, I’m okay with that.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Philately and Larceny
Last night, as I watched the Iowa caucuses in this year’s presidential election unfold, I had the melancholy thought that I will never be elected to the nation’s highest office. Not that I don’t have many sterling qualities and Great Ideas on how to improve the country. It’s just that – though perhaps a few of my friends may be shocked to hear it – I have a criminal record. One that goes back nearly fifty years.
What inspired me to break the law? Philately. Simply put, I was a stamp collector and at the tender age of 7 or 8 (I can’t recall) I decided to cut out the middle-man and start obtaining stamps from their source – the U.S. Mail.
Walking home from school one day with a classmate (nameless here, for obvious reasons) who was also a fellow philatelist (now legal in most states), we embarked on our cross-country spree.
I’m not sure whose idea it was, but halfway up Belvedere Drive from Strawberry Point Elementary School, we started investigating the contents of several residential mailboxes. Unfortunately, the stamps we found were not very interesting, since they were neither particularly old nor terribly foreign. Of course, it never occurred to us that the contents of the letters could have any other value.
Unimpeded, we continued on our search until a shout rang out from a nearby house. A man opened his front window and ordered us to Stop right there! Caught red-handed, we turned away from him and quickly stuffed the purloined letters under our shirts before he could reach the door. Naturally, neither one of us had the sense to just run for it, thus confirming my belief that most criminals are simply not that smart to begin with.
The man confronted us on the sidewalk and had us turn out our pockets. Whew!, I thought, we might just get away with it… Then his wife leaned out the window and yelled for him to Check under their shirts! (Darn you, Miss Marple!) After inquiring of our names and addresses, to which we gave honest answers (see observation on criminal intelligence in preceding paragraph), my partner-in-crime was taken to his house nearby and I was driven home to mine, nearly a mile away. The details are sketchy at this point, but I do remember crying non-stop, so I must have had a prodigious amount of tears at my disposal.
Back home, I was given an old-fashioned Talking-To and sent sobbing to my room. During dinner, there came a knock on the front door. My father answered it and I was Summoned. Behind him loomed a County Sheriff. Now I had never ever been this close to a policeman before and, at first, did not comprehend why on Earth he should be coming to our house (ah, the innocence of youth). Then, I suddenly connected the dots and the bottom dropped out of my world. I could practically feel the cold steel of his handcuffs snapping around my tiny wrists. (Did they make really handcuffs that small?) The three of us went into the back bedroom where I was to be Interrogated.
Astoundingly, all the sheriff wanted was to make sure that I understood how wrong my actions were (well, I did now, I replied in a tiny voice), that I was never to do anything like that again (no problem there, sniff) and whether my friend and I had destroyed or hidden any other mail prior to being caught (not that I could recall, suddenly being very cooperative), though I vaguely remembered stuffing an envelope or two into one of those drains that run from under the lawn into the gutter. Then he left, as unexpectedly as he had arrived.
I watched his sheriff car drive away down the street and slowly took in the fact that I was not going to “juvey” (a word spoken only in hushed and awed tones in school). Beyond my father having used the sheriff’s visit to scare me straight, I was more-or-less off the hook.
I suppose I could have used my easy escape from the arms of the law to propel myself into a Life of Crime, taking advantage of judges’ alleged reluctance to send first-time youthful offenders to prison. But I didn’t. I spent the rest of the evening in my room, alternately lamenting whatever mysterious forces had led to my astonishingly poor judgment and taking in the fact that I would not be going to the Big House.
I never did find out what punishment befell my companion, as the subject never came up again. We both appeared back at school the next day and went on with our lives, as if nothing had happened. None of our classmates ever knew, until now.
Not once did I imagine the shame my father must have felt that afternoon. Looking back, though, I can appreciate his wisdom in not flying off the handle and knowing how best to deal with his youngest child’s indiscretion. I’ll just have to add that to the growing list of things my father got right.
What inspired me to break the law? Philately. Simply put, I was a stamp collector and at the tender age of 7 or 8 (I can’t recall) I decided to cut out the middle-man and start obtaining stamps from their source – the U.S. Mail.
Walking home from school one day with a classmate (nameless here, for obvious reasons) who was also a fellow philatelist (now legal in most states), we embarked on our cross-country spree.
I’m not sure whose idea it was, but halfway up Belvedere Drive from Strawberry Point Elementary School, we started investigating the contents of several residential mailboxes. Unfortunately, the stamps we found were not very interesting, since they were neither particularly old nor terribly foreign. Of course, it never occurred to us that the contents of the letters could have any other value.
Unimpeded, we continued on our search until a shout rang out from a nearby house. A man opened his front window and ordered us to Stop right there! Caught red-handed, we turned away from him and quickly stuffed the purloined letters under our shirts before he could reach the door. Naturally, neither one of us had the sense to just run for it, thus confirming my belief that most criminals are simply not that smart to begin with.
The man confronted us on the sidewalk and had us turn out our pockets. Whew!, I thought, we might just get away with it… Then his wife leaned out the window and yelled for him to Check under their shirts! (Darn you, Miss Marple!) After inquiring of our names and addresses, to which we gave honest answers (see observation on criminal intelligence in preceding paragraph), my partner-in-crime was taken to his house nearby and I was driven home to mine, nearly a mile away. The details are sketchy at this point, but I do remember crying non-stop, so I must have had a prodigious amount of tears at my disposal.
Back home, I was given an old-fashioned Talking-To and sent sobbing to my room. During dinner, there came a knock on the front door. My father answered it and I was Summoned. Behind him loomed a County Sheriff. Now I had never ever been this close to a policeman before and, at first, did not comprehend why on Earth he should be coming to our house (ah, the innocence of youth). Then, I suddenly connected the dots and the bottom dropped out of my world. I could practically feel the cold steel of his handcuffs snapping around my tiny wrists. (Did they make really handcuffs that small?) The three of us went into the back bedroom where I was to be Interrogated.
Astoundingly, all the sheriff wanted was to make sure that I understood how wrong my actions were (well, I did now, I replied in a tiny voice), that I was never to do anything like that again (no problem there, sniff) and whether my friend and I had destroyed or hidden any other mail prior to being caught (not that I could recall, suddenly being very cooperative), though I vaguely remembered stuffing an envelope or two into one of those drains that run from under the lawn into the gutter. Then he left, as unexpectedly as he had arrived.
I watched his sheriff car drive away down the street and slowly took in the fact that I was not going to “juvey” (a word spoken only in hushed and awed tones in school). Beyond my father having used the sheriff’s visit to scare me straight, I was more-or-less off the hook.
I suppose I could have used my easy escape from the arms of the law to propel myself into a Life of Crime, taking advantage of judges’ alleged reluctance to send first-time youthful offenders to prison. But I didn’t. I spent the rest of the evening in my room, alternately lamenting whatever mysterious forces had led to my astonishingly poor judgment and taking in the fact that I would not be going to the Big House.
I never did find out what punishment befell my companion, as the subject never came up again. We both appeared back at school the next day and went on with our lives, as if nothing had happened. None of our classmates ever knew, until now.
Not once did I imagine the shame my father must have felt that afternoon. Looking back, though, I can appreciate his wisdom in not flying off the handle and knowing how best to deal with his youngest child’s indiscretion. I’ll just have to add that to the growing list of things my father got right.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Gardens and Gifts
In the film, 50 First Dates, Drew Barrymore’s character wakes up each and every morning to find that her short- and medium-term memories have been wiped clean. With the help of her new husband, played by Adam Sandler, she starts from scratch building new ones that will be sadly be forgotten by the next day, only to be retrieved with the help of others.
Last week, while visiting the Palace of Versailles on a family vacation, I confess to having had a very similar feeling. As we stood atop the terrace that overlooks the dramatic gardens designed by Andre le Notre, gazing at the reflecting ponds and well-manicured lawns that stretch all the way to the horizon, I tried to recall having been there before. The occasion was another family trip, this one taken with my parents when I was barely 16 years old; exactly 40 years ago. I remembered that we did go to Versailles, I recalled the Hall of Mirrors vaguely, as well as the ornate furniture and painted ceilings of the king's private chambers, but of this view, absolutely nothing. The thought troubled me.
My daughter, Jessica, and I bought a picnic lunch from one of the outdoor cafes politely hidden from view in the maze of hedges and then sat on a bench in the brisk December air and ate our dejeuner. As we sat and talked, my eyes kept going to the vista before me and my memory strained, but to no avail.
We took our time and then walked on to view the Grand Trianon Palace, the Petit Trianon and, finally, the quaint peasant village built for Marie Antoinette so she could play at living a simpler life while chaos raged back in Paris. I let Jessica take the lead, hoping that by following her own desires, she might retain more memories of this remarkable place.
As we made the long walk back up to the main palace and our train ride home, I took one last, long look at the gardens and thought of that trip four decades ago, when my parents introduced me to Europe. Now, I was doing the same thing for my own child, so I had the satisfaction of “paying it forward.” But then it occurred to me that we were only taking this trip because of a recent inheritance from my father, so the gift was really from him. Then again, most of our family money has its origins in an inheritance from my mother’s father, so, in fact, both trips had been handed down over multiple generations.
I shared these thoughts with Jessica and then had the insight that this wondrous creation in the woods of Versailles, which we were currently enjoying, had also been handed down. Not only from the vision of Louis IV and his team of talented architects and artists, but from the backs of the peasants and merchants whose labor and taxes provided for its construction.
So, here’s hoping that 40 years from now, as my daughter stands on that very spot with her own children – perhaps on a trip paid for by an inheritance from her dear departed father – she will remember, at that moment, our conversation from long, long ago and share with her offspring an awareness of upon whose shoulders all future generations must stand. If she is able to do all that, the view will be all the better for it.
Last week, while visiting the Palace of Versailles on a family vacation, I confess to having had a very similar feeling. As we stood atop the terrace that overlooks the dramatic gardens designed by Andre le Notre, gazing at the reflecting ponds and well-manicured lawns that stretch all the way to the horizon, I tried to recall having been there before. The occasion was another family trip, this one taken with my parents when I was barely 16 years old; exactly 40 years ago. I remembered that we did go to Versailles, I recalled the Hall of Mirrors vaguely, as well as the ornate furniture and painted ceilings of the king's private chambers, but of this view, absolutely nothing. The thought troubled me.
My daughter, Jessica, and I bought a picnic lunch from one of the outdoor cafes politely hidden from view in the maze of hedges and then sat on a bench in the brisk December air and ate our dejeuner. As we sat and talked, my eyes kept going to the vista before me and my memory strained, but to no avail.
We took our time and then walked on to view the Grand Trianon Palace, the Petit Trianon and, finally, the quaint peasant village built for Marie Antoinette so she could play at living a simpler life while chaos raged back in Paris. I let Jessica take the lead, hoping that by following her own desires, she might retain more memories of this remarkable place.
As we made the long walk back up to the main palace and our train ride home, I took one last, long look at the gardens and thought of that trip four decades ago, when my parents introduced me to Europe. Now, I was doing the same thing for my own child, so I had the satisfaction of “paying it forward.” But then it occurred to me that we were only taking this trip because of a recent inheritance from my father, so the gift was really from him. Then again, most of our family money has its origins in an inheritance from my mother’s father, so, in fact, both trips had been handed down over multiple generations.
I shared these thoughts with Jessica and then had the insight that this wondrous creation in the woods of Versailles, which we were currently enjoying, had also been handed down. Not only from the vision of Louis IV and his team of talented architects and artists, but from the backs of the peasants and merchants whose labor and taxes provided for its construction.
So, here’s hoping that 40 years from now, as my daughter stands on that very spot with her own children – perhaps on a trip paid for by an inheritance from her dear departed father – she will remember, at that moment, our conversation from long, long ago and share with her offspring an awareness of upon whose shoulders all future generations must stand. If she is able to do all that, the view will be all the better for it.
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