Dusty memories arise with the coming of another birthday. And the years seem to have shrunk as if another victim of inflation. With technology at high speed, my memories center on things from my youth barely worth remembering (think “jingles”) or that barely seem real. Like the first family car I can recall, a Plymouth Suburban station wagon. The thing was a tank, and I was too young to make the connection of a huge “Suburban” beast negotiating the streets of New York City. I guess the tag “Plymouth Urban” left one longing for more syllables.
Back then (and on into the future) our family kept cars until they fell apart. No kidding. Well, the old Suburban was rusting away, but faithfully got us where we were going. The tank had seatbelts, tangled and bulky, but either they didn’t work or had parts missing. We were freewheelers and learned to brace for sudden stops or plant our sneakers against the back of the front seat. Sometimes we were oblivious and just ended up in awkward poses tasting vinyl.
The passenger duty was a bit tougher when we were relegated to the “wagon” area, spacious enough for five youngsters. Just imagine sitting in a trunk with windows.
Oh, and all windows were hand-cranked—when they worked. The front window had a neat design featuring a small pivoting triangle that provided just enough air to suck out the cigarette smoke, just enough wiggle room to flick ashes. If you had the back window cranked down, you’d catch a snootful of these treats. Yes, people smoked in cars back then. The Suburban even had a lighter (for cigarettes and not appliances or technology). At least something worked.
Rust is an inevitable part of the lifespan of cars in New York. Typically, it’s bottom-up rot and cars went through mufflers like cheap tube socks. The rust continued with its assault and ate through the Suburban’s floorboard.
One day I lifted the rubber mats on the floorboard to find the asphalt staring up at me. As the Suburban picked up speed, the worms-eye view of the street whizzing below made you feel like you were flying. I wondered if this spawned the idea of Fred Flintstone’s classic ride, though the specific model was never mentioned in Bedrock. But I bet our Suburban could handle a take-out rack of dinosaur ribs without tipping.
Today, cars may be safer and spiffier, but back then you didn’t need a personal DVD or tablet to entertain. The backseat of that old Suburban was a bench to sprawl out on or to take in the interesting sights of a city that never slept. Or sing along with AM radio. Or to annoy your siblings. Or a place to throw Cheerios through the hole in the floorboard. Or, on that occasion when someone got car sick in the back, a personal launching pad (if the tailgate window worked). Many a game of stickball was ruined in the city streets by queasy kids. At least until the tailgate window would no longer crank. Then Plan B hatched in the form of the eight-quart spaghetti pot, the original multi-use kitchen tool years ahead of QVC.
It’s day one of the next orbit around The Sun. As the world turns, I wonder what else will loosen from the depths of yesteryear.
photo credit: classic cars
