TOWNSHEND — The year: 1966. The road: the Belt Parkway on Long Island. The car: a 1960 gray-blue Morris Minor convertible, top down and filled with camping equipment my parents just bought at a garage sale on the way home from a summertime visit to my great-grandmother in Amityville.
How to get my 9-year-old self and four younger siblings home to New Jersey as well? No problem! We could be stacked in secure locations on top of the huge-even-when-folded Sears canvas tent, some cooking and lighting equipment, and various other “roughing it” necessities.
Well above the windshield, with a hot gale blowing in our happy faces, we hurtled down the highway at 50 miles per hour.
I still treasure that memory nearly five decades later - enhanced, of course, by all the family camping memories, many of which involve rainy days and soggy sleeping bags.
* * *
No doubt about it: the Morris Minor was my family's favorite vehicle, despite it being the smallest of the odd assortment my dad would bring home over the course of my childhood.
I remember the glorious smell of gasoline and leather, strangers' smiles when they saw the giant plastic wind-up key stuck to the rear, touching our heads to the canvas top when my dad would hit that back-road negative-G bump at the perfect speed. So much fun.
A year before he taught me to drive, Dad sold the Morris Minor to a smart but boring teenage boy in the class ahead of me, thereby condemning me to a practical car (a big ole station wagon) and several more years of an automatic transmission.
* * *
I have absolutely no idea where Dad got the stray vehicles he brought home. Beside the revered Morris Minor, he had, for a while, a gray 1960 Jaguar Mark VII and, later, a black late '50s Cadillac with folding taxi seats and a privacy window (stuck closed). I think Mom liked that one a lot.
None of these vehicles were in very good shape; he spent many hours under them and at the kitchen table cleaning and rebuilding various carburetors.
Even the our default station wagon, which my mom drove often, needed a special piece of equipment to start on a cold morning: a three-notch length of Lincoln Log to stick in the choke.
Only one of our cars had a name bestowed on it. “Fred” was the 1964 Ford Falcon station wagon that my dad loaned my husband and me when we were desperate newlyweds in the late 1970s. The floor in front of the backseats was so rusted that one could actually reenact cartoon caveman transportation. For safety's sake, several old license plates were scattered across the crumbling gap.
We appreciated Dad's generosity but felt compelled to return Fred after the just-filled gas tank fell off. Fortunately, we were traveling slowly on a dirt road at the time.
* * *
Hanging around the latest victim of a mechanical malady while my dad performed his usually temporary magic, I learned about engines and other parts and systems. But out on the road is where I learned to appreciate form as well as function, as he pointed out and identified all the vehicles he though worthy of special attention.
I feel I've grown rusty (pun intended) in my ability to correctly recognize the occasionally seen vintage automobile. But when I'm able to confirm the make and model, I often find my guess surprisingly accurate, which gives me an inordinate amount of satisfaction.
My dad, Clarence, is in heaven now; in my mind and heart he has replaced the fictitious angel of Hollywood fame. He left behind a subscription to Autoweek, an old beat-up station wagon, and a legacy of meaningful memories and an appreciation for how much a mere hunk of metal and plastic can become part of a family and bring joy to his offspring.
After a long winter in Vermont, road salt thick on every fender, the sight of an immaculate '57 Chevy cruising the country roads does my heart as much good as the first crocus blooming.
And when it's warm enough to go camping, out of the shed I pull a heavy steel and masonite folding table with seats and remember the day 49 years ago that we brought it home from the New York garage sale in a little British car, turning heads the whole way.
Thanks, Dad.