“There’s a Booik”

      When I was a little guy, perhaps four or so, it is said that I would stand at the window looking out onto busy Euclid Hts. Blvd. and declare without a moment’s hesitation,” There’s a Booick, there’s a Thevrolet, there’s a Pymouth!”

It is clear that even in those tender years I was hooked on cars; marking the beginning of a lifelong, passionate love affair with automobiles.                                             
 And, I have come to recognize, the feeling is mutual.

This is part of that story.

Cars that have loved me

         To almost everyone, the yellow, American Motors Hornet Sportabout, with the fake wood sides looked ridiculous. I thought it was really cool. Bought it from Tom Ganley at his first agency on Lake Shore Blvd. back in the early 70’s.

         It was the only car that I ever owned that started itself spontaneously in the middle of the cold winter night.

          And we couldn’t stop it.

         We tried everything and then called Arliss, our mechanic on Lee Rd., to the rescue. The old pro swore he had never seen anything like that before. But he fixed it promptly.  Something about moisture and the “Solenoid”.

         The Sportabout  was the only “woodie” I ever could afford. And I loved it. And I am sure the feeling was mutual. It took us, without incident, to Nantucket one summer, with Susan and her friend Jackie Lee. The Sportabout cut a fancy figure overlooking the beach.  I felt more comfortable with the rich and near rich on this precious island, all of whom drove woodie wagons...real ones, like Buicks, Fords, and Chrysler.

And how can I forget Susan and Jackie serenading us with flute duets during the trip?  How upscale.

     There was the orange Vega. A design disaster from General Motors.  A monument to the inability of Americans to make small, fuel efficient cars when they were needed. It overheated repeatedly, and rusted out. But it had brown bucket seats, was a stick and was great in the snow.

Everyone noticed it as it drove the roads of Cleveland Heights. Perhaps it was the color. It rusted out quickly. I filled the holes with goop, painted them over, and sold it.

       There were three Corvairs. “Unsafe at any speed” said Ralph Nader. Never a problem for me. Loved the rear engine, but hated the smell of the gasoline powered heater.  The first one was red, (the 1960). The blue one I bought used from Marge Shuster. The other we bought used from an elderly couple in Cleveland Heights.

We took the red one to the Cape when Susan was 18 months old.  She played in the crib in the back after the rear seats went flat. This was long before the bureaucrats in Washington decided that all kids must be strapped in a car seat as if they were about to be executed.  The Corvair loved the sand at the Cape, as did Susan, who took to it right away. Finally GM had to abandon this vehicle after a lot of recalls.  Too bad.

         I learned to drive before the war on my mother’s stick shift ‘38 Plymouth. It was tan and real good looking, but she had all kinds of trouble with it, including the time I almost destroyed it. I parked it on the Coventry Road hill next to the library and forgot to set the emergency brake. Next thing I knew it had hurtled down the hill and ended up against a pole in front of the Central National Bank. Fortunately no disaster, but it could have been. Never did that again.

       I bought my first car, a very boring light green Chevy from a guy at The Press.  It got me where I wanted to go, but no love there.

      As soon as I got a raise to $50 a week I traded in that old, boring Chevy for a 56 Chevy Bel Aire...a classic to be. It was light blue and beige.

          But within a year or two I was promoted to assistant city editor and decided to go all out.  Went to Williams Ford on Euclid and Superior and bought a white Fairlane convertible right off the floor. It had red and white vinyl seats, and a black top. In a variety of ways I had made it.  I was still single and one summer, drove it to Cape Cod, where I was befriended by numbers of single women. Not because of my looks or intellect...it was the car. The next year I met Grace and we married, she really liked the convertible.  Me too, I guess.

          That particular ecstasy lasted until Susan came, and I had to act grown up...at least a little. I sacrificed the Ford for my first Corvair, a 1960, again right off the floor.

        Let’s move forward...after several years of relatively boring but practical transportation (including a Buick Century whose roof caved in the first time I took it though a car wash) I bought the greatest driving vehicle ever...an '89 Maxima.   Dubbed a “sports sedan,” It was handsome, and really responsive.  A joy in silver gray.  But in '96 I reluctantly traded it in for my first of three Saabs.

         A 900 in classic military green with tan seats.  I suddenly became respected by the intellectual and artistic community who were all turned on by these odd looking Swedish vehicles.  It was solid and great on the highway.  Grace loved it and didn't even think about trading it.  We have to this very day.

          Life took its twists and turns as we moved toward and into to 21^st century.  Two Saab 9-5’s, and then I turned to a silver Mazda 6 with a gull wing on the rear and a hatch back. A rare find that they had to drive up from a dealer in Virginia.  I knew we were in love the moment I stepped into it. It was the '89 Maxima all over again. I felt caressed by it, and the slightest touch to its sensitive pedal brought a rasping spontaneous response for which there aren’t words.

       But there is this precious passion that envelopes me, to this very day.