Car(s) & Driver

Danimal thinks zman is an inspiration, and he's right! Zed's post about his stepdad's AMC Hornet got me all nostalgic about my earliest whips, of which I have fond(ish) memories. 

I learned to drive on a white 1979 VW Rabbit. My father was stationed in Japan for a year, so it fell to my Mom to teach me how to operate it, for the most part. That must've been awesome for her. Dad did start the process after I got my learner's permit at 15 years and six months of age. He drove us to my high school and parked the car at one end of a long, open lot. I got into the driver's seat, buckled up, and did all the standard safety checks: mirrors, seat belt, car in park, etc. 

And then Dad said, "floor it, and don't brake until I tell you to". Dude, what?

I didn't do anything at first, and then he reiterated his command and told me he was serious. This was the very first time I'd taken command of an automobile and I had about as much understanding of its operation as I did the female anatomy. Which is to say a very tenuous comprehension. I didn't know what I should touch, how hard I should press things, what all the noises meant. Completely clueless.

Eventually, though, I did what he told me to do and I punched it. We got up to about 40 mph and the far curb was coming up too fast for my taste when he told me to hit the brakes. I learned how seatbelts worked in that moment. And more importantly for Dad's lesson plan, I learned how well the brakes did their job.

Dad soon departed for his overseas assignment, and while I was in pretty good shape in terms of driving the car, he hadn't really told me very much about maintaining it. It was a great little car while it lasted. Which wasn't very long, unfortunately. I was driving home with my buddy from a tennis tournament a few months after I'd earned my license when the engine seized and belched up a bunch of black smoke. The mechanic asked me when I'd last had an oil change. "Oil change?", I said. And that was that for the little Rabbit.

My folks, probably too kindly, bought me a red 1986 Dodge Omni shortly thereafter. I'm pretty sure it was purchased new, though it had very few bells and whistles. It also weighed next to nothing, so while it didn't have a big engine, it was really quick off the line. My high school principal saw me driving it into the lot one morning and said, "that thing's a little pocket rocket", a phrase that tickled me at the time and has stuck with me ever since.

Mr. Gaul was a bit of a gearhead, and he told me more about my car than anyone else. One weekend afternoon, I found myself first in line at a stoplight and heard a honk from the next lane. I looked over, and he was smiling at me and revving his engine. That's how I came to have a race with my principal. I gave him a run for his money right off the line, but he had one of those big-block muscle cars and smoked me over the longer run. Later, he would do me an enormous solid when he really could've substantially and justifiably fucked up my educational future, for which I owe him dearly.

He finished his career at a couple of high schools in Texas, where he retired. I saw him at the school's 50th Anniversary back in the late 2010s, where he showed up with both arms fully sleeved with tattoos. He passed away from cancer shortly thereafter. Mr. Gaul was a righteous dude.

I had a number of other cars over the years. Learned to drive stick on a Ford Escort that I took to college. Drove my parents' Chevy Blazer for a few years before buying an S-10 pickup - a completely ridiculous purchase for someone living in suburbia and commuting to work. Bought a Ford Explorer after I got married and gave it to my wife after she got pregnant (figured out that whole female anatomy thing at least a little bit). So I drove her seafoam green Toyota Tercel for more years than I care to recall. Had a couple of Camrys, and then bought and still drive a 2014 MINI Cooper, the first car I've owned that I really desired. 

Seems I've come a long way in one sense, but in another, I guess I never really got away from driving really small, kinda quick little whips. At least I learned when and why to change the oil.

Fresh Friday Music, Nostalgia Style

Good morning, gheorghies. Good morning, lescoolies. No, that wasn't your browser on the blink again.

More good music to throw your way for a weekend. My friend Ned and his video design chum worked some real magic on a tune that conjures up old images for me.

I've highlighted my old growin-up buddy Ned Henry 'round these parts here before. In March of last year, his dad passed at age 95, a couple of years after his mom had left us unexpectedly. His folks -- Bucky and Barbara -- were truly amazing... 15-20 years older than most of my friends' folks, they were grandparently, congenial, hospitable, in on every joke, and always quick to whip up a mean breakfast when I woke up on their couch with a hangover at age 17. They seemed never to age, and my memories of them in their 80's and 90's conjure nearly identical images of them in their 50's and 60's when they lovingly took care of "The Whit."

In 2016, five of us from the old gang took Ned's mom, a William and Mary alum from way back, to a Jimmy Buffett (Ned's fave) show in a limo. Say what you will about Buffett, but that experience -- especially now knowing what lay in store soon thereafter, is a memory we all will continue to treasure.  Especially because COVID stole our good buddy Bill a few years later. 

At the show, I offered to hoist Mrs. B up onto my shoulders so she could see, but I was shot down. I mean, you can see how diminutive she was!

Plastic cup chalices...

She frequently chugged around town in a baby blue 1965 Mustang with a big smile. You saw her coming a long way away, and that was probably for the best, safety-wise. 

Anyway, this year Ned and his siblings took on the job of finally going through the old house and his folks' belongings. Unenviable a task for reasons of sadness as well as burden; when I asked Ned how long his family had lived there, he pondered, "Since the Kennedy administration... maybe Eisenhower." Whew. It just sold last month... God bless the new owners and the work ahead of them.

Just before the house went on the market, I woke up one June morning to a belated flurry of texts from Ned and his little brother, both back in town to sift through Henry trash and treasures, imploring me to come meet them out in the old neighborhood. They had been boozing on gin and tonics and blaring the Violent Femmes. They texted that flare sometime after midnight. Somewhat surprisingly, I was already sacked out and caught it on the flip side. 

But that didn't stop me from listening to them wax nostalgic and a bit plaintive the next morning, and right thereafter, I sat down and scratched out some lyrics to a song I then offered up if he had any interest. To his amazing credit, as soon as he got back to New Orleans he had figured out the music and was laying down the track. He tweaked my words just a touch and made me feel really good about the thought. He's a great dude. 

Ned released the track a few weeks ago and had a Crescent City cohort expertly compile a video with footage from the old neighborhood, Ned's NOLA home, and some photos of the old days. At the 1:46 and 2:54 marks you can see a few long-lost pics of a big galoot with his whole life ahead of him...

Anyway, if you feel like it, check out Ned, old Unit 11 (the Mustang), and our collaboration in this here music video.