Cars (Pt. 3 of 3)

Image by Emslichter from Pixabay

Or, Self Indulgent Nostalgia Series (S.I.N.S) No. 5

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my (eventual) grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who don't, yet) -- the Stickies -- to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.

[The following missive is rated SSC (Sexy Seasoned Citizens). If read by grups or callowyutes it may result in psychological/emotional/etceteralogical triggering.]


                                                 Glossary  

                                                   About

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Star: Dana -- A gentlereader

"I had to stop driving my car for a while... the tires got dizzy." -Stephen Wright


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies (& gentlereaders),

Our boring old man story thus far...

In part one I talked about the fact that for the first 12.75 years of my life cars were of little importance as I was living in inner-city Pittsburgh (with an h) at the time and it was possible to secure the basic necessities of life (physical, emotional, and psychological) on foot or via cheap and easily accessible public transport.

[That's quite the opening sentence, Sparky.]

Thank you, Dana. I summed up an entire letter/column in just 61 words.

[I was being sarcastical I...]

I would've never guessed. In part two I described my family's decamping to the 'burbs and the fact that cars, or rather the fact we didn't have one, became very important.

Next, me and mine moved to suburban (nearly rural) Philadelphia and joined forces with my big brother Ed and his family. I now had a drivers license, a car, and a job.

The job was working at the small supermarket where my brother worked as the meat department manager and alleged heir to the throne.

He was busting his butt because he'd been told by the owners, Yano and Hack 'n' Slash, that he was accumulating sweat equity towards eventually owning the store. It never happened; it's complicated. I'd wish them well but their both dead.

Anyways, having a car and a little money took the edge off of spending my last year of public high school at an institution that was a giant step backward from the sophisticated high school I had attended for the previous three years.

The one in the Pittsburgh (with an h) suburb we couldn't really afford to live in and had so much trouble getting around in because we didn't have/couldn't afford a car.

                                                       * * *

Now securing provisions no longer involved a long walk to the bus stop, a relatively lengthy bus ride, shopping, a relatively lengthy bus ride, and a long walk home.

[And yes, I also walked five miles to school through blizzards, uphill both ways.]

Sweet.

However, the best part was being able to drive where I wanted to when I wanted to -- within certain limits -- till I moved into my own apartment once I had that last year of high school under my belt and 25 hours per week became 40+ hours per week.

My first car, a '62 Buick LeSabre, got about 10 mpg, but gas was about 29 cents a gallon at the time, so who cared? It also had wing windows, which are long gone and which I still miss, and could seat six comfortably, eight in a pinch. My friends called it the Road Grader.

I turned a modest profit by renting out the truck to Vietnamese refugee families.

[Are you trying to get us dragged in front of the Intersectional Inquisition?]

Please! I still maintain contact with some of 'em. They loan me money with no interest when I'm in trouble because they feel sorry for me. Some of their grandkids are suing Ivy League schools to overturn the bias against Asians that make the rest of us look stupid and lazy.

 [OMG! You are trying… Wait, orange?]

Actually, I think Oompa Loompas deserve some sort of affirmative action program. Ever since the Donald got elected hate crimes targeting little orange people of color are off the chart. 

[But the Donald is tall and his hair is yellow, not green.]

Obviously, he’s the result of a mixed marriage. Didn’t you know that his…

[Can we move on, please?]

                                                     * * *

One of my favorite car memories from this period involves driving through, and hanging out in, beautiful Valley Forge State Park where there were lots of beautiful young women, weather permitting.

Another was driving to the King of Prussia shopping mall to hang out because the place was full of beautiful young women regardless of the weather

Another was driving to...

[I think they can suss out the theme you're developing, Sparky.]

Sparky? Since when...

[I suppose next we're going to be treated to wild-eyed, exaggerated stories about your romantic prowess/adventures?]

Sadly, no.

I was even more introverted then than I am now. While not all that shy nowadays, I was very shy back then. And, never having been either a sex or a success object my love life has been a rather modest one.

Besides, there are all sorts of people still alive who knew me at the time, I'm not that old yet, so...

However, being young during the sexual revolution and the age of the mini-skirt, when rock 'n' roll peaked -- and before the AIDS plague broke out -- was, well, very cool. Glad I was there even if I was a bit player.

Anyways, I picked up enough so that once I eventually had two intense three-year relationships and then a 21-year marriage to my late wife I was able to appreciate that the best sex occurs within a committed relationship.

[Whoa... too much information. Wait a minute, isn't the subject of your boring interactions with cars supposed to be the subject at hand?]

Well, yeah, but I'm famous for charming digressions and occasional wonderings down Memory Lane.

[I guess that's one way of looking at it.]

Driving on...

                                                     * * *


Once I got a taste of the freedom and independence cars provided I was hooked. Since then I've devoted a great deal of time, money, and trouble to making sure I owned a car.

There have been times when cash flow problems, coinciding with expensive car repair problems, generated temporary transportation crises.

There was a time or two when these given crises went on long enough to result in life-altering changes of direction (pun intended and embraced).

However, my desire to own my own car was only reinforced. My Dear Stickies, you may have trouble relating to this but that's because your parents and I have gone to a great deal of trouble to make sure you take all sorts of things for granted.     

Millennials and Generation Z, I'm lead to believe, particularly the urban versions, don't love cars the way we Boomers and Xers did and do. But after all, life as we know it will be over in 12 years without a Green New Deal, a little less than that now.

Cars, we are told, in spite of the fact we now have corn-fed and/or battery-powered ones that depend on subsidies and Rules&Regs issued by The Gummit, are one of the reasons we find ourselves on the road to perdition.

However.

That nine-day road trip that me, Ron, and Freddie took to Disneyworld in the late seventies (a sort of workingman's Spring break) -- wherein Fred's car was a vital member of the team -- would not have attained its mythical status without an Oldsmobile Omega.

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

Please scroll down to react, comment, or share. If my work pleases you I wouldn't be offended if you offered to buy me a coffee.  

                                                   *    *    *

Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post an announcement when I have a new column available as well as news articles/opinion pieces that reflect where I'm coming from or that I wish to call attention to. Cranky don't tweet.



 

Cars (Part 2 of 3)

Image by Thomas H. from Pixabay 

Self Indulgent Nostalgia Series (S.I.N.S No. 4)


If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my (eventual) grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who don't, yet) -- the Stickies -- to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.

[The following missive is rated SSC (Sexy Seasoned Citizens). If read by grups or callowyutes it may result in psychological/emotional/etceteralogical triggering.]


                                                 Glossary  

                                                   About

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Star: Dana -- A gentlereader

"Have you ever noticed that anybody driving slower than you is an idiot, and anyone going faster than you is a maniac?" -George Carlin


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies (& gentlereaders),

Last week's missive ended thusly: "There was a tiny shopping center with a hardware store, a bank, and a drugstore about a half-mile away. The nearest supermarket was several miles away. We didn't own a car and couldn't afford one."

The good news was that we had made it to the 'burbs where the temperature actually cooled off at night in the summertime. The bad news was that we lived in what is now called a food desert.

I use this term ironically (I'm cool like that) as this term refers to urban areas where it's difficult to easily access a real supermarket from your house. As I mentioned last week, this wasn't a problem when I was a kid.

When we lived on Pittsburgh's (with an h) "the bluff" we had easy access to Schwartz's Sanitary Supermarket. When we moved to the Sou'side we could easily walk to at least two supermarkets, a tiny, old, A&P (which smelled like freshly ground coffee) or a large, air-conditioned um... I want to say Kroger's, maybe Acme?

I loved the large, air-conditioned _______ because on hot summer days my fellow street urchins and I would go in and walk up and down the frozen food aisle which felt like a trip to the Arctic because of the open frozen food cases. I'm of the opinion that the electricity it took to power these coffin style freezers lead directly to global warming. I...

[Excuse me, this has what to do with cars?] 

Oh yeah... you make a valid point, Dana. Well technically, now that we were suburbanites we weren't in a food desert as there were all sorts of supermarkets to access -- if you had a car.

Suddenly, our lack of a car was a very big deal. In the city, on the rare occasion that walking or a relatively brief (and easily accessed) streetcar or bus ride was insufficient to accomplish the task at hand, we could hire a cab.

There was no such thing as ride-sharing services at the time but there were ginormous taxi cabs with jump seats and huge trunks in which it was possible to squeeze the whole fan damily if necessary (the taxi, not its trunk).

In the 'burbs taxis were expensive and few and far between. My old man used to walk about half a mile to a bus stop that took him to his job at the other end of the township we lived in and then walk another half a mile to report to work.

He reversed the procedure when it was time to go home.

My mum and I had to take that walk and ride the same bus line to a shopping center, that featured a Krogers, on Friday nights. We took a folding cart, a sort of large basket on wheels with us. The trip there, when we and our cart got on the bus in this township that was overwhelmingly middle and upper-middle class, made us an object of curiosity.

The trip home, with our cart bulging with enough groceries to feed a family of five for a week, almost rendered us a tourist attraction. You should've seen us dragging the damn cart up and down the steps of that bus.

After we got off the bus on the return trip the last part of the walk home consisted of a trek up a long, slow hill, Kirk Avenue. Fortunately, it wasn't that steep. When we made it home we felt like successful hunter/gathers at the end of a good day on the savannah.   

Owning a car, or rather not owning one, had become a very big deal.

Eventually, my mom made a friend; a single lady with an obnoxious son that my little brothers and I had to get along with because of our transportation challenges. This made hunting and gathering much easier but it was still a bitch trying to get around.

My last year of Catholic grade school education was within easy walking distance -- we lived about fifty yards from the school, St. Ursula's. Come ninth grade, I rode a school bus for the first time in my life and attended a public school. Both experiences were somewhat less than edifying.

                                                     * * *

And then, four things happened.

Friends of mine acquired drivers licenses and suddenly the world opened up. I particularly liked being driven around in Sam's dad's caddy. Sam's dad was a doctor; I told you it was a nice township.

My old man died when I was sixteen. This sucked sweaty socks, of course, but was not as awful as it sounds. He was 58, I was 16 and he had become more of a benign, disinterested grandfather than my dad by then. Mortgage insurance he had, life insurance he did not.

My paper routes (yes, plural), with help from my mum, financed driving lessons. Which, in retrospect was an unusually optimistic move on our part. Where would we have gotten the dough to buy a car? The bad news is my instructor was an incompetent hooplehead, and I couldn't master how to use a clutch (google it...). These lessons led nowhere.

[For the record: Several years later Jackie at Good Humor taught me how to master a clutch in five minutes via a secret method that I'm willing to share for only $999.99.]

BIG BUT...

We moved in with my big brother, his wife, and baby. They lived at the opposite end of Pennsylvania, in suburban (almost rural) Philadelphia.

In short order, thanks to a 1962 Buick LeSabre with an automatic transmission, I had a drivers license and a car and a job. Thus began the rest of my life. A life in which cars (and trucks) have, and continue to play, an important role.

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

Please scroll down to react, comment, share, assuage guilt, or shop at Amazon.

                                                      *    *    *

P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains. Just click here or on the Patreon button at the top or bottom of my website. 

Or, If you do your Amazon shopping by clicking on one of Amazon links on my site, Amazon will toss a few cents in my direction every time you buy something.

Or, you can just buy me a coffee.  

                                                   *    *    *

Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post an announcement when I have a new column available as well as news articles/opinion pieces that reflect where I'm coming from or that I wish to call attention to.

©2019 Mark Mehlmauer As long as you agree to include the name of my website (The Flyoverland Crank) and the URL (Creative Commons license at the top and bottom of the website) you may republish this anywhere that you please. Light editing that doesn't alter the content is acceptable. You don't have to include any of the folderol before the greeting or after the closing except for the title. 



 

Cars

Image by smarko from Pixabay 

                    Self Indulgent Nostalgia Series (S.I.N.S No. 3)

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my (eventual) grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who don't, yet) -- the Stickies -- to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.

[The following missive is rated SSC (Sexy Seasoned Citizens). If read by grups or callowyutes it may result in psychological/emotional/etceteralogical triggering.]


                                                 Glossary  

                                                   About

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Star: Dana -- A gentlereader

"If your car could travel at the speed of light, would your headlights work?"
                                                                                   -Steven Wright


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies (& gentlereaders),

I am an American of a certain age; my life has revolved around cars. Well, except for the first 12.75 years. Although I anticipate that eventually, I'll (more or less) gracefully give up driving, or more likely, my loved ones and/or Big Brother will confiscate my keys, I'm safe for now.

I confess that I've always loved the freedom a car provides -- and that I'm not even a little bit worried/feel guilty about my carbon footprint (science and the market will solve this problem if The Gummit and the Greenies stop helping them so much) -- but I only enjoy driving on slow hand roads. I've never been into speed for its own sake. I hate freeways.

Now that I'm an oldish Sexy Seasoned Citizen (I turned 39 for the 27th time this Summer) I'd rather have a driver, but I want my own vehicle parked in the driveway heated garage for when I do feel like driving.

If there was any justice in the world, I'd be a wealthy man with a world-class personal assistant whom I would cheerfully pay a world-class salary. One of his duties would be to drive me around in a not white, nondescript, commercial-sized van with a cap and a suspension modified for comfort -- and equipped with all the amenities of your average Rolls-Royce.

                                                  *    *    *

Prior to the age of 12.75, I lived in inner-city Pittsburgh (with an h) Pennsylvania. The first ten of these years were the last ten years of the Black&White Ages.

Just about all the necessary minimum requirements for survival could be met within walking distance of home. Multiple corner stores where, if one's cash flow was a mere trickle on a given day, a gumball could be purchased for a penny and you might get a metal gumball that could be turned in for a prize.

[Imagine what the lawyers would do with metal gumballs nowadays. If you bit into/swallowed one back then you might tell your mum, certainly no one else lest you be labeled a maroon.]

There were all sorts of pizza and burger joints, almost none of which were the local outlet of a national chain. Somehow their food was seasoned with a certain undefinable essence that doesn't come in a container.

This, of course, wasn't necessarily a good thing but any neighborhood kid with a clue knew where to eat and where to avoid by the age of seven at the latest.

Also, I must give a shout out to a regional chain, White Tower, that made the best burgers I've ever had. I know this is true because, although now long gone, they were still around when I was on the verge of gruphood.

Their burgers were seasoned with a secret blend of herbs and spices (why does that sound familiar?) that did come in a container. You could buy it by the can and if it still existed I'd pay a hunnert bucks to get my hands on one.

There were pinball machines shoehorned into all sorts of places (analog games rule!) that cost a nickel for five balls.

We had both a Good Humor and a Mr. Softee Truck (the baby boom was booming). 

You could buy a hearth-baked soft pretzel from a corner pretzel vendor the size and shape of a large thumb for a penny.

You could...

[What's any of this drivel got to do with cars?]

Oh yeah, thanks Dana, my point is/was you didn't need a car to access the necessities of life. You could even buy crap like groceries, shoes, and clothes within walking distance of your house, and walk to school without being on the lookout for rusty white vans with cracked windshields.

[Before I forget, a shout-out for the 12th Street playground and the 22nd street playground/swimming pool. Oh, and 5 cent vanilla, chocolate, or cherry cokes mixed up on the spot and served at drug store soda fountains.]   

                                                  *    *    *

Anyways...

When I was 12.75 years old, we moved to the 'burbs. My mom and dad bought their first house. It was tiny and they could barely afford it but for the first time since they had gotten married, they owned a home.

There was well water to drink, grass to cut, and woods bordering on the back yard. There was even a small creek not far from the house that came with factory-installed mosquitos and a varying selection of aftermarket, discarded junk.

There was a tiny shopping center with a hardware store, a bank, and a drugstore about a half-mile away. The nearest supermarket was several miles away. We didn't own a car and couldn't afford one. Besides, my old man, mid-fifties and a confirmed city boy who had never owned (or driven) a car was an unlikely candidate for drivers Ed.

Ruh-roh Raggy!   (To be continued...)

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

Please scroll down to react, comment, share, assuage guilt, or shop at Amazon.

                                                     *    *    *

P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains. Just click here or on the Patreon button at the top or bottom of my website. 

Or, If you do your Amazon shopping by clicking on one of Amazon links on my site, Amazon will toss a few cents in my direction every time you buy something.

Or, you can just buy me a coffee.  

                                                   *    *    *

Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post an announcement when I have a new column available as well as news articles/opinion pieces that reflect where I'm coming from or that I wish to call attention to.

©2019 Mark Mehlmauer As long as you agree to include the name of my website (The Flyoverland Crank) and the URL (Creative Commons license at the top and bottom of the website) you may republish this anywhere that you please. Light editing that doesn't alter the content is acceptable. You don't have to include any of the folderol before the greeting or after the closing except for the title. 

Stupid Shit

In spite of all the media attention and numerous newly launched investigations, we don't know the answer to the two most important and interesting questions concerning the Volkswagen scandal - Who did it and Why.

A person, or persons, unknown (can't you hear a newscaster or somebody's spokesperson voice?), via software, enabled diesel powered VW's to turn on pollution control technology during emission testing to achieve desired and/or legally mandated results. These controls didn't actually function during everyday driving. Thus, VW owners could enjoy better mileage, performance and engine life than would've been possible if the controls were turned on.

You get a cool comfortable cruise and a self-righteous, saving the planet buzz.

Well duh! exclaims certain gentlereaders, the Why is self-evident, it's stated in the last sentence of the first paragraph. But I'm after a different Why. I want to know Why the Who (or more likely,They) did it considering that it must have occurred to the Who/They that if they got caught it could result in not only getting canned but also having to learn how to successfully take a shower in certain institutions (rule #1, if you drop the soap, leave it).

Then, just as he, she, ze (see previous post) or they were falling asleep on the night of the day he, she, ze or they came up with the idea, wouldn't you think that it occurred to, um...someone, that if the plot were to be revealed it could bring the whole company down?

I'll be following this story closely because I want to know if this was someone's carefully crafted plan, that if they carefully calculated the risk of getting caught and concluded it was worth it. Or, did somebody, perhaps a whole chain of somebodies, just do something stupid without thinking things through.

Which brings us to the folks that recently replaced the transmission in my van, Betty.

Huh?

Bear with me, all will soon become clear.


One morning I was on my way to work. I stopped at a red light and was waiting to turn left. I was the first person in the left turn lane and there were two or three cars waiting patiently behind me. When the light turned green I removed my foot from the brake and pushed on the gas pedal. Nothing happened. Or rather, my engine gently roared, as if I had placed the transmission in neutral, which I hadn't.

Long story short, my tranny (and I'm not referring to my friend Roscoe) had passed away quietly and without complaint. If Betty had been aware that this crucial member of the team had been manifesting any symptoms she had chosen to keep this knowledge to herself. Sweet, and what fresh hell is this?

Hilarity ensued. The story ends with yours truly being given a ride to work in the back of a police car ("...sorry sir, it's policy."), The best part was when we pulled up to the main entrance (I admit, it was my idea) and my uniformed chauffeur got out to open the car door for me.


Yet another long story short, the van was repaired at Porter's Auto Wrecking and Service, 1793 N.Main St., Niles, Ohio, 44446  a local facility. When my son-in-law picked it up he pointed out that someone had apparently hit the driver's side of the front end, causing what looked to be relatively minor damage.

Oh, yeah...uh, well, the a guy that drives the Toms Tools Truck  a truck for one of our vendors accidently backed into your van. He's died since, but I'm sure his son will take care of it, here's his number. If he won't do right by you, we'll take care of it, and then sue the estate to recover the money.

Yup, he really did die. Yup, they didn't feel any need to mention the accident before being prompted. And yup, the son told us to go pound salt since we were clearly making the whole thing up and just trying to rip off his dead father.

And yup, Porter's, upon being informed of this and the fact that I had to spend $200 bucks at another facility (over and above the $1400 bucks I had already paid them) to get a headlight, left front turn signal assembly (used) and a battery (new). so I could actually use the vehicle, never mind the body damage -- saw an opening and decided that the issue was between me and the dead guy, and also declared that I should go pound salt.

They didn't put it that crudely, I confess I was the one that got a little crude.

They were somewhat preoccupied with trying to not look directly at me while keeping an eye on the frightened looking customer standing nearby, who was keeping an eye on me. Now, while I know the who, what, when (more or less) and where, why is a mystery.

Having endured a somewhat unpleasant decade that began in the spring of 2005, I'm in denial in that I refuse to believe that God/the cosmos/bad karma/etc. are responsible because that might mean I've begun another decade that's going to suck sweaty socks.

As to why the dead guys son chooses to dishonor his father's memory, or why the repair shop took the high road at first, or why they don't split the difference and craft an honorable compromise -- who knows? People do stupid shit when money is involved, even relatively trivial sums.You can take that to the bank.

The name of the repair shop and the tool vendor has been crossed out so that I can avoid being on the receiving end of a lawsuit. My lawyer says I'm on the side of the angels; he's urging me to report the non-reported accident to the local police. I'm going to see my car insurance guy this week and get his opinion. I haven't made a claim in a decade, so I'm hoping that if I do I won't have a rate increase or be canceled. I figure that if he leaves me holding the bag at least I'll be forewarned that I may have indeed begun another decade of sweaty sock sucking.

Since the above is about a thousand words, my unofficial limit, I won't mention that I paid extra to have my power steering pump replaced, along with the tranny, and that the unnamed facility forgot to top off the power steering reservoir. Anyway, it was only short about half a quart. If you had the radio turned up you could hardly hear the pump gasping for more fluid on turns.

Have an OK day.


[P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a Patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains.

If there are some readers out there that think my shtuff is worth a buck or three a month, color me honored, and grateful. Regardless, if you like it, could you please share it? There are buttons at the end of every column.]


©2015 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

If you're reading this on my website (where there are tons of older columns, a glossary, and other goodies) and if you wish to react (way cooler than liking) -- please scroll down.