Back in the 60s in Philly, we had limited television viewing choices – ABC, CBS, NBC and public broadcasting on channel 12, with UHF stations just being launched. I loved TV and thus watched a lot of shows that were not of the highest quality, but they were what was available.
One of those shows was My Mother the Car, starring Jerry Van Dyke and the voice of Ann Sothern as his deceased mother reincarnated in the form of an old car with the ability to talk through its radio. The jaunty theme song stated, “A 1928 Porter, that’s my mother dear.”
I was a ten-year-old with no discernment. I watched every episode, and I guess I enjoyed the show. Nearly sixty years later, that theme song is still stuck in my brain. Not surprisingly, it did not garner critical praise. The ratings were low, and it was cancelled after one season, 1965-1966.
The title of this post, then, might lead you to think that an old Buick was talking to me. Not quite. The only voices coming out of the radio were of the top forty disc jockeys or laid-back announcers from the FM freeform stations that I played constantly. No, the lessons I learned from the LeSabre were there for me to discover – no verbal instruction needed. But first, the car’s backstory is worth knowing.
I have written about my first car, a 1965 Chevy Biscayne, and its unfortunate demise. The LeSabre was car number two, and it came my way via my brother-in-law, Gerry, my sister Sue’s husband. When the two of them met, he was a sailor in the Navy, stationed at the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard. Originally from New York City, Gerry was a lot of fun as he often acted like a kid himself. When Michael and I were still in elementary school, it was always a treat to have Gerry visit. One event in particular shines a light on the childlike side of his personality.
Back at about the time that I was watching My Mother the Car, there was a fad sweeping America focused on the newly-introduced Superball. Made of synthetic rubber, it was about the size of a tennis ball and had properties that allowed it to bounce much higher than any other ball of its size. Gerry was intrigued by the Superball and began to speculate about how high one could make it ascend. And so, an ill-conceived experiment was launched.
Hunting Park was just across 9th Street from our row home. There was a pavement on the park side of the road that paralleled the street and the block of homes across from it. Gerry’s idea was to go over to that walkway, then rare back and throw the ball into the pavement as hard as he could. We would then see just how high it would go. There were no “adults” around to tell us that was a bad idea. Michael, Gerry and I crossed the street to the park.
Gerry was pretty strong and in good shape. He unlimbered his arm, like a pitcher before taking the mound. There was not much thought given as to where the ball would go, except that it would go up. The moment came. With a magnificent grunt and a powerful thrust, Gerry threw the Superball as hard as he could into the pavement. It shot up into the air, above the trees, and over the row homes, never to be seen again. Where it landed, we did not know.
It was a thrilling happening. Looking back, though, there could have been any number of bad consequences. The ball could have bounced straight up and hit Gerry in the face, causing who knows what damage, or it could have hit Michael or me. It could have hit one of the row homes, breaking a window, or smashed into one of the parked cars on 9th Street. However, in his fun-seeking way, Gerry didn’t worry about any of it, and that’s one reason we loved being with him.
As I grew older, my relationship with Gerry matured as well. He taught me photography, including developing film and printing photos, which led to me setting up my own darkroom. Fun was always infused in things we did together.
When my Biscayne was totaled, I was desperate for transportation, as I still had a year to go driving every day to Bucks County Community College. Gerry came to the rescue. He gave me a dark blue 1963 Buick LeSabre. It was twelve years old and was not the car of my dreams, but it filled the need at no cost.
The LeSabre was a behemoth of a car. It was huge, and it consumed gas like nobody’s business. The miles per gallon could not have been much more than ten. It also went through oil at a rapid pace. I would buy the cheapest motor oil I could find by the case and keep feeding the engine as required. Despite its deficiencies, I was fortunate to have been given the car, especially since all of the money I had at that time was destined to be spent on my college education. And in the long run, the car taught me some things, all based on its idiosyncrasies.
First, it was probably Gerry who told me that if you mashed down hard on the gas pedal twice in rapid succession while in motion, the car would jump into some sort of super gear and accelerate like crazy. This capability was supposed to be used judiciously, when an immediate speed-up was necessitated. As a 19-year-old, I did not use it judiciously, and delighted in making the car jump into a hyper-gear. That is, I delighted in it for about five or six instances until the day I did it again, heard something pop, and realized that even the regular accelerating power had somehow been damaged. I did not have money to get it fixed. Lesson One – Do not overuse special powers.
Second, the car came equipped with an adjustable speed buzzer. When the car would hit a preassigned miles per hour mark, a loud, tinny buzzer would sound from the console. Back then, the national speed limit was 55 MPH. So, I set the buzzer at 60 MPH. I may have been injudicious about the use of the maxi-accelerator, but I didn’t want to get any speeding tickets. It was fascinating to experience the many times that my speed imperceptibly crept up to 60 and the buzzer went off. It wasn’t a speed restrictor, and the car didn’t have cruise control, but it kept me in line. Lesson Two – Take advantage of guard rails that keep you out of trouble.
Third, the car came to me with a customization that I have never seen in any other car. It was a five-lane rearview mirror! Yes, instead of one rearview mirror in front of my eyes, there was a four-foot-wide apparatus that included five mirrors. The idea was that even on a multi-lane highway, you could see everything behind you. That may have been the concept, but it didn’t work for me. I found the multitude of mirrors confusing, and I can’t recall that having such backward visibility actually was helpful. Lesson Three – Keep your eyes focused on where you are headed, and don’t fixate on what’s behind you.
Just before I left Philly for my junior year of college in Florida, I sold the LeSabre for $100. Did I give that money to Gerry or split it with him? I don’t remember, but I am still thankful to him for giving me that enormous car.