“A Minivan? Really?”

~ Elizabeth ~ 2 Comments

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Maybe it was my nostalgia for the way back of my childhood station wagon. Maybe it was a loathing, completely irrational, for SUVs. At any rate, when my clutch knee gave out, we rented a minivan while we looked for a car with an automatic transmission. And, “dear reader, I married him.”(Literary allusion for the literary types.)

So one afternoon in April, I wandered over to Timberline Dodge to “look at” minivans. And of course they just happened to have an excellent deal on a green/blue minivan that just happened to be in the showroom that very day. And for a “very reasonable” monthly payment, I could own it. We had never bought a car on payments, and of course I had loudly bragged about that fact. But I called my husband at work to come over and “check out” this van and hear about the “very reasonable” payments.

He could tell I was smitten, and we left that day in a brand new 2000 Dodge Caravan with three rows of seats, a great stereo and automatic transmission. Best of all, I could see out all directions when I drove, no longer hunkered down in a regular car. I am only 5’4″ and had trouble seeing clearly out of our littler cars.

Now all we needed was a long distance trip to take it through its paces. Which we embarked on the next February. About which more tomorrow.

“Clutch???”

~ Elizabeth ~ 1 Comment

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My beloved Ford Fairlane, having traveled back and forth across the entire United States, met an untimely death. I had lent it to a “friend” who drove it headlong into another car on a quiet city street, demolishing my car. My “friend” was so “under the influence”(of what I dare not guess) that he just sat there until the police came to wake him up. So I lost a car and a “friend” in one afternoon.

Some time later, I bought a 1970 Toyota Corolla, similar to the one above, to replace my Ford. I know. I said I would always stick with Fords. But this was 1970, and anyone who was anyone on the West Coast now drove Japanese cars. And I wanted to be anyone, so I bought one. Somewhat clueless buyer that I was, it wasn’t until the car was driven to my house that I discovered it had manual transmission. And I had never driven a stick shift in my life. But—how hard could it be?

Well neigh impossible, it turns out. But my little sister came to the rescue. She drove the car over to a big empty parking lot. “We aren’t leaving here until you know how to shift gears!” So I ground the gears and stalled the car and ground some more and backed up by mistake. Finally I thought I was the queen of shifting. Then she said, “The real problem is on hills.” So she took me to a very slight incline and told me to imagine that she was lying behind the car. Then she told me to drive up the incline. I guess the fear of running her over(even just in my imagination) really worked. I learned exactly how to coordinate the clutch, brake and accelerator to go up a hill without rolling backwards.

And until 1996, when I developed severe bursitis in my clutching knee, I drove Japanese cars with stick shifts. And boy did I think I had it going on! But as we know, pride goeth before a fall.

My next car was a minivan.

“Just Stick Out Your Thumb”

~ Elizabeth ~ 9 Comments

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In the spring of 1967, I took another road trip.This one didn’t involve one car, but many. My boyfriend at the time(who later married my roommate, but that’s another story!) and I decided to go from Cambridge to Montreal to visit the World’s Fair. Neither of us had a car, but that didn’t seem to matter. We decided we would hitchhike.

At this time, the fastest way to get to Montreal would have been on the New York Thruway for most of the way. However, New York State was vigorously enforcing anti-hitchhiking laws. That left us Vermont. We caught our first ride across Massachusetts to Route 7 in Vermont and were determined to hitch up it to Canada. We were beyond ignorant of what we were planning. In those years, drivers on Route 7 were 1. few and far between and 2. not ever going more than 5 or 10 miles. We spent a day hopping through Vermont in very short spurts.

My favorite ride came courtesy of a family who passed us by and then circled back around to let us in the car. My boyfriend had long scraggly hair and I had straight long hair. The family said,”We never met any real hippies before, so we were curious.” They drove us 10 miles before letting us out.

Our last hitch was with a man in a Cadillac who stopped for us near the Canadian border. He was wearing a crash helmet, which ought to have been a warning, but we needed a ride. He could take us to the outskirts of Montreal. He drove like a maniac, and of course got pulled over by the Canadian border patrol who thoroughly searched his car for contraband. Fortunately for us clueless students, we were all waved through. It turned out he was well known by the guards!

We had a wonderful time at the Fair, staying with relatives.

We took Greyhound home.

“Parlez Vous Francais?”

~ Elizabeth ~ Leave a comment

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In the spring of 1969, a good friend and I took a road trip to Quebec. At college, there were three full weeks of what was called “reading period” to  allow time to study for end of the year exams. That year the reading period was in May for the late May exams. My friend and I had one course in common, and we each had only one other final. At that time, a full load was four demanding classes, but two of ours did not have finals scheduled.

Reading period was usually extremely intense. That year was even more nerve racking. Students had gone on strike at Harvard to protest the Viet Nam War and had occupied University Hall. Harvard had called in the Cambridge City Police, an unusual cooperation between town and gown. Tension on campus was high and everyone was expected to have a stance about the political situation. Sally, my friend, and I were ready for a break and decided to hit the road in my beloved Ford.

Sally was from Montreal so she suggested we start there, then drive out the Gaspe(forgive my English keyboard) Peninsula, then drive a loop through New Brunswick, Maine and New Hampshire back to Cambridge. This sounded wonderful, so we set out. We had the settlement money from the Cambridge Small Claims Court which we figured would be sufficient. We had no other plans.

In those days, Quebec was solidly French and few people spoke any English. We each had schoolyard French, so we muddled along all right. The rock above is in Perce, a lovely town on the north side of the peninsula. We had lunch in a little hotel there, then drove on. Gaspe at that time was very isolated and not designed for tourists. Each little town announced itself around a bend with a church steeple. Outdoor bread ovens abounded. We stopped at one farm and bought some from the housewife using our broken French. We spent that night in the car, stretched out on the very comfortable seats.

Driving further on the route, we stayed at Acadia National Park, which was warm for May and we studied for our mutual exam at a picnic table. Later we bought lobster from a Maine pound and ate it by the ocean.

By the time we returned to Cambridge we were rested, well prepared for our exams and had a perspective of a larger world than that of the insulated university. What more could you ask from a road  trip?

“Where’s My Car?”

~ Elizabeth ~ Leave a comment
Boston 1969
Boston 2015

In February 1969, Cambridge had a massive blizzard for three straight days.(The picture on the left was from 1969 in Boston). It left an average of 22 inches of snow, but more in some places. It covered the bottom steps off the porch of our housing. The first two days were on the weekend, so we didn’t have to worry about going anywhere. The third day, we had classes, so we put on boots, tights, coats, gloves and hats and set off on the 20 minute walk to our lecture hall. (Girls were not allowed to wear skirts to class.) To our astonishment, our lecturer didn’t arrive. So we tromped back home, the only time we didn’t have class in my four years at college.

Needless to say, it buried my car.(The right hand picture is from a more recent Boston blizzard, but looks identical.) I dug for a long time, only to find that the street was now higher than my car. So I made little ramps in the snow to get up to the height of the street. Of course, when I left, I put chairs in my little spot so that no one else would take advantage of my stellar work! Recently I guess Boston has tried to prevent this, but old habits still prevail for many.

After a few days, a Cambridge garbage truck failed to navigate our little street and hit my car. The only way to get reimbursed for the damage was to get two estimates and show up in Small Claims Court. I went to one body shop and got an estimate. The owner asked me what had happened, and when I told him, he said:”The City hit you?” When I affirmed that, he tore up the first estimate, opened his desk drawer and took out two totally different body shop pads and wrote me two estimates.

I took them both to the Small Claims Court and was awarded the smaller(still inflated) estimate. I never did repair the car, but used the money for my spring road trip. More about that later.

 

 

“A Car of One’s Own”

~ Elizabeth ~ 6 Comments

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Virginia Woolf wrote a wonderful book A Room of One’s Own about the space a woman needed to be a thoughtful writer. I amended this to suit my automobile theme which continues today.

Above is pictured a 1965 Ford Fairlane 500, 289 with a dual carburetor, blue and white, with four doors. It is, regrettably,  not the original car of my own. But it is a remarkable likeness to mine, save the fancy wheels which I didn’t have.

In the autumn of 1968, when I was about to return to Cambridge, Massachusetts for my senior year in college, my parents surprised me with the gift of my father’s car. He was going to buy a new car and thought I might enjoy having one for my last year of school. The only major problem was that the car and I were in Oregon, 3084 miles away. But I, the intrepid(or loony) 21 year old said yes to the cross country solo trek.

Armed with a map of the United States and a Shell Oil credit card, I set off on the interstate. In those days, I could use the Shell card at motels as well as gas stations. I also had traveler’s checks for meals. I drove each day until I was exhausted and then checked into a handy motel. One morning I woke up to see a large water tower with WSP on it. I had, unknowingly, slept next door to the Wyoming State Penitentiary!

Wyoming had no speed limit and I had the thrill of blasting the AM radio and careening down the road at 110 mph. The previous day, as I drove the hill down into Ogden, Utah, I had heard the Beatles song Hey Jude for the first time. It astonished me and is forever linked to my long trek.

By the time I got to New Jersey, on the way to stay with friends who lived in Washington Heights in New York City, I was exhausted. I could not figure out how to get to the George Washington Bridge. I could see it, but pulled over and wept at my inability to get on it. I pulled myself together, tried one last time, and successfully crossed the Hudson to the safe arms of my worried friends. There were of course no cell phones then, and they couldn’t figure out what was keeping me.

Well, I wasn’t Charles Lindbergh on his solo flight across the Atlantic, but it challenged me deeply. I made it across the country by myself. That was a true accomplishment.

“Parking”

~ Elizabeth ~ 2 Comments

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When I served on the City of Portland Planning Commission, we were selecting “view corridors” to preserve in the city. These were vantage points from which a wide panorama could be seen without interruption of buildings or trees. The Commission wished to designate these to preserve them from future intrusions. When the staff finished outlining the choices for the Commission, I blurted out,”You have just identified all the places we used to park as high school students.” (Need I add that I often blurt before I consider the appropriateness of the comment?)

When I was in high school, any displays of affection had to take place in cars. Today, many parents are at work during the day, so the house is available. In my days, someone was almost always either at home or about to be back home. So cars were the venue. Of course, we needed to park the car for such activity. And for some reason, it was important to park in a place that had a great view, such as Council Crest Park, pictured above.

This being a G-rated blog, I will be discrete here. I just need to state that it is difficult to see any view out of a steamed up window! Importantly, there were many accepted standards in place in that time that protected girls. One was not expected to go beyond set limits that everyone seemed to acknowledge without discussion. Yes, occasionally, I knew of a girl who went “all the way,” but this was rare. Mostly, it was a lot of kissing.

So here’s to “parking” and the joy I have remembering it. I wish that teenage girls today could feel as comfortable saying “no” as we did. And, when we did, the boys still asked us out again!

Non Parallel Parking

~ Elizabeth ~ 2 Comments

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First of all, how funny is this caption on the bottom on this image?  Apparently, you are very manly if you can parallel park.  Maybe that was my problem back in 1964 when I first tried to get my driver’s license.

I had learned to drive at 17, but I had to pass the Oregon driver’s test to get my license. I had studied the book and passed the written exam easily. However, before I could even get on the highway, the examiner had me parallel park between two orange pylons. I relied on luck when trying to park, looking for an end spot I could pull into. No one had taught me to parallel park, but I wondered just how hard it could be. Right?

I carefully pulled up next to the front pylon, turned the wheel, backed up and ran over the back pylon. Then to finish my exhibition of skill, I pulled forward and knocked over the front pylon.

So many points were deducted for that show of expertise, that even if I drove perfectly on the highway, I would still fail. So to save us both some time, the examiner said “thank you” and got out of the car. I didn’t try for a license again until I was 20 and had practiced and practiced my deft parking skills.

I wonder if parallel parking is still a part of the requirement for getting a license.

A Very Bad Idea

~ Elizabeth ~ 7 Comments

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In the summer of 1963, my mother drove the four of us, now aged 16,13,10 and 8 from Oregon to New York to visit our East Coast relatives. We were all in the “B-Mobile” of course, and my mother was the only driver, so we took it somewhat slowly. She took us to Yellowstone National Park on the way where we stayed in an old hotel which looked out directly at the Old Faithful geyser.

We were most excited about the bears that roamed freely. Here I took a photo from what must be outside of our car of people interacting with the bears. The driver of the Chevrolet behind us is screaming at the passenger to roll down the window! I thought that was insane. But who was I to talk? I was, after all, outside of the car myself.

Later, while exploring the hot pots of boiling liquid, we spotted two little cute bear cubs. Before we could approach them, my mother yelled at us to stay put. She accurately knew that there must be a mother grizzly bear near by and knew we should not be between the mother and the cubs. It makes me wonder now how she, growing up in Buffalo, knew this true bit of wisdom. Fortunately, she did know this, and we caught a glimpse of the mother as the cubs scampered away into the woods.

As for the accommodations in the “B-Mobile” for traveling cross country, we all begged for the ” way back.” That area was padded with sleeping bags and pillows and allowed us to stretch out in comfort. Of course it also allowed any two of us ample opportunity to squabble, which ended with one of us in the dreaded front seat alone with our mom to keep an eagle eye on the offender.

Only children have no idea what shenanigans siblings can get into in the “way back” of a station wagon!

Room For All

~ Elizabeth ~ 4 Comments

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Here I am all ready to go to my favorite summer escape–Camp Namanu. I have finally learned how to roll up my Army surplus, down filled, mummy sleeping bag. There were a lot of very warm sleeping bags for sale after the Korean War, and we had six of them. In case you are unfamiliar with a mummy sleeping bag, it is called that because once you have zipped it up, only your face peeks out, making you look like a mummy. Unfortunately, it was very easy to get turned around in the night and I was afraid I would suffocate before I could find the face opening! I didn’t want to be an actual mummy.

But the star of this photo is the rear end of our famous “B-Mobile” named in honor of my mother Betty who drove it. With four kids, they bought a station wagon to haul us all around. Of course, in case you had any doubts, it was a FORD. This model of station wagons was relatively new , accommodating the large families that people, including ours, were having. Our family of 4 was actually rather small in my neighborhood.

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This is a picture of a 1953 Ford Wagon, and I think ours was a 1954, but they were very similar. This had a front seat, a middle seat, and a way back with no seats. Tomorrow I will write about our cross country adventures in the B-Mobile. Our East Coast cousins, living in suburban New York City had the Cadillac of station wagons.1948-50s-259

But they actually used it to take my uncle to the train station for his daily commute to Manhattan. These wood paneled wagons became famous with surfers in the years to come. “I bought a ’30 Ford wagon and we call it a woodie
(Surf City, here we come)”