A CAR TO NAP IN -1967 to 1979
What does a $40 car look like? Ours was held together with baling wire, Bondo and duct tape. It had 226,328 miles on it. The front seat consisted of springs and gaping holes. The after-factory air conditioner hung from the dashboard by a single bolt. It was a 1968 Plymouth Valiant 100 that had been my mom’s car for five years. It had been my dad’s car for six years. It had been my car for less than a year.
In August of 1979 my dad sold it for $40 to a friend of our handyman. The handyman’s friend touched each knob and dial on the dash repeatedly saying, “This is great,” over and over again. He turned to the handyman and said, “I can’t believe I’m going to have my own car,” and then he misted up, not ever noticing the two dozen coffee cup rings my dad had left on the top of the dashboard.
He lied down on the back seat and looked up at the torn roof liner. “I could nap back here,” he announced.
He pulled two crumpled twenties out of two separate pockets and shoved them into my dad’s hands. When my dad gave him the keys, he hoisted them up and down in his palm to feel their small heft. Then he yelped a rebel yell, started the car, and drove it out of our lives forever. We heard the motor roar when the handyman’s friend made his turn onto Spring Valley.
Twelve years earlier, I was about to turn six and my brother was turning four, when my mom began a search for a car that her children could nap comfortably in while she drove. She had a 1960 Valiant 200 that smelled like dust, maple syrup and celery. You couldn’t see the floorboard though my mom’s paper collection of flyers, handouts and catalogs.
The 1960 Valiant was a space-aged compact with a push-button transmission, a raised wheel on the trunk, tailfins and a silver embossed dash. My mom was a 32-year-old budding children’s book author who got upset with salesmen, bank tellers, checkout clerks and the like when the real world butted up against her fantasy of what the world was.
She dragged us from car dealer to car dealer, forcing us to lie down in the back of each car she tested, to see if we were comfortable napping. It was sort of like trying on new pants to see if they fit, but doing it with the backseats of Detroit’s finest. Oddly enough, as I remember it, all of these car dealers were selling the same cars. You see, she had a Valiant and liked that, so we visited different Plymouth dealers throughout the county, rather than actually looking at other brands.
She was very brand loyal. Our washing machine always had a box of Tide, a box of Cold Power and a bottle of Downy atop it. In the bathroom, we had a bar of Ivory Snow and a tube of Colgate with MFP. Our kitchen always had Brillo Pads, never SOS, Ajax, never Comet, and Palmolive Dishwasher Detergent, never Cascade. My mom had a Valiant and even though it was dying, it was a brand she knew… so we only looked at Plymouths, and most of them were Valiants.
Finally, she dragged us to a dealer who decided what my mom needed was a Barracuda. He walked us over to a gold fastback. It was the most beautiful car I had ever seen, a real Hot Wheel. Under the huge glass fastback there was a carpeted flat area that looked an awful lot like a bed to the salesman and my mom.
This was what my mom had been looking for all along, a car with a place for my brother and me to nap while she drove. She had us climb into the back and lie down. She tested the area between the rear wall of the car and my shoe like she tested new shoes for me, pushing a thumb against the front toe. I fit perfectly in the Barracuda.
My mom told the salesman she wanted to take the Barracuda for a test drive. He said, “Great, put your kids in their seats and we’ll go. My mom said, “I need to make sure they’re comfortable lying in the back while I drive.” The salesman said this was a bad idea. My mom insisted it was a good idea. Finally, he told her he didn’t want to come along if my brother and I weren’t in our seats. My mom took the car for a test drive without him.
As we pulled off the lot, I felt good, lying in the sun that was penetrating through the huge rear window. The sky was blue and the car smelled new. There were little lights at the end of each fender that flashed with the blinkers to let you know that they were working. I was in Heaven, until we hit first bump. My mom called back to see if we felt it. Then she had to stop quickly in order not to run a red light. My brother and I flew forward. Our heads smacked into the back of the back seat. Our bodies accordioned. We both began to cry. My mom took the Barracuda back to the Plymouth dealer and told him it wasn’t a very good car.
Frustrated, she dragged us back home, ready to give up, and told my dad this. He took us to another Plymouth dealer, Castle Motors, but they were closed when we got there. My mom looked in the fence at the 1968 cars all lined up. She squealed in delight, “Charley, that’s it, that’s it. That’s the car I want.” She pointed at a blue 1968 Plymouth Valiant 100. “Isn’t it cute?” After test driving a dozen cars and measuring the back seats of a dozen more using my brother and me as her yardsticks, she picked the Valiant out instantaneously through a chain-link fence. We went back the next day and bought it for $2,683.15.
Over the days, months and years that followed, my brother and I spent hours and hours napping and sleeping in the backseat, watching as the light and shadows from streetlamps swept across the rear window like a black and white kaleidoscope. Brand loyalty turned out to be a good thing, as history actually proved the Slant Six Valiant to be one of the most reliable cars to come out of the late 1960s. And as the years passed, eventually I went from napping in the Valiant to driving it.
Near the end of the twelve years that we owned it, I nursed it over to Parwood Sunoco one day, keeping the windows cracked open because the muffler was leaking carbon monoxide into the cabin. When Mark, the mechanic, opened the hood he looked at me and said, “You know what this car needs?”
“What,” I asked?
“A replacement car….”
My clearest memory of it the Valiant though isn’t about how old and enfeebled it became. In fact, my clearest memory is about napping… being six-years-old at my grandmother’s apartment. I was in my pajamas and my dad carried me down the long staircase and out into the crystal cold night. He put me on the hard vinyl of the Valiant’s back seat. He put my brother on a pillow on the floor. We drove home in that steady staccato of the streetlamps kaleidoscope washing across us and then fading into shadows.
As unbelievably dangerous as it probably was to let us nap in that car, when I did, I knew I was in the safest place in the world. And because of that, I understand why the handyman’s friend was so delighted to buy the car. I truly understand.
In August of 1979 my dad sold it for $40 to a friend of our handyman. The handyman’s friend touched each knob and dial on the dash repeatedly saying, “This is great,” over and over again. He turned to the handyman and said, “I can’t believe I’m going to have my own car,” and then he misted up, not ever noticing the two dozen coffee cup rings my dad had left on the top of the dashboard.
He lied down on the back seat and looked up at the torn roof liner. “I could nap back here,” he announced.
He pulled two crumpled twenties out of two separate pockets and shoved them into my dad’s hands. When my dad gave him the keys, he hoisted them up and down in his palm to feel their small heft. Then he yelped a rebel yell, started the car, and drove it out of our lives forever. We heard the motor roar when the handyman’s friend made his turn onto Spring Valley.
Twelve years earlier, I was about to turn six and my brother was turning four, when my mom began a search for a car that her children could nap comfortably in while she drove. She had a 1960 Valiant 200 that smelled like dust, maple syrup and celery. You couldn’t see the floorboard though my mom’s paper collection of flyers, handouts and catalogs.
The 1960 Valiant was a space-aged compact with a push-button transmission, a raised wheel on the trunk, tailfins and a silver embossed dash. My mom was a 32-year-old budding children’s book author who got upset with salesmen, bank tellers, checkout clerks and the like when the real world butted up against her fantasy of what the world was.
She dragged us from car dealer to car dealer, forcing us to lie down in the back of each car she tested, to see if we were comfortable napping. It was sort of like trying on new pants to see if they fit, but doing it with the backseats of Detroit’s finest. Oddly enough, as I remember it, all of these car dealers were selling the same cars. You see, she had a Valiant and liked that, so we visited different Plymouth dealers throughout the county, rather than actually looking at other brands.
She was very brand loyal. Our washing machine always had a box of Tide, a box of Cold Power and a bottle of Downy atop it. In the bathroom, we had a bar of Ivory Snow and a tube of Colgate with MFP. Our kitchen always had Brillo Pads, never SOS, Ajax, never Comet, and Palmolive Dishwasher Detergent, never Cascade. My mom had a Valiant and even though it was dying, it was a brand she knew… so we only looked at Plymouths, and most of them were Valiants.
Finally, she dragged us to a dealer who decided what my mom needed was a Barracuda. He walked us over to a gold fastback. It was the most beautiful car I had ever seen, a real Hot Wheel. Under the huge glass fastback there was a carpeted flat area that looked an awful lot like a bed to the salesman and my mom.
This was what my mom had been looking for all along, a car with a place for my brother and me to nap while she drove. She had us climb into the back and lie down. She tested the area between the rear wall of the car and my shoe like she tested new shoes for me, pushing a thumb against the front toe. I fit perfectly in the Barracuda.
My mom told the salesman she wanted to take the Barracuda for a test drive. He said, “Great, put your kids in their seats and we’ll go. My mom said, “I need to make sure they’re comfortable lying in the back while I drive.” The salesman said this was a bad idea. My mom insisted it was a good idea. Finally, he told her he didn’t want to come along if my brother and I weren’t in our seats. My mom took the car for a test drive without him.
As we pulled off the lot, I felt good, lying in the sun that was penetrating through the huge rear window. The sky was blue and the car smelled new. There were little lights at the end of each fender that flashed with the blinkers to let you know that they were working. I was in Heaven, until we hit first bump. My mom called back to see if we felt it. Then she had to stop quickly in order not to run a red light. My brother and I flew forward. Our heads smacked into the back of the back seat. Our bodies accordioned. We both began to cry. My mom took the Barracuda back to the Plymouth dealer and told him it wasn’t a very good car.
Frustrated, she dragged us back home, ready to give up, and told my dad this. He took us to another Plymouth dealer, Castle Motors, but they were closed when we got there. My mom looked in the fence at the 1968 cars all lined up. She squealed in delight, “Charley, that’s it, that’s it. That’s the car I want.” She pointed at a blue 1968 Plymouth Valiant 100. “Isn’t it cute?” After test driving a dozen cars and measuring the back seats of a dozen more using my brother and me as her yardsticks, she picked the Valiant out instantaneously through a chain-link fence. We went back the next day and bought it for $2,683.15.
Over the days, months and years that followed, my brother and I spent hours and hours napping and sleeping in the backseat, watching as the light and shadows from streetlamps swept across the rear window like a black and white kaleidoscope. Brand loyalty turned out to be a good thing, as history actually proved the Slant Six Valiant to be one of the most reliable cars to come out of the late 1960s. And as the years passed, eventually I went from napping in the Valiant to driving it.
Near the end of the twelve years that we owned it, I nursed it over to Parwood Sunoco one day, keeping the windows cracked open because the muffler was leaking carbon monoxide into the cabin. When Mark, the mechanic, opened the hood he looked at me and said, “You know what this car needs?”
“What,” I asked?
“A replacement car….”
My clearest memory of it the Valiant though isn’t about how old and enfeebled it became. In fact, my clearest memory is about napping… being six-years-old at my grandmother’s apartment. I was in my pajamas and my dad carried me down the long staircase and out into the crystal cold night. He put me on the hard vinyl of the Valiant’s back seat. He put my brother on a pillow on the floor. We drove home in that steady staccato of the streetlamps kaleidoscope washing across us and then fading into shadows.
As unbelievably dangerous as it probably was to let us nap in that car, when I did, I knew I was in the safest place in the world. And because of that, I understand why the handyman’s friend was so delighted to buy the car. I truly understand.
1 comments:
i have a 1968 valiant signet that belonged to my great grandfather it needs alot of work but its mine and when im done it will b 1 of a kinda and it will b used for naping
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