Though she's off to Japan for a while, often as not lately when I get home and she is here, Junko's been reading something or another about automobiles. Such is the obsession of the new driver, even at middle age (44.5), who's still amazed at how well she can maneuver cars of various sizes in this, one of the strangest driving environments on the planet.
After all, we don't just have hills in San Francisco, we have mountains. Plus a confusing array of one-way streets that only occasionally continue to be one-way streets as they bifurcate the city. No, that would be far too easy. Our streets like to tease drivers: Now I'm one-way that way; now I'm two-way; oh oh, now I'm one-way the other way!
If this sounds like our population, sobeit, but hey, I'm not complaining here. The sexual orientation of those around me only make this place more interesting. I see, I sense, I appreciate. Sometimes, I admit, I feel even older than I am biologically, because I am so boring, i.e., single-minded as far as my sexual proclivities are concerned.
My only consolation is that I love women SO much that I hope that counts for something somewhere for somebody. And I do. My eyes still wander; Junko makes fun of me for it. "You love Asian women so much, you really should move to Daly City," she says sincerely. But no, I protest, I also love white, black, Latina, Indian, Filipina, and Indigenous women -- do they live there too?
It's a familiar joke, because she knows I could never live in Daly City. Malvina Reynolds sealed that deal a long time ago when she wrote "Little Boxes," and enshrined the term "ticky-tacky" in our language eternally.
In any event, the title of this post contains a promise, so I best deliver on it. The image of a car above is a 1956 Ford, blue and white. As the new cars were being promoted in late summer/early fall 1955, I was 8, and I got my hands on the photos of what was soon to be coming down the line.
I fell in love with this particular car with this particular color scheme.
But it was forbidden love, naturally the most exciting kind. I already knew that NOBODY in my family would buy a Ford. Why? Because, according to family legend as it was related to me, Ford stole my Grandpa's tool and die tool designs and patented them, never compensating him a dime.
I do not know the truth of this family story, but I'm thinking my cousin Dan might. The way I heard the tale, Grandpa quit Ford when he found out that he had been ripped off. It may have been during the Depression or maybe in WW2. But, so I recall being told, he went over to GM, and from then on, we all only bought GM or Chrysler cars.
I know my Uncle George went to work not for Ford or GM but for Chrysler. Was this related to the insult to our immigrant clan? Again, I just don't know. Probably my big sister Nancy or Dan's big brother George know many more facts than I, in this regard.
When I reached age 16, I'd been working summer and after-school jobs for around four years. I'd delivered newspapers, picked tomatoes (learning a bit of Spanish in the process), managed a Hobby Shop, walked dogs, babysat, and done odd jobs in the neighborhood.
This lovely colored Oldsmobile, or rather one that could be its twin, came on the market near where we lived at the time, just outside of Bay City, Michigan. The asking price was $40. Despite my work habits and my inherited (from my Scottish Grandpa) ability to save pennies, I still didn't have that much, and my parents were in no position to help me buy it.
So I lost it. Somebody else claimed the car I lusted after, as much as any girl I lusted after at that age. Instead my first car came into my possession a few years later. We called her "Alison's Restaurant," but that's another old story, one to be told some other time...
-30-
3 comments:
Actually, David, Grandpa's objection to Ford was a bit simpler according to Dad. Grandpa was upset when Ford sent men around to ask questions about its employees, investigating their personal lives. This was intolerable to Grandpa, who made wine all during Prohibition, by the way, for similar reason.
As you know, Grandpa was devoutly religious and was not a drinking man himself. But central to his dream of immigrating to the United States was Freedom. When Prohibition was repealed, he stopped making wine. In his mind, the government had no business dictating what a man did in his home, and it certainly wasn't the business of Ford Motor either.
Dad did go to work for Fisher Body (division of General Motors) after the war. He was sought out by Chrysler Corporation in 1956-57 when he was a General Foreman for Fisher Body in Joliet, Illinois. Our family had been living in Hinsdale, Illinois, for 5 magical years in my memory, in a new subdivision not unlike those of Malvina Reynolds' song. In those wonder years of 5 to 10, I was allowed to wander and explore with my buddies from early morning until late evening, reporting in only for lunch and dinner, or body repair work as needed (we consumed a lot of band-aids and topical ointments). I don't think we paid much attention to the ticky-tacky as there seemed far too many other wonders to pursue.
Hi Dan and David,
I remember mother telling me about Grandpa designing tools to repair machines and having the foreman at Ford take credit for his designs.
Mother worked for GM for a couple of years while Dad was in the service and I worked for Fisher Body until Norm and I moved to Midland.
Nancy
Thanks, Dan and Nancy. Who knows where my feverish imagination came up with the myth that Ford stole his tool designs. Nancy's version rings true...and it is somewhat close to my mythical version. Only the bad guy was not a company but a supervisor. Sort of betrays my political proclivities, one might conclude.
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