How the events, the cars--the music and the faces, and on and on----how they remain attached to certain times in each of our lives! How the remembering the one always brings the other to us. Perhaps this thing called memory is such an integral part of our souls that it cannot ever, not ever, be a separate entity. What a perfect marriage. Remember.

Once Upon A Time

Once upon a time, there was a 1957 Chevrolet. A pink 1957 Chevrolet, with a six cylinder engine and an automatic transmission.

Much conversation took place as to why this Chevrolet was pink. Since my sister, who originally owned the car before I did, and I, had no idea why the car was pink, we usually referred such conversation to General Motors, so that they could take the heat. Whatever reasoning sent this '57 off the production line a shining pink was certainly not our fault.

In any event, we named the Chevy "The Pink Fink." Others we knew had suggested names that were not so nice, but we kept those people as friends, anyway.

When I inherited this car from my sister, I had attained the ripe, old age of seventeen. As wise as I knew I was at that age, I now confess that I was not wise enough to forsee the historical position that all '57 Chevies would come to occupy. It was, after all, "The Pink Fink."

Naturally, I quickly grew very fond of this Chevy. I did so, despite the fact that it burned approximately as much oil as it did gasoline. Which explains why I carried with me, at all times, two one gallon cans of discount, straight-weight motor oil. And a funnel. And, sometimes, a gas mask.

The fondness I had for my '57, I have come to realize, was similar to the fondness I would develop for all the old cars I owned. Oh, the '57 was special, all right. But they were all special in their own way. This is a hard thing to put into words, because the fondness is, I think, a sense of places and experiences tied inextricably together. It is physical features and people and emotions, sun and clouds, happiness and sadness, music and current events, family highs and lows, life experience, and so much more, all together as one. Let me see if I can put this to reality for you with the following:

It was a late August night in 1965, two months after I had graduated (barely) from high school. The necktie I had worn for graduation was still in the Chevy's glove compartment. I had worked all day until five P.M., then driven to a friend's camp on a North country lake. Both my friend and I worked on old cars for a living at that time, and nights at his camp after work were special.

The lake was a big lake, and it lay shrouded in darkness. The only thing that suggested any human presence was the flicker from our campfire on the beach. Just above this, at the top of the wooden stairway that led up the rock wall at the edge of the beach, was our tent. Sure, there was my friend's family's camp just up the hill. But, when you're seventeen and you feel so free you could fly, you don't want to sleep in your friend's family's camp. You want to sleep in a great, musty, outdoor-smelling tent, just above the beach on a great lake. This is a privacy issue. Made all the more important by the fact that my friend's girlfriend lived in a camp just down the dirt road, and my girlfriend was her girlfriend, and she was visiting her at her camp for the week.

We encircled the campfire in the flickering dark. The bridge crossing the lake's narrows was to our left. It was lined with fourteen old, dim streetlights. Each was a small dot of light in the distance. As an occasional car crossed the bridge, its tires whispered a "clack-clack-clack" over the pavement seams. The "clack-clack-clacking" drifted off to silence. The fire made soft, crackling noises, and the fragrant wood smoke lulled us off to a special peacefulness. Thousands of stars dotted the black sky. The silouhette of the mountains on the opposite lake shore loomed dreamlike. Our transistor radio softly sang "I Got You, Babe," of Sonny and Cher vintage. We talked of special things that night, my friend and his girl, myself and my girl. Things worthy of the momentary perfection around us. Things that made us certain that, whatever went on in the world, however life flowed, we would always be together, paired off in a special cosmic unity, immune to the force of reality. We knew it was true that nothing would ever separate us. That was a belief which sent a feeling of deep warmth and security through us, as we talked long, long into the dark night, with the fire flickering and crackling, and the transistor radio softly singing.

Later, after several hours of sleep, it was time for me to head home to get ready for work. I quietly unzipped the tinny-sounding tent flap zipper and stepped out into the cool, still dark, early morning. Sliding the flap zipper back down, I turned and headed up the grassy, pine-needle-blanketed hill to where my '57 Chevy was parked. The air smelled fresh like pine and water and dew. It felt like a very special time to be alive.

On the trip home, there was a certain section of road where a gentle, left-hand turn crested the top of a steep hill and abruptly headed down. In this short space, the woods crowded to the edge of the road, almost hiding it from the rest of the earth with majestic hundred year old pines. In the night, the Chevy and I crested the top of the steep hill. The headlights cut a narrow path through the darkness. The car nosed sharply and rapidly downward, as if, for a moment, separated from the earth. The six cylinder motor whined its soft, characteristic whine. The dash lights softly encircled instruments and speedometer. The vent window, opened full-backwards, poured fragrant summer night air across my face and through my hair. It had been a perfect night, in the way that nights can be perfect only when you're seventeen and in love. I felt like I was flying down the hill on a gentle wind. The car radio sang "My Girl" to the nightime perfection.

For that brief moment, I was more, much more than a seventeen year old with a '57 Chevy. I was someone who could never be defeated, who could, no matter what, never be changed.

Your comments or questions are welcome at houghton@classicpreservation.com.

© H. Houghton

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