My dad brought my mom and me home in style on the day I was born. My dad had a green 1939 Chevvy sedan (he bought it new) that looked like this image; we had this car until I was about eight years old, so I have a clear memory of the vehicle.
My dad called it the “Green Hornet,” which pretty well infringed on the comic book character for anyone growing up at the time. Here I am, decades later, and I’m still able to smell the inside of that car. I suppose this because my sister threw up in the back seat, and it never faded away; the seats were covered by a light tan, fuzzy carpet-like fabric. One puke and it was there forever.
Certain features of the car are so clear to me. The starter pedal was on the floor; once my dad turned the key, he had to mash this giant button to start the engine with his foot. At the same time, the gears were neutral. It ground away until the engine caught on; after a few more noises and gear shifting, we were off and rolling.
Each summer, we’d all pile into the car for our trek to Yosemite for a camping vacation. One memory stands out. My dad had a canvas water bag he filled for us to use on the trip. This bag had a rope handle and a sort-of clip-up opening for when you wanted a drink. The secret to keeping water cool was to hang the bag (by the rope) over one of the car’s front bumper guards so airflow would keep it cool. Or, so he claimed.
My mom hated every single second of these camping expeditions, especially when we’d pull over to let the car radiator cool off, and we’d try to take a drink of our not-so-cool water from the bag. I hear her voice asking why we didn’t stop at that Standard Oil station and not on the side of the hot roadway. I sure wish I had that stupid canvas bag today.
Are we there yet? 