The Northward Contrail

Glass houses

I grew up surrounded by trucks.  Not just pickup trucks, but big trucks.  Our dad drove trucks as part of his work, so my brother and I were riding on 18 wheels from the time we were, as they say, knee-high to a grasshopper.  (If I had a dollar for every mile I spent in the cab of an R-600, I'd never have to work again.  Man, those were fun days.  And, yes, there's another Jim Rockford parallel with my life: a dad who drove trucks.) 

It was also the 1970s, the heyday of Smokey and the Bandit and Movin' On and Convoy (the song, and then the movie) and what not, when CB radio was the big thing and "10-4, good buddy!" and "What's your 20?" were commonplace.  It was everywhere: in the music, on television, in the toy stores (care to guess how many of these types of things my brother and I built?) and elsewhere.

So whenever there was something truck-themed on television, we'd watch.  Movin' On was a staple, and we liked it in our home.  (We never did warm up to B.J. and the Bear, I think because it was a bit silly and because it was a bit too pretty-boy for our tastes.  Though I think we did watch Sheriff Lobo when it became its own show.)

Back then, the trucking movie that was most widely seen was when ABC's prime-time movie series would show White Line Fever with Jan-Michael Vincent.  Back then, it seemed ABC would show it two or three times a year.  We'd watch.  But a couple scenes would terrify me as a kid.  One was when Slim Pickens would get killed.  But nothing could match the stark raving terror I'd feel when this scene played.  Now I can watch it and laugh, but back then, it scared me to death, and I'd have to turn my head and close my eyes.  Go figure.

And now, a word from Lou Crosby

For Christmas, one of the surprises I got from my parents was a two-DVD set of old television commercials.  One disc was nothing but automotive commercials, and in the middle of it was a great pair of production pieces from The Lawrence Welk Show, back when it was sponsored by Dodge.  One was a big song-and-dance number, with plenty of brass and cars on stage, for the Dodge "Power Giant" trucks -- "Giants of the Low-Priced Three."  There was also a live, outside-the-building commercial showing the trucks in action, too. All the while, there was this low tympani roll.  It was eleven shades of awesome.

The commercials were voiced by the deep, pleasant growl of Lou Crosby (for the '70s set, he was Cathy Lee Crosby's dad).  What a voice, right?  You don't get announcing like that anymore -- or, for that matter, live commercials as big production pieces.

While I can't find the "Power Giants" ads online, here's an example of a similar piece.  Dig that low, pleasant growl of Crosby's -- and that vintage Mopar iron, too.

And here's a little fancy footwork from Lou -- awful catchy!

Frozen in amber

I must have been eight years old the first time I saw it.  Our family was taking a day trip to visit my grandfather, who had a summer home a few hours away.  To get there, we had to travel a series of back roads through different towns to get to the Interstate.

We'd stopped off for some breakfast that Sunday morning and were getting underway again, when I noticed it on my right as we drove past.  It was an old Studebaker dealership.  Long since closed, but it looked almost as if it were preserved in amber.  The neon sign was still up outside, the sales banners were hanging up along the back of the showroom...and, inside, there were a couple of Studebakers on the showroom floor.  I couldn't believe it.  That scene haunted me for days after.

Sometimes we'd take a different route to the Interstate, but other times we'd take this route through this town, and each time, there it was.  My dad would sometimes slow up as we drove past so I could get a good look. 

On one trip, he actually made a stop there so I could get out and look through the showroom windows.  Things were covered in dust, and the windows had this sort of grimy film, and some of the stuff along the back wall was sagging and sun-bleached, but through those windows it almost looked like time had stopped in 1966, like a phone call from South Bend had confirmed the inevitable, and the salesmen had just turned out the lights and locked the doors. 

For whatever reason, I wanted to cry.  I couldn't put my finger on why, not even a decade into my life, that scene got to me.  I don't know if it was because it was like looking through the window directly into a past I felt some kinship with, or if the eerie stillness of it all got to me, or if I was upset because I worried those poor cars were trapped, or what it was.  All I know was, I was just short of inconsolable. 

It became a minor obsession.  My brother had a stereo system with a recordable tape deck and a microphone, and I used to make tapes on which I'd try to do funny things or attempt to create my own radio shows, and on one of them I went on a little monologue about this poor, defunct Studebaker dealership in a hushed, somber tone.  Sometimes my parents would get me a piece of poster board on which to draw, and one of them became a canvas for a heartfelt, trying-too-hard drawing of the building, complete with all the objects in the showroom, trying to depict what it might have been like just before time froze in there.

Time passed and we found different routes to get to my grandfather's home, and over time I put the old Studebaker dealership into the back of my mind.  We passed by a few years later, and the cars were gone, presumably taken elsewhere for safekeeping.  Every once in a while I'd think about it, but I went on to other things and other interests.

About five years ago, hubby and I were coming back from a day trip, and our route home took us through this town once again.  It was the first time I'd been through this town in perhaps two decades.  As we drove along, I saw some things I remembered from back then.  And I began to wonder: Is it still there?

I recognized the building.  It's still there.  But it's different now.  It's been repainted.  The cars are gone.  The big plate glass windows have given way to bricks.  And the sign is gone.  It's now a grocery store.  You'd never know what it used to be. 

All these years later, for the life of me, I still can't figure out why it made me want to start crying that morning all those decades ago.  How can I explain it to others when I can't explain it to myself?

Pop goes the culture

Whilst traveling about the Interwebs lately, I've come across more interesting places that excel in the purpose of killing time.  Here you go:

:: Letters of Note, a place for the display of unique correspondence.  There are some real gems there, everything from the famous letter that started the "Yes, Virginia" tradition to dispatches from Presidents, celebrities, authors, and common folk in uncommon moments. 

:: The Kisseloff Collection.  Jeff Kisseloff wrote one of my favorite books, The Box, an oral history of American television's first four decades that's packed with great stories, and he's also written numerous other books and articles.  This blog is a place for him to display other things he's come across, and to discuss stories and display materials that couldn't fit into his books.  Be warned that a few of the things he's found can be a bit stark, and Kisseloff has a decidedly leftist bent, so if those kinds of things are issues to you, be advised.  On the other hand, some of the exhibits are downright priceless, like these 1948 notes from the NBC censor.   

:: Finally, while a lot of people go ga-ga over the Smokey and the Bandit Trans Am, this website is dedicated to the Pontiacs dearest to my heart.  It's no end of fascinating, especially since I'm planning to build models of a couple of the Rockford Firebirds.  (Perhaps I'll even have the little portable printing press sitting in the back seat so 1:25 scale Jim Rockford can print phony business cards?  It could happen!)

Ix-nay on the olex-Ray

For the last five years, hubby and I have gone down to Daytona for the 24-hour sports car race.  We had hoped this would have been our sixth year, and if it had come to pass, we'd be shoving off after I finish work today.

But this year we'll be watching it from home.  There's a few reasons for this.  One is more obvious than all the others: with a full-time gig for him yet to materialize, we've had to really economize, and this year's race was one of the casualties.  That's the main reason we're not going: it's not a good idea to invest in a hotel room, tickets, gas money, food and so forth when times are this lean for us.  (For the record, we're not in any kind of danger, but until things get better we're being more judicious than before about how we spend what's left over after bills and groceries.)

There have been some other annoyances that have dinged our enjoyment of the event, too.  Perhaps the foremost has been that the race now starts in mid-afternoon, which means it ends mid-afternoon.  Not good if home is a half-day away and you have to be at work bright and early.  Back when it started and ended at noon or 1 pm, it worked fine.  Now it means killing a lot of time in the stands on Saturday afternoon and leaving the track on Sunday with two hours of race still left to run.  (It meant we both missed a really thrilling finish last year, and that's something I'm still miffed with the race organizers about having to miss.)

We'll be watching it on television this year, and though we'll miss being there, we still plan to make the most of it.  When we're in Daytona for the race, we stay for the start of the race, watch for a couple hours, then go get something to eat at one of our favorite haunts.  Then it's over to the Barnes and Noble across from the track for dessert and browsing, and then back for a few hours of the night stage.  So this weekend, I'll find a way to mimic the experience in more familiar surroundings.  I haven't decided if it'll be pizza or Tex-Mex, but it'll be fun nonetheless. 

I'll miss the fun that comes with walking down the front stretch as the cars come tearing past, but it's a sacrifice that has to be made.  Besides, by watching it on television, I'll be interested to see how much we miss seeing when we're up in the stands.

"Mr. Goodwrench Builds His Dream House," produced by me

Taking the car in for service today.  Early, too.  They need the car the whole day, and a lot of work needs to be done since it's a 100,000-mile checkup.  It ain't gonna be cheap, either.  But I'd rather get it done, because even if it costs a lot of money and time, it's the same feeling you get after a lot of dental work or a rigorous physical exam.  You come out of it knowing it's been looked at and worked on, and it's one less thing to worry about.

Anyhow, wish me luck that no unexpected issues are lurking.  See you tomorrow.

Git 'er done

So yesterday I spent the day getting a lot of errands done.  Central to it was a lunch meeting with a colleague, and we got a lot of business discussed and solved a few problems along the way.  It was really great, the kind of meeting where you come away from it really feeling like you got something done, and feeling really good.  (And lunch, of course, always helps.) 

While in town I also got a couple items I needed for the office and got printing quotes for a recruiting project.  (I also got a couple or three items for me, but we ain't gonna talk about those, right?)  This was really good.  During the academic year, I'm usually so busy that I don't get the opportunity (or have the remaining gusto) to go into the nearest big city to see after these kinds of things.

There were also a couple personal items I had to see after.  Perhaps the biggest was getting my car's maintenance scheduled.  She's coming up on 100,000 miles, and is close enough to it that I'd rather take her in for maintenance while I have the time off.  (Given that I was told they'd need the car the whole day, it was a good call.) 

It ain't gonna be cheap -- the estimate I got was around $600 -- but I'd sure rather have a bill for $600 and get peace of mind in return.  Right now, the last thing I want, or need, is a monthly payment on a new car for the next five years, a higher property tax hit every year, and the higher insurance rates that come with a new vehicle.  No, thanks.  As long as my little one keeps going, and gets me where I need to be, I'll stick with her.

The art of driving in the dark

Since I've been coming to work earlier and earlier the last few weeks, and with the end of daylight savings time, I've spent more and more time driving in less than full lighting.  Given that we've had inclement weather of late, it's added still more wrinkles.  Here are some things I've learned, or been reminded of, the last few weeks:

• There's a lot more people out there on the road at 5:50 in the morning than you imagine.  And they're all going the same way you are.
• A good number of them don't seem to realize the importance of using bright/dim lights properly.  Or of having their headlights aimed properly.  Few things are more fun than being in front of someone who's not only tailgating you, but has one headlight beam aimed at the road and the other straight through your back window.
• Even the ones who do understand the proper use of headlights will be driving bigger vehicles than yours, which puts their headlight beams in your back seat.  And/or they'll be using the new-generation headlight lamps with patented Retina-Etch (tm) technology.
• Any occasion to meet oncoming traffic will almost always be at the most dangerous moment on that stretch of road.  It will be at a place like a curve at the crest of a hill.  When you both have bright lights on.
• A corollary to the above is that any time you meet oncoming traffic, the odds are also higher that, at that very moment, there will be a pedestrian or bicyclist on your side of the road.  Usually not wearing enough light-colored clothing or enough reflective material to be seen until almost the last moment.  And chances are the person in the oncoming lane will really be hauling it, too.
• Don't forget that deer and other critters not so wise to the ways of the road are full of surprises.  And those pranksters can really ruin your day. 
• Add ten difficulty/likelihood points to any of the above if it's raining, foggy or otherwise inclement.
• Any green light you see up at an intersection ahead, no matter how close you are to the intersection, will not be green when you reach it. 

Through a windshield, darkly

So I'm out and about a few days ago trying to get some errands done in between obligations.  Among the things I needed to do was put gas in the car, so I stopped off at one of my preferred stations.

As I'm fumbling with the keypad on the card reader, out the corner of my eye I see a young lady come over and grab the windshield cleaner/squeegee thing from its space, and she bids me welcome to the gas station, in the name of Crazy Hugo's Oil Company, and says she's going to give me a complimentary windshield cleaning.  Now, I didn't think that much about it, but I should have been tipped off then.  This gas station is part of a locally-owned chain that just happens to sell Crazy Hugo's gasoline products.  Why was I being welcomed in the name of the larger company?

Anyhow, as I'm pumping the fuel, she's doing the thing with the windshield, and she calls me over to the front of the car.  She sees a stone chip in my windshield, and she says she's really concerned about it.  (I'm not.  It's been there since not long after I bought the car.)  And she starts going on about all the catastrophe that could ensue if this area gets hit again.  (Yes, I know about cracked windshields.  I've owned two cars that had them.  And I also know that if you replace it, especially in a state with Third World roads, it's only a matter of time before something else cracks the new one.)  Then she drops the bomb: she's with a company that repairs windshields.  She's asking if I have comprehensive coverage on the car and wants to know details about it.  I can barely get a word in edgewise.  She's in full sales mode.  And then she says she can get on her phone and have them come over in a couple minutes to fix it. 

Now, in the movie version of this story, this point in the story is when I tell the young lady to take a hike, and that she should be ashamed of doing this kind of scam, and that she will never alter drapes in Atlanta again because you do not cross a Sugarbaker woman, and all that sort of thing.  But instead, because I'm terminally conflict-averse, I mealy-mouth some kind of story about needing to get back to work (which I kinda did), and that gets her to buzz off.  I finish pumping my fuel and get on my way.

The kicker?  Once I drove off, I had to hit the windshield washer button.  The windshield hadn't been that dirty to begin with, but after the complimentary wash (and attempted soaking), it was a mess.

Lost and found hardware

I'm busy today trying to get a couple things finished up.  One is office-related, and another's on the workbench.  So while I'm wrestling with those, here's a little light reading for ya:

:: The story of what may (or may not) be a real, long-lost Tucker convertible (warning: registration may or may not be required).  And:

:: An old Taylorcraft floatplane sees the light of day after almost 17 years at the bottom of an Alaskan lake (again, registration may or may not be required).