Wanted: A New 54-Year Old Chevy

Collectors of older cars have had this weekend circled in bold red pen for about six months now...it's the weekend of the long anticipated Lambrecht Chevrolet auction.  Here's the background:  The Lambrecht family had a Chevy dealership in Pierce, Nebraska, for over 50-years.  Ray and his wife, Mildred, Lambrecht loved their Chevys...so much so, that if a car or two didn't sell, well, they just kept it.  Every year.  Some of the cars were squeezed into a warehouse in the back of their dealership and others were parked on their nearby farm.  Years passed, the dealership closed and the couple passed away, leaving their family with a huge find.  Of course, everyone knew the Lambrechts had kept some cars but few realized just how many--over 500.  Some of the cars date back to the early 1950s and some are as recent as a 1980 Monza (remember them?)  But most amazing of all, a significant number of those automobiles were never driven...ever!   Over fifty of the cars have less than ten miles on the odometer....some with only one or two miles.  It was like auto archaeologists entering King Tutankhamun's garage.  Now there's no question most of these cars will need a little love--new rubber belts, tires, a good washing.  But imagine hopping into a "new" 1958 Belaire....or a 1959 Impala.  
Ohhhh!
That's the car that caught my attention.... there are four '59s in the auction with single digits on the odometer.  Mom and dad had a cream colored, '59, two-door Impala--it was the first car I remember and I can still picture, from the dank depths of my memorybanks, the rust colored interior, large chrome speaker grill dividing the back seat, unique steering wheel and dashboard, and the trunk that could haul a B-29.  Although I was only about 5-years old when my parents sold it, I remember running my hands along the big, bold rear fender fins and cats' eye taillights.  Sigh...I won't be in Pierce this weekend and couldn't afford to participate in the auction even if I was there.  But if someone out there lands one of those '59 Chevys and you're passing through Cincinnati, let me know.  I'd love to see it and run my hand along the fins.

Marian McPartland and Me

One glance at the title of this post and the reader might be mislead and so I'll immediately fess up and say this is a story of scotch, ignorance and a major goof.
The events took place in the Spring of 2003.  Licking our collective woulds over a Peabody snub for our audio documentary, Cincinnati Radio: The Nation's Station, 1921-1941, my WVXU boss, Dr. James C. King, treated co-producer Mark Magistrelli and I to a trip to New York City to pick up a New York Medal award.  Not quite as prestigious of an accolade, it was, however, a free trip to the Big Apple, so off we went to the Marriott on Times Square where the awards banquet would be held in the hotel ballroom.  As it turned out, Mark decided to attend another event that night and so Doc and I dutifully trudged off to the event, open bar and all, to receive the award.  Don't get me wrong, it was a very nice event--but neither Doc nor I are great socializers and as the drinks flowed, the silliness of the pomposity of the evening became more and more apparent and small, under-breadth comments were exchanged between us.  Also slightly amused at the proceedings were two quiet, but pleasant, women seated to my left at our table.  We exchanged small talk.  The woman next to me was named Shari and she was a producer at a station in South Carolina.  To her left, she introduced, was an older woman, simply, "Marian."  I said hello and we shook hands.  Shari seemed very nice and joined in a bit on our comic play-by-play commentary.   Eventually, our station's call letters were announced and Doc and I went to the stage to accept a "Best Documentary" award.  Marian, the older woman, gave us her congratulations as we returned to the table.  Shortly thereafter, the announcement of "Best Music Program" was announced.   "Marian McPartland's Piano Jazz!" (you probably know where this is going, by now.)  I slunk into my seat.  "That's....?"  To make matters worse, our station used to carry Piano Jazz years ago, but cancelled it because of a shortage of financial support.  Well, Marian barely sat down again before she said she was tired, bid us adieu, and left us to return to her room.  Shari Hutchinson, her longtime producer, remained and entertained us with delightful stories of working with this great woman and jazz pioneer.  By the end of the evening I felt slightly less of an idiot for not recognizing Ms. McPartland and boldly asked for an autograph, which Shari kindly mailed to us days later.
So that's my Marian McPartland story!  The nice thing about "time" is that it eventually allows us to laugh at the mistakes we make.  In the meantime, rest in peace Marian McPartland--a jazz and radio legend who died last week at the age of 95.  And congratulations to Shari Hutchinson, who, I understand, now manages eight public radio stations in South Carolina.

The Boy Packs Up

Our oldest child is heading off to college this weekend.  In a ritual repeated throughout time immemorial, but new to me, the little bird is leaving the nest.  “The Boy,” as I affectionately call him (‘tho there are three brothers behind him), seems ready to go.  Like a sprinter at the Olympics, he has comfortably settled his shoes on the chock blocks of life and awaits only the sound of the starting pistol.

The Boy is excited, and why shouldn’t he be?  He is standing on top of a mountain and the world--a fat, exciting, ripeforthepickinging world--lies in front of him.  In fact, a few weeks ago, we visited Pike’s Peak on vacation and a photo of him and his brother now rings quite poignant.  In many ways I share in his joy and add a pinch of jealousy…it’s been a few years since I stood on that same vista.

As “dad,” I’ve had several months, nay years, to prepare for this weekend and yet I feel caught totally off-guard.  The other morning, I awoke around 2-am upset because I never took him to Terry’s Turf Club for an award-winning cheeseburger (eating is a favorite hobby for both of us.)  It was on my “list” and I failed. (I won’t even attempt to use the excuse, “I didn’t have time” because that’s an overly-cited, weak, and lame argument.)  Other missed opportunities tumble through the “sprockets” of my “guilt projector”… there are old movies and cartoons I failed to share with him.  I don’t think we played “pickle” enough and I never taught him “Kick the Can.”  He’s never joined me on a golf course or a driving range.  We haven’t been to the Air Force Museum in Dayton since he was a little baby.  I never introduced him to “real” pulled pork BBQ.  Mammoth Cave?  Nope.  When he was about five and learning to ride a two-wheeler at my wife’s office, a neighbor took the training wheels off Boy’s bike and witnessed something I only heard about later after I came home from work.  Harry Chapin’s “Cats in the Cradle” played in my head for two weeks after that one.

Before you call the police for “suspected self immolation,” I am not entirely wracked in guilt.  I do not feel short-changed—indeed, knowing friends who have lost children to death or illness—I feel grateful and Blessed for 18-years and all those times we did have together…fun and not-so-fun.  Last spring, Boy and I attended a rock concert together (check that off the list) and just last week we had a nice father/son dinner at a restaurant.  Everyone reading this has either had a child grow up and leave home, or left a “home” him- (or her-) self....me included!  One of the shocking lessons most people experience months and years later is that life, in fact, goes on.  (My big shock came when my dad first re-recorded the “home” answering machine with my name omitted, but I digress…)   The ancient Greeks had a phrase:  “Panta rei” (things change) and Thomas Wolfe told us You Can’t Go Home Again, but I hope The Boy doesn’t stray too far and remembers he can always come home.

Gabe is big and tall and handsome and adult now, so I’ll have to reconsider that nickname, too, I guess.  But not right now…not yet.

Indiana Chicken Dinners

Ever since I was a tot, my arteries have surged this time of year with the byproducts of the chicken dinners of southeastern Indiana.  As a kid, they provided an excuse for a "Sunday drive."  Since moving into the area 17 years ago with my wife and kids, our knowledge and fondness for the various dinners has only increased (as has my weight.)  Amazingly, and sadly, this summer's chicken dinner schedule may be the last--forever.  Because of church consolidations and mergers announced this year by the Archdiocese of Indianapolis, the best-of-the-best dinners will likely not return next year and that's a terrible shame.
The St. Martin's picnic in Yorkville is the one I've attended the longest because of my relatives who are active in the parish.  I remember going to this one as a kid, when they handed out "fish pond" gifts--blue butcher's paper-wrapped gifts for the boys, pink for girls--from the window of the long-since demolished schoolhouse.  Their chicken dinner was always the best and had the most Cincinnati "draw"...although in recent years it has been diminished somewhat by switching from "family style" to "buffet style" service.  Still, I'd put its chicken among the best.   The next dinner, this Sunday (July 28th), might be the last as the parish will be merged with three others.  However, the parish is appealing the archdiocese's decision.
St. Paul's in New Alsace always follows St. Martin's by two weeks, this summer falling on August 11.  St. Paul's has evolved into my favorite chicken dinner because they still serve family style--that is: big bowls of food are placed on the table and diners can take as much as they want.  The line can be a little long getting into St. Paul's and the gym can be a little hot, but the food is fresh and the chicken very good.  Parking is also pretty good at this one.  St. Paul's is also merging and even though the church was built in 1837 (making it the oldest continuously used church in the area) and was visited by John Hunt Morgan during the Civil War, it is slated to be closed which is terrible news from a historical aspect, too. 
St. Pius, in rural Ripley County, has its festival and dinner on August 18th.  This is the one to go to if you want a traditional, old fashioned church festival.  Located in a very rural area of farmland (and right down the road where we live), this festival, with its traditional games, is like stepping back in time.  The chicken here is sold in whole quarter chunks, so you get a lot.  Rare is the visit when we didn't walk out with a bag of leftover chicken because they give you so much. But the real treasure here is the old fashioned, home-made gravy and mashed potatoes. The best!  Although it, too, dates back to the late 19th Century, St. Pius is slated to close and merge with another parish, even though its parishioners are active and finances are excellent.  
The last of the "big 4" actually comes on October 14th and doesn't feature chicken at all.  St. Mary's of the Rock is located in rural Franklin County between Sunman and Brookville.  Instead of chicken, they have a turkey and stuffing meal that rivals anything your mom might have made for Thanksgiving.  The turkey is good, but the stuffing is the best, the cranberry sauce is real and pies are homemade.  St. Mary's has a historic grotto carved out of the hillside behind the church.  The parish is also slated to close at the end of the year, which is very sad.  Their fall festival, which usually takes place as the leaves are changing colors, is worth a visit just because the drive getting there.
These four festivals have been an important part of our family weekends over the years and I'm so blessed to have been able to share them with my children.  Unfortunately, circumstances might bring an end to all four traditions.  If you've ever heard of the famous Indiana chicken dinners and thought about visiting, this might be your last opportunity.  I'm sure we'll be attending all four and, at the risk of gluttony, I expect to savor the memories, tastes and aromas of these fading community traditions.

Things I Miss About My First Car

Earlier this week, I was at the pump getting gas when a mid-'80s Somethingorother pulled up to the next pump.  The driver came around back and popped back the license plate and started filling up.  Wow....I'm amazed that I had forgotten all the cars I owned that also had the fuel intake hidden behind the license plate.  It was pretty common at one time.  When exactly did they disappear?  Although it was a little tough to use one handed--due to a spring the size of an anaconda--it was a pretty nifty idea and it didn't matter to which side of the pump you pulled up.   It got me to thinking: so what other things about my first car, a 1972 Chevy Impala Convertible, have been made quietly obsolete by automakers?
Well, I still really miss the reliable little high-beam switch on the floorboard.  The "click-click" sound and sensation made high-beam headlights fun and gave the left foot something to do.  Remember playing "gotcha" with cars in the opposite lane?
While my Chev didn't have them, my mom's '71 Plymouth had cozy-wings on the side windows.  Those seemed to make a lot of sense--letting in just enough air without disrupting conversation or the radio.  Not sure why the cozy-wing was ever dropped other than expense, I guess. 
My Chevy did have fender skirts, which gave it an elegant appearance that far exceeded its actual luxury.  They were easy to take on and off, just a discretely hidden lever underneath.  I did not have curb feelers, but considered them one time.  Ask an older person about curb-feelers.
I did have white walled tires, though, and my dad showed me how to make them sparkle using Comet and warm water and a stiff scrub brush.  I remember getting tires in the 1990s, when white-walls were out of "style" and telling the guy to mount them backwards to hide the stripes--I kinda regret that now, since white walls have completely vanished.
Overall, I miss chrome...that Chevy had a lot of chrome and it was a part-time job to keep it waxed and polished.  Today's paint is so much better, I admit, and I haven't waxed a car in years, but back then it was a constant battle with rust, particularly around the fenders, and despite monthly waxings, rust usually won out.  But buff the dried wax off of chrome on a sunny, summer day, revealing your distorted reflection, and it was truly a spiritual experience.
I don't miss the frequency and difficulty in changing headlamps; the constant replacement of master cylinders, starters and generators; floorboards that rusted though to the point where you could see the ground; and terrible sounding radios.  
I DO miss full sized spare tires, the concept of a real 2 or 4-bbl carburetor, scouring junk yards looking for parts and, alas, the days before strict seat-belt laws. 
My old Chevy was probably crushed in a junk yard years ago, sadly, but I'd love to drive her one more time--and pull up to a gas pump to fill 'er up behind the license plate!

Another Milan Miracle

Last Saturday, the town of Milan, Indiana, officially dedicated the Milan '54 Hoosiers Museum...a museum celebrating Milan High School's amazing 1954 Indiana State Championship as well as Hoosiers, the 1986 movie upon which that championship was loosely based.   The day was perfect...rain and clouds departed just in time for the parade featuring a couple dozen vintage automobiles....many convertibles with celebrities riding on top of the back seat.  The parade was similar to a parade back in 1954 when those cars were new and the teen aged players were celebrated as they returned to town following their big win.  Some of those players, including game-winning shot-maker Bobby Plump, returned for the museum dedication and ribbon cutting.  Some of the movie actors and producers were also on hand.  Did I mention that tiny Milan only had 161 students back in 1954?  It was an incredible victory in an era when all Indiana schools competed in the same tournament, no matter the school size. 
For Milan, the '54 Museum is a nice tribute to the "most important event in town history."  It's too bad every small town in rural American can't have such a thrill.  It's great to have something to be proud of....so proud, the old railroad water tower still bears the fading "Milan 1954" lettering.   As a neighbor of sorts (I live about six miles away), I couldn't be more happy for the town.  Admittedly, most of our family traffic takes us north, through the town of Sunman, and so I don't get to Milan too often.  Thus I felt a bit like an outsider during Saturday's big event.   However, I still feel a sense of pride and joy, despite having no connection to the Championship other than a framed certificate signed by some of the players and a piece of the Milan's "old" gym floor.
I think my happiness centers around one woman:  Roselyn McKittrick.  When we first moved to the area from Cincinnati in 1995, I happened into Roselyn's now-defunct antique store.  She immediately engaged her new customer in conversation.   What a delight! In one corner of the store, she had recreated the locker room of the Milan championship team, complete with signed basketballs, letter-jackets and photographs.  She told me then that it was her personal tribute to the team that brought fame to her adopted home town (she arrived a few years after the championship) and that she hoped to someday have a permanent museum.  Over the years, she would bend my year regarding any progress for the plans and, obviously, it takes many, many people from all over to pull off something like this.  But for Roselyn, it's a personal victory and I couldn't be more happy for her.  As someone who is trying to build a museum and organization myself, I appreciate the hard work and dogged determination behind such an accomplishment.  Dreams can come true and it fills my heart with optimism when "the little guy" pulls off a big victory like this museum--kind of like Milan itself!
In one room of the museum, a video of the original championship game runs in perpetual performance.  There were about a dozen people jammed into the room Saturday, including myself, and after a young Bobby Plump once again stroked a jump shot over an outstretched defender for the game-winner, someone in the group blurted out, "they won again!"  Everyone laughed and yet it was poignant...some things like the 1954 Milan championship and this small town museum are still kinda hard to believe.  Congratulations, Milan!

The Office--One Last Time

This isn't the first time I've written about my favorite show, The Office, but it will probably be the last since fans are on the doorstep of the penultimate episode.  The series finale is scheduled for May 16.
It's hard to say goodbye to a long running television friend.  I remember some of the emotions when Everybody Loves Raymond (my previous favorite) signed off...and Seinfeld...and Home Improvement.  And Mary Tyler Moore and MASH.  And the Waltons.  Usually I have only one favorite at a time and they've all seemed to overlap perfectly--because Raymond ended when it did, I can honestly say I watched EVERY episode of the Office.  I'm not sure what might be next for me or if there will even be another"favorite."  Thanks to technology, my watching habit has changed so much...although I haven't missed a single episode of the Office, I haven't actually watched a single episode on TV in four years!  How?  Hulu--one of the great cyber creations (particularly since NBC comes in so poorly at our house out in the country thanks to the stupid digital conversion, but I digress....)   When I started watching the Office in 2004, I was still recording shows on a VHS, believe it or not.
As far as the show itself is concerned, I have mixed emotions.  There's no doubt it is time for it to come to an end.  I've hypothesized before about how good sitcoms have a lifespan of 8 or 9 seasons maximum.  All of the above titles, plus my all-time favorite Andy Griffith, ran out of gas by season 9.  When Steve Carell departed the Office after season 5, it was the beginning of the end and most fans knew it.  The subsequent story lines and new characters were occasionally good and occasionally cringe-worthy.  Every so often, the writers would slap a hit but just as often, they'd swing and miss.  Every show (except the age defying Simpsons, perhaps) must eventually arrive at the point where the creative juices simply stop flowing.  For the Office, the show is ending at just the right time.
Still, there's a part of me that is sad, too.  There were some really interesting and rich background characters like Creed, Meredith and Stanley that should have gotten more stage time.  Meanwhile, the show was a nice diversion and dwelt on some quirks we've all experienced in our own workplace but I can think of a few they missed.  Many in the cast have gone from "obscure" to "movie star," which is satisfying.  I hope their careers continue to bring them fulfillment.
I am looking forward to the next two episodes and then we will all say goodbye and move on.  Storylines will be tidied up and, I'm sure, tears will be shed.  I've heard maybe even Carell will make a cameo.  Television has changed so much since Mary, Ted, Lou, Murray and the gang huddled in a circle and sang "It's a Long Way to Tipperary" as they exited the WJM newsroom for the final time.  I only hope the Office exits with the same class.  Meanwhile, I must decide if there's something else out there worthy of the title "favorite show."  Or maybe I've graduated beyond that, too.