Hi, Diary. Cars, cars, cars, cars, and more cars. Chevrolet. Ford. Plymouth. Buick. Oldsmobile. Pontiac. Mercury. Dodge. Studebaker. Packard. Chrysler. Cadillac. Nash. Desoto. Hudson. Lincoln. Kaiser. Frazer. Henry J.
It’s Gordy again. Who else? Because I hide you in a spot where nobody can find you. That’s why it’s nobody else. Because nobody else has found you yet.
Here’s the deal: I know it’s late, but I can’t sleep. I’m still excited. I can’t stop thinking about all the new car models I saw tonight with my pal, Johnny Nelson, who lives across the street. So, I got up, turned on my bedroom light, opened you up, and as you can see, I’m writing in you.
I’m like a cat that’s just about to be given a bath. Nervous. The bottom of my paws just touched the water and believe you me, I’m more than just a little bit nervous. To say the least. Of course, you can’t know that cats hate baths. But they do.
What Johnny and I did this evening was really “exhilarating.” That’s a new word I learned the other day in the Readers Digest Word Power page. It means “exciting.”
Well, I guess I need to explain to you that it’s that time of the year. Car dealers all over the United States tear down the paper that covered the showroom windows or clean off the whitewash that did the same thing and finally show off their brand new car models. And they do this on the very same night. And that was tonight. As by now, you’ve probably already figured that out.
For the past three weeks, nobody could go inside the showrooms except for the dealers’ employees because the showrooms were closed to the ”general public.” That includes me, even though I’m a kid. Try as we might, nobody other than dealer workers are allowed to see the new models until after sundown today.
During this three-week period, truck drivers who deliver next year’s new models are pretty cagey also. They haul the new cars, as usual, but the cars are covered in white cloth that’s like a cocoon with special open spaces just for the windows. That way, the truck drivers can see out in order to unload the cars. They quickly drive them into the dealers’ garages.
My friends and I watch them, trying to guess how each model is shaped. But it’s darned near impossible.
The reason for all this hoopla: Just about everyone in his right mind is anxious to visit the dealerships and take a look at the new models. Adults and kids, alike, “oooh” and “ahhh” over the new cars. Me included. Some people buy the new models on the showroom floor, then and there. But they have to wait a few weeks in order to pick them up. Because dealers want to keep the new models until the truck drivers deliver more new ones to take their place. Most buyers order new cars just the way they want them with the size engine they prefer and the color of the car and if they want whitewall tires, or not. They have to wait about six weeks in order to pick up and drive their brand new car home.
And get this: The dealers don’t mind if kids attend the new models’ debut, either. Our sixth grade teacher gave us a spelling list this week. “Debut” was one of the words we studied. We had to look up the meanings of each one. Debut means “introduction.”
So, Johnny and I had to wait until after sundown. Like everyone else.
Mother gave me special permission to stay out until after nine O’clock, closing time. Even though it was a school night. She knows I’m a car nut. And she’s still treating me like a son should be treated. Which is keen. Even though it’s different. Johnny and I waited on our front porch. We wanted to leave right away, but Dad said, “You guys ought to wait for the searchlights to be turned on.”
We waited. We didn’t want to. A little while later, there they were: Four separate highways of white light shone in the night sky. Moving here. Moving there. Criss-crossing sometimes. It was almost as much fun as the Fourth of July fireworks display. They moved quickly all over the dark sky. What a thrill.
Johnny and I knew where those lights were coming from: The Eighth Street South Chevrolet and Oldsmobile dealership. Gib Sickles, who lives across the river, is a friend of ours. His dad is a salesman at Casey’s Chevrolet and Oldsmobile. Gib told us the week before that Mister Casey rented four U. S. Army World War II surplus anti-aircraft searchlights from a business in Milwaukee. It was more than exciting. “Ooooh,” said Johnny, “look at those lights.”
“Yeah,” I said, “they’re really keen, aren’t they?”
“Sure are,” replied my buddy.
A moment later, we opened that front porch door and flew down the stairs. We each carried an A&P brown paper sack with us. They’d hold all the new car pamphlets and brochures we could collect. We were certain of that. We’d already decided to see the new Buicks first. We walked—but mostly ran—down Baker Street hill. The Buick dealer is right next door to the Fire Station. There already was a long line of adults, waiting to sit in the front seat of the brand new Buick Roadmaster. The dealer, an old guy, said we couldn’t get in line until all the adults were gone. And more adults were flocking into the place.
So, we decided right then and there to leave. There were other dealerships we wanted to visit. But before we left, we went to nearby tables and collected all the material that featured the new models. Although the new Buicks were really keen, we’d have to wait too long to get in one and make believe we were driving. That’s why we left the place and headed to the nearby Plymouth dealer, behind the fire station and across the street.
I still remember when I was a young kid I sounded out the word after Dork and I saw a Saturday matinee at the Rapids Theater. I pronounced Plymouth with a long “I” sound. And I pronounced mouth like my mouth, not “mith” as I should have. Of course, Dork corrected me.
The Plymouth salesman was really nice. He wore a mile-wide smile. “You kids can get in line,” he said.
We got in line. Adults stood in front of us and in back of us. Finally, I was first in line.
“Get in,” said the salesman.
So, I got in. Just like that.
“Wanna steer her?”
“That would be neat,” I said.
“Well?” said the salesman.
Wow, what a feeling. And the new car smell? It’s something else. I figure it’s as good as spring flowers. I could even see out the windshield. If I lifted my head a bit. I turned the wheel this way, and that.
A few seconds later, the salesman asked Johnny, “Wanna get in?” Johnny pumped his head. So, I slid out, and as I looked back, Johnny was already grabbing hold of the steering wheel.
“My dad’s gonna buy a new Chevy,” he told the salesman.
“Think you can talk ‘im into buying a Plymouth, instead?” chirped Mister Smiles.
“Maybe.” Johnny’s grin was about the same size as Mister Smiles’.
So, I thought I’d say something smart. “I think it’s kind of interesting it’s still nineteen fifty but the fifty-one car models are being shown.”
“Yeah, it’s kind of crazy,” agreed Mister Smiles, “but that’s the way it is with life and cars.”
“I really don’t mind,” I said, adding, “too much.”
The salesman was through with us kids. “And, madam, how’d you like to sit in this brand new Plymouth?” he asked the nice lady, waiting patiently. “Bet the interior is as nice as your living room.”
“Better,” she said, laughing.
Johnny got out. We grabbed more brochures and pamphlets and stuffed them in our sacks. “Don’t forget to tell your dads to buy Plymouths,” the salesman called out to us.
“We won’t,” Johnny and I answered as one.
After we were outside, Johnny said, “My dad won’t buy a Plymouth.”
“Neither would mine,” I said.
Next was the Dodge dealer, a couple blocks away. After we got there and discovered the place was filled with people, we collected the goodies, stuffed them into the A&P sacks, and headed to Eighth Street and the Pontiac garage. Dodges kind of look like Plymouths, anyway.
The Pontiac garage and sales lot are across the street from the Eighth Street A&W root beer stand. Mister Rokus, Bill’s dad, is Pontiac’s chief salesman. He’s a smooth talker as most of the men who sell cars are. I like the Pontiacs’ Indian head hood ornaments, but that’s about all. Pontiacs kind of look like Chevrolets.
The sky’s highways of light beckoned us further out to Eighth Street South to the Oldsmobile and Chevy dealer, owned by George Casey’s brother. There were tons of bugs flying around the huge lights. Yuck. Inside the showroom, Gib Sickles’ dad greeted me. “Is Doc going to buy a new Olds this year?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.”
“Well, you tell him they’re better than ever—and with hydramatic drive.”
“I’m sure if he buys a new car this year, it’s going to be an Oldsmobile with an automatic transmission because that’s all he ever buys.”
“By the way,” Mister Sickles said to Johnny, “Your dad’s buying a new Chevy. Right this minute.”
Johnny’s mom and dad were there. His dad, Byron, told us, “I’m ordering a green Styleline four-door Deluxe with three on the tree and black walls.” That means he has to shift the car rather than let the automatic transmission do the shifting. And he didn’t want to pay extra for whitewalls.
Johnny’s mother, Rose, shook her head. “Byron’s a Chevy man. Always has been. Always will be.” Her eyeballs shot to the ceiling.
Johnny told his folks where we had already been.
“You kids sure have energy,” said Rose.
“If you wait for me to finish the paper work,” said Byron, “I’ll give you boys a ride to see the Hudsons and Henry J’s and Kaisers and Frazers on the other side of the river. Then, we’ll go see the Cadillacs at Crown’s of Two Towns.” Mister Crown, the dealer, drove a Cadillac convertible with a Texas longhorn’s horns on the front of the hood.
Naturally, we waited. And naturally, the Cadillacs were the biggest and most expensive cars in town. They were absolutely beautiful. Mister Crowns’ eyes were bloodshot. I was getting sleepy and so was Johnny and his mother. So, we headed home.
As I walked into our house, Dad was waiting. His eyes were glassy. That means he must’ve been drinking while I was gone. He seemed upset. He got that way when he drank. “You’re a little late, aren’t you, young man?”
I didn’t have time to answer because Mother piped in with, “Jim, I gave Gordon permission. He and Johnny Nelson went to look at new cars. You remember that, don’t you?”
“Oh. Of course.”
Saved by Mother.
“You’d better go to bed,” Dad warned me. “You have school tomorrow.”
And that was that, Diary.
But I’m still not tired. Maybe, I’ll read the pamphlets and brochures for a while.
It’s Gordy again. Who else? Because I hide you in a spot where nobody can find you. That’s why it’s nobody else. Because nobody else has found you yet.
Here’s the deal: I know it’s late, but I can’t sleep. I’m still excited. I can’t stop thinking about all the new car models I saw tonight with my pal, Johnny Nelson, who lives across the street. So, I got up, turned on my bedroom light, opened you up, and as you can see, I’m writing in you.
I’m like a cat that’s just about to be given a bath. Nervous. The bottom of my paws just touched the water and believe you me, I’m more than just a little bit nervous. To say the least. Of course, you can’t know that cats hate baths. But they do.
What Johnny and I did this evening was really “exhilarating.” That’s a new word I learned the other day in the Readers Digest Word Power page. It means “exciting.”
Well, I guess I need to explain to you that it’s that time of the year. Car dealers all over the United States tear down the paper that covered the showroom windows or clean off the whitewash that did the same thing and finally show off their brand new car models. And they do this on the very same night. And that was tonight. As by now, you’ve probably already figured that out.
For the past three weeks, nobody could go inside the showrooms except for the dealers’ employees because the showrooms were closed to the ”general public.” That includes me, even though I’m a kid. Try as we might, nobody other than dealer workers are allowed to see the new models until after sundown today.
During this three-week period, truck drivers who deliver next year’s new models are pretty cagey also. They haul the new cars, as usual, but the cars are covered in white cloth that’s like a cocoon with special open spaces just for the windows. That way, the truck drivers can see out in order to unload the cars. They quickly drive them into the dealers’ garages.
My friends and I watch them, trying to guess how each model is shaped. But it’s darned near impossible.
The reason for all this hoopla: Just about everyone in his right mind is anxious to visit the dealerships and take a look at the new models. Adults and kids, alike, “oooh” and “ahhh” over the new cars. Me included. Some people buy the new models on the showroom floor, then and there. But they have to wait a few weeks in order to pick them up. Because dealers want to keep the new models until the truck drivers deliver more new ones to take their place. Most buyers order new cars just the way they want them with the size engine they prefer and the color of the car and if they want whitewall tires, or not. They have to wait about six weeks in order to pick up and drive their brand new car home.
And get this: The dealers don’t mind if kids attend the new models’ debut, either. Our sixth grade teacher gave us a spelling list this week. “Debut” was one of the words we studied. We had to look up the meanings of each one. Debut means “introduction.”
So, Johnny and I had to wait until after sundown. Like everyone else.
Mother gave me special permission to stay out until after nine O’clock, closing time. Even though it was a school night. She knows I’m a car nut. And she’s still treating me like a son should be treated. Which is keen. Even though it’s different. Johnny and I waited on our front porch. We wanted to leave right away, but Dad said, “You guys ought to wait for the searchlights to be turned on.”
We waited. We didn’t want to. A little while later, there they were: Four separate highways of white light shone in the night sky. Moving here. Moving there. Criss-crossing sometimes. It was almost as much fun as the Fourth of July fireworks display. They moved quickly all over the dark sky. What a thrill.
Johnny and I knew where those lights were coming from: The Eighth Street South Chevrolet and Oldsmobile dealership. Gib Sickles, who lives across the river, is a friend of ours. His dad is a salesman at Casey’s Chevrolet and Oldsmobile. Gib told us the week before that Mister Casey rented four U. S. Army World War II surplus anti-aircraft searchlights from a business in Milwaukee. It was more than exciting. “Ooooh,” said Johnny, “look at those lights.”
“Yeah,” I said, “they’re really keen, aren’t they?”
“Sure are,” replied my buddy.
A moment later, we opened that front porch door and flew down the stairs. We each carried an A&P brown paper sack with us. They’d hold all the new car pamphlets and brochures we could collect. We were certain of that. We’d already decided to see the new Buicks first. We walked—but mostly ran—down Baker Street hill. The Buick dealer is right next door to the Fire Station. There already was a long line of adults, waiting to sit in the front seat of the brand new Buick Roadmaster. The dealer, an old guy, said we couldn’t get in line until all the adults were gone. And more adults were flocking into the place.
So, we decided right then and there to leave. There were other dealerships we wanted to visit. But before we left, we went to nearby tables and collected all the material that featured the new models. Although the new Buicks were really keen, we’d have to wait too long to get in one and make believe we were driving. That’s why we left the place and headed to the nearby Plymouth dealer, behind the fire station and across the street.
I still remember when I was a young kid I sounded out the word after Dork and I saw a Saturday matinee at the Rapids Theater. I pronounced Plymouth with a long “I” sound. And I pronounced mouth like my mouth, not “mith” as I should have. Of course, Dork corrected me.
The Plymouth salesman was really nice. He wore a mile-wide smile. “You kids can get in line,” he said.
We got in line. Adults stood in front of us and in back of us. Finally, I was first in line.
“Get in,” said the salesman.
So, I got in. Just like that.
“Wanna steer her?”
“That would be neat,” I said.
“Well?” said the salesman.
Wow, what a feeling. And the new car smell? It’s something else. I figure it’s as good as spring flowers. I could even see out the windshield. If I lifted my head a bit. I turned the wheel this way, and that.
A few seconds later, the salesman asked Johnny, “Wanna get in?” Johnny pumped his head. So, I slid out, and as I looked back, Johnny was already grabbing hold of the steering wheel.
“My dad’s gonna buy a new Chevy,” he told the salesman.
“Think you can talk ‘im into buying a Plymouth, instead?” chirped Mister Smiles.
“Maybe.” Johnny’s grin was about the same size as Mister Smiles’.
So, I thought I’d say something smart. “I think it’s kind of interesting it’s still nineteen fifty but the fifty-one car models are being shown.”
“Yeah, it’s kind of crazy,” agreed Mister Smiles, “but that’s the way it is with life and cars.”
“I really don’t mind,” I said, adding, “too much.”
The salesman was through with us kids. “And, madam, how’d you like to sit in this brand new Plymouth?” he asked the nice lady, waiting patiently. “Bet the interior is as nice as your living room.”
“Better,” she said, laughing.
Johnny got out. We grabbed more brochures and pamphlets and stuffed them in our sacks. “Don’t forget to tell your dads to buy Plymouths,” the salesman called out to us.
“We won’t,” Johnny and I answered as one.
After we were outside, Johnny said, “My dad won’t buy a Plymouth.”
“Neither would mine,” I said.
Next was the Dodge dealer, a couple blocks away. After we got there and discovered the place was filled with people, we collected the goodies, stuffed them into the A&P sacks, and headed to Eighth Street and the Pontiac garage. Dodges kind of look like Plymouths, anyway.
The Pontiac garage and sales lot are across the street from the Eighth Street A&W root beer stand. Mister Rokus, Bill’s dad, is Pontiac’s chief salesman. He’s a smooth talker as most of the men who sell cars are. I like the Pontiacs’ Indian head hood ornaments, but that’s about all. Pontiacs kind of look like Chevrolets.
The sky’s highways of light beckoned us further out to Eighth Street South to the Oldsmobile and Chevy dealer, owned by George Casey’s brother. There were tons of bugs flying around the huge lights. Yuck. Inside the showroom, Gib Sickles’ dad greeted me. “Is Doc going to buy a new Olds this year?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.”
“Well, you tell him they’re better than ever—and with hydramatic drive.”
“I’m sure if he buys a new car this year, it’s going to be an Oldsmobile with an automatic transmission because that’s all he ever buys.”
“By the way,” Mister Sickles said to Johnny, “Your dad’s buying a new Chevy. Right this minute.”
Johnny’s mom and dad were there. His dad, Byron, told us, “I’m ordering a green Styleline four-door Deluxe with three on the tree and black walls.” That means he has to shift the car rather than let the automatic transmission do the shifting. And he didn’t want to pay extra for whitewalls.
Johnny’s mother, Rose, shook her head. “Byron’s a Chevy man. Always has been. Always will be.” Her eyeballs shot to the ceiling.
Johnny told his folks where we had already been.
“You kids sure have energy,” said Rose.
“If you wait for me to finish the paper work,” said Byron, “I’ll give you boys a ride to see the Hudsons and Henry J’s and Kaisers and Frazers on the other side of the river. Then, we’ll go see the Cadillacs at Crown’s of Two Towns.” Mister Crown, the dealer, drove a Cadillac convertible with a Texas longhorn’s horns on the front of the hood.
Naturally, we waited. And naturally, the Cadillacs were the biggest and most expensive cars in town. They were absolutely beautiful. Mister Crowns’ eyes were bloodshot. I was getting sleepy and so was Johnny and his mother. So, we headed home.
As I walked into our house, Dad was waiting. His eyes were glassy. That means he must’ve been drinking while I was gone. He seemed upset. He got that way when he drank. “You’re a little late, aren’t you, young man?”
I didn’t have time to answer because Mother piped in with, “Jim, I gave Gordon permission. He and Johnny Nelson went to look at new cars. You remember that, don’t you?”
“Oh. Of course.”
Saved by Mother.
“You’d better go to bed,” Dad warned me. “You have school tomorrow.”
And that was that, Diary.
But I’m still not tired. Maybe, I’ll read the pamphlets and brochures for a while.
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