The 1937 Chevrolet Four-Door Sedan

The car was seventy-four years old! It had started life in 1937 at the Chevrolet Plant in Flint Michigan. It was an old-timer but it looked as if it had been assembled yesterday.

I was standing in the showroom at Midtown Garage where the car had been put on display. The 1937 Chevrolet Master Deluxe glistened in black, its foot-deep glossy finish catching highlights from the overhead fluorescent lights. The sides of its huge 600-16 tires were cloaked with the white diamond-embossed pattern of Tremont Tires, the brand that carried the mystique of supreme quality in the era of the late thirties. A stylish crease ran from the sides of the engine cowl to a point halfway across the front doors. This design characteristic gave the car an appearance unlike that of any other automobile on the road during its time.

A short, cheery-faced, gray-haired gentleman, neatly dressed in a dark blue three-piece suit, approached and introduced himself as William Herrick. He was about to add something, perhaps a comment about the weather, when he suddenly brightened, thrust out his hand, and exclaimed, "Mr. Edwards, this is indeed an honor! Welcome to our humble showroom!" I was pleased that Mr. Herrick had recognized me. I had been a well-known TV anchor some thirty years earlier but not many people remembered me now.

Thanks for the cordial greeting," I said. "I like this car. Would it be for sale by any chance?"

"Indeed, it would be, Mr. Edwards," he responded. "This magnificent motorcar is being sold to settle an estate. The owner of Midtown Garage, Mr. James Webster had the automobile restored in the mid-eighties. He lovingly maintained it and drove it only in good weather. Sadly, he is no longer with us. The vehicle is being realistically offered at seventy thousand."

I began my next question with a degree of hesitation, "Do you suppose it would be OK if I . . .?" "Of course, of course," the affable gentleman responded. "Here, let me open the door for you, sir." Under his gentle touch, the driver's door swung wide revealing the broad expanse of the interior. The regal front seat, covered with brown mohair fabric, was a feast for my eyes. From the floor extended two large levers, the hand brake and the gear shift. The floorboard was carpeted in beige. The running board seemed to be inviting me to step inside. This, I did and made myself comfortable behind the thick steering wheel. Leaving the door open, I studied the simple instruments on the dashboard: gauges for the oil pressure, water temperature, generator, and fuel. The speedometer was circular and large, with black numerals set against a white background. I toyed with the Bakelite knobs on the ancient radio, opened and closed the glove compartment, ran my hand across the soft material on the seat to my right, then eased out the vehicle. Everything had seemed new, clean, and pristine. There had even been the classic new-car smell for me to enjoy. Though I had been inside the car only a minute, it had been an experience to relish.

Mr. Edwards, may I suggest you check out the back seat? There was the hint of a smile at the corners of his eyes. "With pleasure!" I said. Mr. Herrick opened the rear door and I entered, allowing myself to slowly settle into the luxurious, thickly-padded seat. I grasped the arm rest and pulled the door shut savoring the resounding "karoom" as it closed with all the solemnity of a bank vault. What a wonderful sound from a Chevy, I thought. But then, in the old days, even the least expensive cars were built like tanks.

I can't explain what happened next. I had been in the seat only a few seconds when the scene unexpectedly changed. Suddenly, I was no longer in the showroom but in a moving automobile on the street. It was twilight. I sensed the season to be late fall. In the fading light I could see the shadowy backs of two persons in the front seat. The driver was a man in his early twenties; the passenger, a woman of about the same age. Peering through the large rear window, I readily determined that we were on State Street in Schenectady heading toward the downtown district of the city. I didn't have time to dwell on the central issue of how I had gotten here since the scenes from the window engaged my full attention. I knew the area well, but somehow, it seemed different, a lot different. The Schenectady I was seeing was younger, more vibrant and alive than the one I had known in 1952 at the time I relocated to join CBS in New York.

"Oh look," the young woman exclaimed, "that's where your dad bought this beautiful car! Do you remember how lovingly we used to look at it? And now, we're actually riding in it!"

"Not only that, but we own it, too!" the driver exclaimed. "What a wonderful wedding present from my folks! Feel how wonderful she rides! Can't wait to see how she handles on our trip to Old Orchard Beach tomorrow."

"What do you mean she?" the woman asked teasingly. "I insist on being the only she in your life!"

"Oh, you know what I mean," he mumbled.

I felt a strange affinity with the two persons in the front seat, but I couldn't quite focus on what it was. Numb from the abruptness of what was transpiring, I pondered what should be my next move. Could this be a dream? Was I hallucinating? These thoughts and others flooded my mind. Did the couple know I was here? Should I announce my presence? While so occupied, a minute elapsed. I saw that we were now at the top of State Street hill moving toward Lafayette Street. The street lights were bright. As the car passed by them, the occupants of the front seat were alternately displayed and enshrouded with light and darkness kaleidoscopically. And now, here was the Plaza Theater at the right! The Plaza? But the theater couldn't be here. It had been demolished many years ago. How could I be seeing it now? The people caught my attention. I marveled to see crowds of them milling about on the sidewalk, strolling in and out of shops, studying displays in store windows, dodging traffic as they crossed the street. Schenectady hadn't seen this kind of activity in uncountable years.

The car stopped at the traffic light on Jay Street, slid through the ones at Broadway and Erie Boulevard, then proceeded to Washington Avenue where the driver made a left at the Scotia Bridge. He drove a few more yards and parked at the entrance to the Ten Eyke. I was astonished to see the hotel. The Ten Eyke Hotel had been converted to a community college dozens of years. ago. This couldn't be happening-but it was! The young man exited, hastened across the front of the car, and scurried to the passenger's door. In the meantime, the woman turned toward me. While her countenance was only partially visible in the shadows, I could tell she was extraordinarily beautiful. She seemed to be looking through me as she tossed something white to the back seat where it landed beside me.

Abruptly, and just as unexpectedly as I had left it, I was back in the showroom! Mr. Hickman was staring at me quizzically. "Is everything all right, Mr. Donaldson?" I only half heard the question. There had been something about the man and woman that was eerily familiar. "I'm, . . . I'm OK," I faltered. Why do you ask?" "You seemed so deep in thought," he said. "It's as though you were not even here."

"It was nothing serious," I muttered. "It's just that I used to own a '37 Chevy like this one. That is, my wife and I did. After we had owned the car a few years, I traded it for an Oldsmobile. My wife was very much against it. She was right. The Olds was nowhere near the car that the Chevy had been." What I was saying was true, but I had never shared these thoughts with anyone. Now, I was being very open about it. "I'm sorry to have worried you. It must be the nostalgic effect this car is having on me."

"I've decided to buy the car, Mr. Herrick!"

"Then, seventy thousand is an acceptable sale price?" He seemed mildly surprised.

"Very reasonable!" I declared. "The car would be a bargain at seventy times seventy. During the last few minutes, it has helped me understand something very clearly. This car was given to my wife and me as a wedding present in 1937. I should never have let it go. It wants to be returned to its rightful home."

And the bag, too! I turned and glanced into the rear of the car. I knew it would be there, the pretty white handbag that my wife had thrown to the back seat on our wedding day, exactly sixty-six years ago.