Why My Pleasant Childhood Car Memories Beat Today's Big Three Automakers

The first car I really remember was my father's dark blue 1963 four-door hardtop Chevrolet Impala. Blue was my favorite color, and the Chevy had a boxlike appearance in the front, distinctive angular curves at the edges of the body in the rear, and an innovative set of six red, circular taillights.

I have a vague recollection of a green 1950s Chevy that my father couldn't start, but the 1963 Impala produced my first strong automobile memories, and it occupies a mythic place in my mind. The contrast with the repulsive behavior of today's "Big Three" automakers couldn't be greater. Hence the white-hot anger displayed in my previous post.

General Motors manufactured the 1963 Chevrolet Impala. In the 1960s, GM was king of the automobile industry. According to a 1997 article in the Oklahoma City Journal Record, GM commanded a 50 percent share of the US automobile market during most of the '50s and '60s. Today, GM's market share hovers around 20 percent, according to a November 17, 2008 article on RealClearMarkets.com.

GM was known for its quality cars. The 1963 Impala is not as famous as the 1964 and '65 models, but it was a good, solid automobile. And, most important to my early-childhood psyche, it was my dad's.

The Impala, named after a type of African antelope noted for its leaping ability, was the quintessential symbol of middle class success, more expensive than the Biscayne and the Bel Air, but cheaper than the Caprice, which, according to Automotivehistoryonline.com, made its debut in 1965.

Riding in cars is especially enticing to little boys. Maybe it's the smell of the carpet, or the feel of the leather seats. Perhaps it's the knowledge that the car is taking them somewhere fun and exciting, to a new horizon waiting to be explored.

Dogs share these feelings. When my father and I would arrive in the Impala at my Uncle Joe's house in Roslyn Heights, Long Island, we were immediately greeted by Prince, Uncle Joe's stocky, 95-pound German shepherd, who would bound into the vehicle and splay himself across a seat. My grandfather's dog, Frieda, a brown terrier-Pomeranian mix, also enjoyed checking out cars, but being a nervous type, she would get antsy once the Impala started moving.

A major reason why humans are drawn to cars is that they give drivers and passengers a sense of unlimited freedom that comes from going where one pleases while watching scenery whiz by. The latter sensibility is intense among teenagers and twenty-somethings, and usually not outgrown.

Americans in particular have had an intense love affair with automobiles over the last century. In the US, the car is more than a means of transportation; it's a cultural phenomenon. Automobiles figure prominently in musical standards such as "In My Merry Oldsmobile," "Golden Gate," "California, Here I Come," and "Bye, Bye Miss American Pie (Drove My Chevy to the Levy)." Autos have been the subject of movies like "The Betsy" and "Pink Cadillac."

I remember many pleasant trips with my father to the Douglaston (Queens) Golf Driving Range and The Adventurers Theme Park in Long Island. As a five- or six-year-old buckling up inside the Impala, I felt like an astronaut ready for takeoff. Dad would refer to me as his "co-pilot."

While riding, we'd sing a repertoire of traveling songs, which included "I've Been Working On the Railroad." When our voices tired, we'd turn on the radio, whose silver-colored push buttons fascinated me.

My father was an excellent driver. He was relaxed at the wheel and displayed an air of confidence and control. I always felt secure in his car.

For most of the 1960s, my father was a traveling salesman, and, therefore, put heavy mileage on the car. From 1963 to 1970, he put about 500,000 miles on that Chevy Impala. The odometer only went up to five figures, and I'd let out a joyful "Yeah!" whenever the numbers slowly rolled from 99,999.9 to 00000.0.

My dad's favorite gas station was the Sunoco in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. My father was friendly with the mechanics there, and he received superior service with a smile. I vividly remember a mechanic named Vance, a medium-sized, fortyish black man with horn-rimmed glasses and a friendly demeanor. He'd give me free Rand McNally road atlases and aluminum coins that displayed an image of an antique car on the front side and the Sunoco logo on the reverse. I still have them.

Today, most of these places are long gone. The Sunoco station is now a US Postal Service loading dock. The Adventurers was burned to a crisp by fire; I passed its charred ruins while driving on the highway about 20 years ago. GM, Ford, and Chrysler, once vaunted symbols of American wealth, have become pathetic shadows of their former selves while its executives shamelessly beg for billions. But the halcyon memories of riding in that merry Chevy endure.