Today and tomorrow, my Dad would have been one hundred years old. We think date confusion resulted from his having been born at home on September 23, 1910, with an official birth certificate filed on the 24th? Whatever; we always celebrated on the 24th. But this year, I'm anxious to express myself, in his honor; and besides, it's almost midnight. For this birthday, I'm thinkin' "cars". My Dad really, really loved his cars. He could spend an entire day off with his head under this hood or that, doing we-still-don't-know-what. I can hear his chuckles, as I post the photo of a Buick buggy, circa his birth year!
My Dad used to tell lots of stories, always dated by the car he was driving at a particular time. I have a few auto-related humdingers of my own. It is with clarity that I recall a walk down Dunlop Avenue and the first glimpse of his new Nash. I would have been about 8 1/2 years old, and I can picture that big old grille, as though it was yesterday. It was the car that transported us from Jamaica to our then-new home in Massapequa. If memory serves me correctly, a friend named Russell Larson was shopping for his own very first car and bought it from Dad.
Some years post-move, Dad must have been going through male mid-life crisis. At the time, I had no idea that there was an actual name for this malady... I just recall his coming home one night with a green convertible. Man, was my Mom pissed. He, however, was in Seventh Heaven. I think it was an Oldsmobile. I'll have to hit the old photos for confirmation.
Then, there was the gorgeous, blue Chrysler that Joe vomited in. He and I were 23, at the time, and just pregnant with Brian. My parents didn't even know about their soon-to-be Baby Grand, when we all attended my cousin's wedding, in Connecticut. We returned from the event with Bro Ronnie driving and my Dad in the front passenger seat. Mom, Joe and I were in the back. It seems that Joe had tossed back a few too many scotch and sodas, 'cause suddenly and violently, he upchucked in what was a massive projectile, headed straight for my Dad's cashmere coat and hat. My Dad never said a word, as my brother lowered the window; he just sat rigidly, till we got home, where Joe disappeared... sober enough to be extremely embarrassed and apologetic. My Dad really loved Joe, never chastised him, but perhaps made a passing comment or ten about how the stench never left the car. Joe became a teetotaler. Not to worry, though, 'cause the noxious odors became the perfect excuse for a trade-up to Dad's coveted Thunderbird, the vehicle that moved him and Mom to their nearby upstate residence.
Happy Birthday, Daddy... I love you more today than yesterday, but less today than tomorrow... times 100. ♥
