Hard to look at this and not see it through the filter of yellowed Kodachrome, parked in the shade of the driveway in front of the grandparent’s bungalow.
Uncle Lowell had bought it brand new off the showroom floor of Longhorn Chevrolet in Wichita Falls just a couple days before heading back home to Fort Stockton for the annual 4th of July celebration. The cousins had all been waiting for him to show up for two days because he always had gift for each of them and stories to tell from places they had never been to, or even heard of.
Uncle Lowell had never married, or even dated seriously as far as anyone knew, but had lived with a friend from college for years since leaving town. As a result, he didn’t have kids of his own so he spoiled those of his siblings.
When he turned the corner onto Grandma and Grandpa’s street he flipped a switch under the dash and ‘The Eyes of Texas’ started playing through the horn and out the aluminum grill of the Chevy at full volume. All the cousins ran out the front door screaming and the dachshunds in the back yard wailed at the top of their lungs.
Good Lord, the Impala seemed like it was a mile long gliding into the driveway, and it sparkled like a diamond. Langston, Lowell’s older brother and father of the largest number of the progeny covering the front yard like fire ants, whispered to his wife, “Wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t stop and wax the damn thing behind the Piggly Wiggly before he drove over.”
Lois elbowed his ribs and retorted, “Nothing sharpens the sight like envy.”
The red and white interior of the convertible looked like the inside of Clifford and Audrey Jones Stadium during a Texas Tech home game – a sea of red and white – and twice as loud. The stainless trim on the dashboard was brighter than any of Langstons kids, and that on the glove compartment alone contained more ribs than the square foiled packages hidden under the Texas state maps inside.
The cousins all took turns honking the horn, enough so that eventually Louise, sister of Lowell and Langston and heavy with child number five, lumbered off the davenport and on to the porch to attempt to calm the chaos out front.
Uncle Lowell made his way to the flat rear deck of the Chevy, popped it open, and grabbed a big duffle bag containing a new toy for each of the hellions hovering underfoot. A Spirograph for Suzy. A Hula-hoop for little Harry. An Etch-A-Sketch for Eddie. Something for all the rest, till he got to the bottom of the bag and saved the best for his favorite nephew Tommy: an aqua Tonka truck pulling a horse trailer, two plastic palominos parked inside.
Grandpa had the grill fired up in the back, next to the garage. The bratwursts were soaking in beer and soon Lowell and Langston would be, as well. Gramps made his way out front to see the Impala when the kids had all gone inside to play with their new toys.
Alone with Lowell, they popped the hood and stared in at the 283-V8. Talked about horsepower. And then asked the question he really wanted the answer to. “What’d you pay for this?” And, “When are you going to get married?”
At some point there were fireworks over at the high school, and usually by the second day some between the siblings of both generations. But nothing Grandma’s deviled eggs and strawberry shortcake couldn’t fix.
The Impala was what everybody remembered about that 4th of July. Then Grandpa’s diagnosis in August. Then Louise loosing the baby in September. By Christmas, Grandpa was gone.
The Impala may have been the peak of Chevy’s style in the 60s. It certainly represented the peak for one particular family on Glade Street.
Beautiful car.
4 responses to “UNCLE LOWELL’S IMPALA”
1969 I bought this same car in SS trim and 3-speed on the floor. Rusty underneath as typical for a car with Michigan plates but solid runner, $200 and no title; the owner was supposedly in prison. I wanted the engine (327 4 bbl w/ power-park heads) for a 52 Chevy coupe project.
Every car is a story, isn’t it?
Another “HOME RUN”-
Thank you, Captain-My-Captain !
The ’61 was a whole new deal. Some of us immediately rejected it as too short, or just plain Cut-Off, but later learned how smart the crisp lines really were.
While my white ’58 and ’59 Impala convertibles were serious chick bait during my early-mid ’60s college years, it wasn’t until the mid-1980s that the sadly neglected ’63 Impala convertible came to us. We were driving our Anniversary Gold over Honey Beige ’58 Bel-air sedan on an AACA chapter tour based in Leesville, LA, just off the military base. She had been sitting in a mud puddle behind a Road House on Louisiana Highway 111, somewhere between Anacoco and Toledo Bend Reservoir at the Texas state line, shyly hiding behind her half red, a bit of green, and a lot of primer with a reed interior and a badly fitting J.C. Whitney white vinyl top. The owner had a title, proclaimed it wouldn’t run, and insisted “$800 – No More, No Less ! We actually got her started, using the battery from my Anniversary Gold over Honey Beige ’58 Bel-air sedan, lying on a fender and pouring gas from a lawnmower can into the little 2-barrel carb while riding around the muddy yard with my friend Noel at the wheel. The Impala had originally been thought to be a parts car for Noel’s beautifully restored one, but he knew Gail would never allow that “POS” to take up residence in their manicured yard. Knowing I had a viable project, I made the deal on the spot, and towed the ’63 to my friend Harry’s home in Lake Charles, knowing that the eventually restored Impala would be a better surprise for my wife, than another clunker taking up space in the yard. A couple of years down the road and after pleasantly surprising my best navigator ever, the ’63 became our primary tour/driver and relegating the ’58 Bel-air to secondary status.The 283 and Powerglide were bulletproof, and installing Vintage Air was a big plus in humid New Orleans. A rebuild came along several years later due to a knocking wrist pin wearing a groove in #8 cylinder – nothing an 0.080 overbore and 0.010 under rod and main bearings couldn’t fix. Acadia National Park to the PCH and Yosemite, Harlingen’s CAF to Toronto, Key West to San Diego to International Falls to Nova Scotia and PEI – the glamorous red Impala eventually toured 47 states and parts of Canada and Mexico, accumulating yet an additional 56,056 tour miles before Hurricane Katrina necessitated moderate re-restoration. After a few more tours the ’63 eventually found a new home with folks who had full understanding of her vivid past, but envisioned a long and bright future.
Seeing any of these early ’60s GM convertibles brings back memories of soft summer nights at the Jersey Shore, seeing the USA in our Chevrolet, and just plain enjoying the open road, wife and kids sharing the good times.
Marty- You’ve always got a wealth of stories about some great cars of your past. You could set up your own museum, if you still had all those beauties!