Oh Jeez.
All I wanted was to have a cup of Folgers, enjoy the drive down to the Grounds for Divorce in the Fairlane 500 before it got too damn hot to leave the house, and maybe commiserate with whomever else was sitting at the big roundtable for a while before getting back to work doing whatever it is I do. I didn’t think that was too much to ask, but that just goes to show you how little I know.
Rex Hall, the pharmacist here in Fort Stockton, got out his iPad and pulled up Bring a Trailer, just like every other time we’re all in the cafe together. Didn’t take him long to scroll right past all the cars whose names we can’t even pronounce and that cost more than any six houses in RoadRunner Estates. He landed on this 1959 Plymouth Sport Suburban.
Now I’ll be the first to admit, I like any car with fins on the back end. If the fins are horizontal and the fenders have skirts, all the better. So I had a natural attraction to the Sport Suburban. I had absolutely no idea how controversial this one was going to get, though. I’m not talking about the shade of blue someone repainted the thing at some point. Non-factory? Yeah, for sure. Period correct? Not even. But that’s not the controversy I’m talking about.
The fact that, like other Chrysler products of the era, the rearview mirror is on the dash, not the windshield? Yeah, that always stirs up a little debate. The V-shaped dashboard that head-on looks like a seagull taking flight in a windstorm? Nope. That’s odd, but no longer really controversial for the roundtable. The pushbutton transmission doesn’t even raise an eyebrow anymore. Seems like you can’t swing a dead armadillo around your head three times without hitting one of those at a Fenders-N-Folgers anymore.
Where things took a turn is when it was discovered that the Plymouth was located in Canada. That, in and of itself, is not that big of a deal. Once folks around Fort Stockton started figuring out that their Chevy Equinoxs, Impalas, Silverados, Cadillac XTSs, Ford Edges, Lincoln Nautiluss, Chrysler Pacificas, and Grand Caravans were all made in Canada, their views towards our Canadian neighbors softened considerably.
Don’t get me wrong. They also found out 34 of their other favorite models were produced in Mexico, and we still strung razor wire across the Rio Grande. And none of us have ever once said, “Let’s go out for some Canadian food tonight.” There must be other factors at play.
What kicked the hornet’s nest with the Canadian 1959 Plymouth Sport Suburban was the fact that apparently the government of Canada has to give its permission in order for the thing to leave Canadian soil, once a sale is completed. One commenter noted, “Canada now requires an export permit for collector cars being sold outside the country. Past experience has indicated that with this being a Windsor built car, the feds will not sign off on letting this car leave the country.”
“Sure enough,” Pastor Peterson said. “Cars over fifty years old are part of the cultural history of the country and the government has to approve them leaving the country.” How Pastor Peterson stays up on these things on top of all his other duties never fails to amaze me. Nonetheless, the revelation was met with the same response as if we’d been told Washington was coming for our deer rifles.
“You mean to tell me,” Rusty from the hardware store started saying in a low, slow voice while turning completely red in the cheeks. “That the government is stepping in and telling us what we can and cannot do with our OWN DAMN CARS?” The carotid artery in his neck was pulsating like a python trying to strangle a possum.
Lucinda, standing there with a fresh pot of Folgers from the Bunn-O-Matic, joined in. “What the hell are they thinking? Cars should not be treated the same as a woman’s uterus.” Sister Thelma snickered. She was obviously conflicted, but could never hide her admiration for irony.
Knowing better, I stepped into the fray, nonetheless. “It’s the Canadian government. Not ours. I don’t know that it’s anything to get too worked up about.” I should have kept my mouth shut.
“By god, if I want to buy an Audi from Ottawa, a Torino from Toronto, or a Vega from Vancouver, I damn sure don’t need some non-elected bureaucrat behind a desk giving me his permission!” Rusty retorted. I was impressed. I didn’t think he even knew what the word ‘bureaucrat’ meant, much less be able to effectively use it in a sentence. And why anyone would want to buy a Vega, especially one from Vancouver, mystified me completely. I mean, the engine problems and rust issues are well documented. The uterus comment Lucinda offered went completely over Rusty’s head.
“What he’s trying to tell you,” New Guy said, with way more authority than he could justifiably claim, “is that it shouldn’t be up to the government to determine what is culturally valuable. The market should be free to decide.”
“Weren’t you the one that demanded the school board quit teaching To Kill a Mockingbird in Freshman English last year?” Lucinda asked.
“That was different.” New Guy seemed to be getting worked up, too. “Thems is our kids. They need to be protected from that pinko trash.”
“Didn’t you also speak out against an increase in funding for additional school security too, saying teachers should just be allowed to concealed carry in the classroom?” Lucinda seemed to be getting ready to pour a pot of Folgers right into New Guy’s lap. While it would have been a first, and certainly something to see, the possibilities of a lawsuit and New Guy someday taking ownership of the Grounds for Divorce were events that seemed to be getting too close for comfort.
“Aren’t you glad they went with a 313 cubic inch polysherical V8 instead of just dropping any ol’ Chevy 350 in under the hood?” I asked. Sister Thelma asked if anyone had ever taken a vacation in a station wagon and ridden the whole way in the rear-facing third row seat. Pastor Peterson pulled up pictures of the underbody and started the discussion of just how to treat the level of corrosion that accumulates during a 65 year life in Canada.
“I feel like I’ve got nearly that much corrosion on my underbody, and I’m close to the same age, but grew up in Fort Stockton,” I said.
And before you know it, the conversation was back focused on the greatness of dog dish hubcaps, two tone paint, and why the world was a better place when there were sedans and station wagons and convertibles in every showroom instead of just gray hemorrhoid-shaped SUVs. Things we could all agree on.
14 responses to “1959 PLYMOUTH CAN O’ WORMS”
What do you call a religious Canadian? An eh-theist. What is the unit of measure of how Canadian you might be? The eh-ness.
That aside, my nephew brought a 1957 Plymouth Savoy into the US from Canada about eight years ago. The Canadian owner drove it across the border and left it with a US shipping company. Once the car was in TX, we just had to take it to a customs inspector at the Austin airport. My nephew was sick with worry about what the Feds might do as a customs inspection was supposed to have happened at the Canadian border. In the end the inspector said, “Nice car. Here ya go.” as he handed my nephew the necessary paperwork.
Benard Marx
So saddened and disappointed at the continual disrespect demonstrated by the online community towards the 1971 Motor Trend Car of the Year.
Hm. I wonder what happened to the “lessB29” part?
That was the same prestigious body that awarded Car of the Year to the Mustang II in 1974. I’m seeing a Trend.
Cappy…poutine and putang don’t smell the same but they do taste alike. Unless the curds are goat cheese, of course.
Okay, that’s just funny. Even if you’re Canadian.
I OWN a grey Haemorrhoid-shaped SUV. I nammed it “Butch”
Brother Bob is starting a support group you might be interested in. (It’s BYOB for reasons involving legal liability and possible conflicts with scripture.)
“And none of us have ever once said, ‘Let’s get go out for some Canadian food tonight.’”
Just one word: Poutine. Now a few more: Heart attack on a platter, but delicious!
Don’t forget their bacon. Why are Canada’s pigs round?
Poutine, Eh?
I really overdosed on Poutine, mostly in Ontario and Quebec,
and don’t see it here in the Deep South.
I’d been enjoying Canadian Bacon (from round pigs?) for ages,
the greasier, the better, Eh?
along with super cholesterol from a few eggs …
… And then I got OLD …
and wanting to drive my old cars until I’m 120,
but maybe no longer doing 120?
… So now it’s Turkey Bacon,
But I draw the line at Egg Whites – cholesterol be damned,
and bad enough having to monitor Blood Sugar (I’ll decide what is “Good Enough”?),
and have my cell phone App monitor the pacemaker.
But we drove several vintage car tours up in Canada,
– AACA Founders Tour in London, ON
and Vintage Tour at Kingston,
VMCCA Alexander Bay, NY up into Ontario for a week,
London to Brighton (Ontario Region)
Alliston to Kincardine (Ontario)
Vancouver Island to Sault Ste. Marie on our own,
Bar Harbor, ME to Moncton, NB, where the Nuns at the French speaking university, seeing a Citroen with Louisiana plates just assumed we spoke French (a fair amount of pseudo sign language), – then exploring much of Nova Scotia, watching a 54 ft tide and a Tidal Bore on the Bay of Fundy, and then on to Prince Edward Island for some of the best lobster and mussels.
Along the way I REALLY overdosed on Poutine, mostly in Ontario and Quebec,
as if our unique dining here in New Orleans were a shining example of healthy eating.
Looking into bringing cars home from Canada, we (OK – I) seriously pursued a French-spec 1974 Citroen DS-23 Pallas, an early Deux Chevaux (Citroen 2-CV), a Peugeot 403 Cabriolet like a slightly oddball detective’s, a 1948 Packard Station Sedan (Woodie Wagon), and several others over the years. Paper work, costs, fees, government intervention, and a variety of other obstacles always seemed to slow things down. Thankfully friends and family have made transit of parts back and forth much easier. Back in ’76 our 1971 Citroen Safari (wagon) had turning French spec headlights and glass covers installed while we toured Montreal.
Canada is a great option for those of us in the humid, hot, and sometimes heat-oppressive Deep South, as are the Rocky Mountain states – at least late spring through early autumn.
I had to google ‘poutine’, as my first thought was that what was actually being said was ‘puntang’ and it was just being misspelled. I was relieved and embarrassed at the same time while discovering they are two distinctly different things.
You can take the boy out of Texas . . . but you can’t take the Texas out of the boy.
Those Canadians are just crazy.
Rusty’s alliteration skills are impressive but at the risk of sounding like New Guy, can there actually be any Vegas left in Vancouver?
Those things rusted so quickly, chances are there aren’t even any Vegas in Vegas.
One would wonder.