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It was sunny and 72 degrees.  The big blue Texas sky stretched out as far as the eye could see in every direction.  One of those mornings that makes a man fill his mug up with steaming hot Folgers and wander out to the garage and listen carefully to the sound of a 1960 Ford Fairlane 500 beckoning.  

It’s a sound not everyone hears.  Buttercup has never once heard it, even standing right next to one of the rear horizontal fins.  Perhaps it is something that requires training or a deeper spiritual connection.  Anyway, listening to the car calling me to the open road, I drained what was left of the Folgers, backed the Corinthian White sedan out of the garage, and gave the whole thing a once over with the California Car Duster.  

Granted, I should probably go ahead and spring for a custom fit car cover for the Fairlane 500.  But I get an immeasurable amount of pleasure by just glancing at its greatness as I walk through the garage several different times throughout the day.  A cover would save some dusting once every week or two, but deny me the pleasure of those glances.  Noticing some streaks, dust, and mineral marks on the windows from the last time the car had been washed, I even broke out the Adams Polishes Glass Cleaner and went around the whole thing with the spray and a micro cloth.  She sparkled.

Windows down.  Weather perfect.  Fuel pump pumping.  Chrome reflecting the sun, indicating God’s cooperation in making the morning everything one could ask for.  Sometimes those 45 minutes behind the big blue three-spoke steering wheel are all that is necessary to regain the perspective one needs when the news is never good.  Staring down at the delete plate where a radio would normally have been, I was thankful that Miss Elizabeth Dvorchak was not talked into that option when she ordered the Ford new from Mraz Ford in 1960.  Noise from such a source would only detract from the velvety hum of a Mileage Maker Six under the hood and the wind whistling through the wing windows.

Time behind the wheel on a perfect (almost spring) day on Highway 10 west of Fort Stockton with little or no traffic is as close to a Rice Krispie Treat as one can get with his pants still on.

But heading back into town, something happened that I am almost hesitant to explain.  Passing the Eggs & Ammo, I saw something that caused a flashback to a time from my youth even earlier than the first Fairlane 500.  There, atop a trailer, and being pulled by a bright red Volvo XC90 was a yellow 1974 Volvo 1974 145 wagon.

Before going any further, I need to provide full disclosure.  There are things about me, about my past, that I don’t recall ever sharing before.  Important things.  Things that have remained buried for a long time.  Things that a yellow 1974 Volvo 1974 145 wagon brought back like a bad dream.

First confession:  I lived in California for two years.  

I know.  You don’t have to even say it.  But it wasn’t my fault.  It was completely out of my control.  At the age of 15 my dad was transferred to the Golden State.  I actually spent my sophomore and junior years in the Land of Lost Souls.  Did living six blocks from the beach offset the fear of earthquakes, drug addiction, and being kidnapped by the Symbionese Liberation Army?  What do you think?

The Golden State was never its own Republic.  Let’s just leave it at that.

But being 15, in a brand new state, and thinking that the best way to perhaps meet some new friends and look appealing to the local mid-teen female population, I determined that going out for football might be the best course of action.  Had I ever played football before?  Of course not.  But I’d performed in a few plays, and really, isn’t that pretty much the same thing?

The reason that the Volvo on the trailer took me back a half a century was that the coach of the football team drove one identical to it.  That is significant because I had never seen a Volvo wagon in person before.  I was befuddled by the shape, the color, and the concept.  At that time, a Ford Country Squire seemed to me to be what someone should aspire to, should the need for a wagon arise.  This funny colored box-shaped seemingly underpowered car from a Nordic country made no sense to me.  But then, neither did Coach Wembley.

Dressed in the same red Spandex tight fitting shorts every day, with a pronounced paunch straining the waistline of the Spandex, he looked neither healthy nor athletic.  Sideburns that looked like Elvis’s would have, had he lived to 60, and a sweaty round face (that was usually the same shade of red as his shorts) completed a visage that was as odd to me as the car he drove.

Those factors, by themselves, would not be enough to cause a flashback 51 years later.  It was the phrase “assume the position” he would yell that caused psychological damage.  When anyone on the team heard those three words shouted at them, they were immediately expected to bend over and grab their ankles.  At that point Coach Spandex would haul off and kick them in the butt as hard as he could.  More often than not, the offending player’s facemask would end up planted in the turf.

Nothing like this had ever happened in theater practice.  Mind you, I had some experience in Texas with corporal punishment.  I’ve detailed my experience with a carved oak Paddle of Punishment in past posts.  But I‘d never had my ass kicked by anyone, much less someone in a position of authority on the public payroll.  I’d like to report that, after a few times, I got used to the concept.  But I didn’t.

The other thing that I remember about the entire experience was hitting the showers after the first practice.  One of the other sophomores took off his jersey and was wearing a full blown black angora wool sweater underneath.  Or so it seemed.  It took me a moment to realize the hairiest human I had ever seen was standing right in front of me, naked as a jaybird.  The kid was the same age I was and had a full beard.  He looked like a gorilla.  A gorilla that probably went on to a career in porn, if I was guessing.

Swedish wagons.  Abusive coaches.  Part-human, part-ape high school sophomores.  No one was ever happier to have a knee blown out and forced to use crutches as the 15-year-old captain was in the fall of 1974.  Luckily the new school also had a theater class that I was able to transfer into, on doctor’s orders.

Two years later, we were back in Texas.  Sadistic coaches, contact sports, and communal showers all just distant memories.  In an effort to purge my demons, I even drove a couple Volvo wagons years later.  

A 1960 Ford Fairlane 500, Buttercup, and hobbies more reflective of my talents all were waiting.

And, all these years later, Buttercup is still here.  Hobbies utilizing my talents have lasted much longer than my football career did.  And there is a Fairlane 500 in the garage again.  Things work out.  But there were a few minutes there in front of the Eggs & Ammo that time stood still, all because of a yellow 1974 Volvo 1974 145 wagon.

Every car is a story. Some take a while to get over.

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A pleasant surprise took place Friday when I was alerted to the special feature on Bring a Trailer featuring one of our own from the GFD. RoundHeadlights was interviewed for the Ten Questions feature, sharing more information than I ever even knew. Thankfully, he left out the bits about his last trip through Fort Stockton, his stay at the Naughty Pine Motel, and several of us having to help him fish his MG-B out of the bar ditch on the road out to Lake Leon. Being an expert on conifers, you’re think he’d have been more careful at the Naughty Pine. If you missed the interview, here’s the link: https://bringatrailer.com/2025/02/27/10-questions-with-roundheadlights/

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We said goodbye this week to legendary film star Gene Hackman who departed this mortal place under mysterious circumstances with his wife in their home in Santa Fe.

My first inclination was to ask Jimmy Don Ventura, the new CMC movie critic, to feature The French Connection as his next subject to review for posting here on the blog. “When I start telling you what cars to feature in your twisted tales, you can start telling me which movies to review,” he replied. So be it. But I thought I’d post this classic scene, one of the all-time great Hollywood auto chase scenes of all time as a tribute. Rest in peace, Gene. You’ll be missed.

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Speaking of twisted tales, the one that starts tomorrow will take a while to get over. A week to be exact. That’s right, a brand new 7-part series. A real nail-biter, and I’m not talking about those over at the Rusty Hammer Hardware Store. It’s going to be a busy week.

In the meantime, remember the words of the great author George Orwell: “A people that elect corrupt politicians, imposters, thieves and traitors are not victims, but accomplices.”

Have a good week.

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