Sweet Ol' Car

Lord I was born a Ramblin' man...

Driving around in old cars used to be a thing. But those days are gone. Depends on which state and certainly which country you live in but here in California they’re rare as hen’s teeth. I mean, there still are some old duffers smoking pipes while wearing paperboy hats and youngsters in fleece vests with tech cash to burn who drive a few miles to get their matcha lattes in old cars but they’re usually restored collectables, i.e. a good looking sandwich with no meat. But that’s not how we rolled.

Take for example my beautiful hunk of metal. It was a 1963 Rambler Classic Cross Country Wagon with an in-line six cylinder and snow tires that gripped especially well in the summer. It was only about 30 years old but it had an air about it that harkened back to the time of the cotton gin. The fact that gas was about a buck a gallon certainly helped the cause. I bought it for a couple hundy off an ad in the local Minneapolis weekly rag. The photo above was taken shortly after I forgot the gas cap on the roof after filling up somewhere in Wisconsin on my way to Chicago on the only big road trip that car took me on. It was well worth the loss as that trip inspired one of my first proper songs: Sweet Ol’ Car. Some referred to it simply as S.O.C. just to save time. I sent a cassette of it off to the iconic radio show “Car Talk” with Click and Clack and they actually played it during one of their show’s interludes, that sacred time when they would play a dumb car song. I guess I got my 30 seconds of fame.

Out on the road in my ol station wagon

Feelin’ like I’m fightin’ some Arthurian dragon

Arthurian dragon? What the hell was I thinking? Leonard Cohen would be rolling in his grave. If those lyrics weren’t pushing the boundaries of what’s acceptable, I somehow ended up rhyming mechanic with tonic in the fourth verse at which point the whole story comes together like a dysfunctional Thanksgiving dinner:

I took her into my daddy’s mechanic

I was suckin’ on a gin and a t(a)nic

At that time, I was writing songs (kind of) and playing with my good buddy Dave. We were doing the acoustic guitar with harmonies coffeeshop thing. After ditching the name Fancy Squash, we legally committed to 80 Bones because we had a combined $80 in our bank accounts or something like that. Dave drove around in a 1964 Dodge Dart and blew it’s engine on I-35 near an infamous rest stop one night coming back from Northfield. Even in sub zero temperatures, he refused to warm it up before jamming it into first and going about his day. We all knew this was going to happen. It was just a matter of when. A couple of years ago, we went into the studio to record some of his new songs and threw down a version of S.O.C. Put your boots on. Maybe throw on a seed cap. It’s a ride you won’t regret but just know you’ll never get these 3 minutes back.

Back to the photo. I’m so curious to know what was going through my head when I took it. My buddy Griff and I were apparently really busy one day juggling high powered jobs and driving around on some random dusty country road in Minnesota when the urge must have hit.

“Hold on! I’m going to pull over and take a photo of the Rambler! Right here! This is perfect! The light! Oh my god! Epic! Just stay in the car Griff and when I yell, just flip me the peace sign!”

As you can see, the gas cap is nowhere to be found. This was before my handy brother carved a replica of it out of a chunk of balsa wood. It was large. He meant well. I probably lost that too or maybe it was donated to a car museum. Perhaps I was inspired and needed a photo for my records, focusing on the dust caked back window, the missing gas cap and the futon in the back that the spare tire was using for an afternoon nap. You’d have to pay someone the big bucks for that kind of brilliant art direction. This was the era that still had the utilitarian smarts to design those front triangular wing windows which worked a treat when you were smokin’ a ciggie or perhaps something even more adventurous. I always loved the shape of its wheel wells. It was falling apart but it oozed inspiration so much so that I got a song as bankable as S.O.C. out of it. Do you think I could pen a song about my 2000 Toyota Sienna that was any good? Not a chance. Would Thelma and Louise be the movie it is if they drove off that cliff in a Tesla? Maybe. But I doubt it. Would James Dean be as eulogized if he crashed his Nissan Leaf at the intersection of Routes 466 and 41 that fateful night? I’m scratching my head. His Porsche was nicknamed Little Bastard. What would he have named his Leaf? So many questions.

I drove that Rambler into the ground. Well almost. I tried my best to keep it in good nick and would work on it myself doing all the easy stuff but then I started having some bigger issues. I had driven past a mechanic’s shop on 38th a few times that had zero signage and plenty of mystery and noticed that there were quite a few Ramblers of my vintage parked on the lot. Aha! This dude must work on Ramblers! I really put two and two together. So I stopped in one day and shook hands with another Dave, the owner, who had a respectable belly held at bay with overstretched flannel and strong buttons. He wore a beard to keep him warm in winter and probably hot and itchy in summer. Dave was such a nice, gentle soul. How could he not? He was 100 percent Quaker. Smooth like the Quaker State motor oil that lubricated my Rambler. He would let me, free of charge, put the wagon up on his hydraulic lift so I wouldn’t have to crawl on my back on the street when it was -18F just to reach that bolt that was inevitably stripped. We would chat about all things but mainly there was silence. I loved the fact that he was a Quaker and therefore a pacifist. So mellow. So loving. But I figured he was not really into singing because of the whole silent thing. Catching a case of the uncontrollable giggles in church was one of the best things about growing up in the Lutheran church. I always wondered if that ever happened at Quaker Friend’s meetings. If not, I’m not interested in their kind of God.

After squeezing a song and a few stories out of that Rambler, it lost not only first but reverse gear. From then on, I would have to park it on the corner so no other car could box me in otherwise it would turn into a waiting game that could last a couple of days. I was up for this challenge though, until I wasn’t. Then some kids rode by on their bikes one day (probably when I was at a board meeting of one of my numerous non and for profit companies) who were in the habit of shooting tiny ball bearings through straws they held in their mouths like they were natives hunting wildlife with poisoned darts. The point was to hit a car window at the right speed, distance, angle and location on the window to shatter it and then flee on your bike to the 7/11 to get a slurpy and some more straws. They got a direct hit with the unique, long, rear, driver’s side window of the Rambler, one that was near impossible to replace. Just like James Dean’s Porsche, they were Little Bastards. So I hand cut a piece of plexiglass and jankily fit it in there with some duct tape. Not a good look but it kept the wind out, the futon safe and spare tire from waking up.

Alas, it was time to sell. I put a sign on one of the real windows and quickly caught a fish. I was fully transparent about the fact that it lacked not one but two gears and a gas cap but somehow the guy was up for the adventure. Maybe he was looking for some inspiration and a few half baked stories. After he handed me $150, I instructed him to go in peace and serve the Lord. And always use Quaker State.

Stay artful…