The Day She Came Back

Two weeks ago, on a hot Saturday morning, Shawn called from KC. "I'm on my way," he said. True to his word, he was bringing the Olds to St. Louis. I wasn't sure what to do for the next 4 or 5 hours. Usually it's like straighten up the living room, vacuum, stuff like that. But this was the first time I'd ever prepared to welcome a car. And an old one, at that. Given the hot day - climbing into the mid-90's - I was worried about the car making it the 250 miles. So I straightened up the driveway, picked up some dead branches. I probably would've vacuumed it if the cord would've reached.


At 2:30 he called. "I'm at the Loew's parking lot in Kirkwood," he said. "I'll be there in a few minutes." Loews? What did he do, come to St. Louis to go shopping? Turns out, he trailered the car in. Smart move. He wanted to drive up to my house in the car.


A half hour later I was standing at the top of my driveway, waiting, listening, remembering. How would she look? How would she sound? How would I feel about someone else driving her? I waited and sweated, held the camera at the ready. Before long I heard the deep purr of a not-new car. A deep rumble. And there, around the bend in our street, came the '65 Olds Jetstar. 


If you've ever gone back to the house where you grew up, the grade school you attended, met an old girl friend you'd lost contact with, even pulled out a high school year book or an old baseball glove.... if you've ever done any of those, then you know how I felt. Joy. Sadness. Excitement. Longing. A feeling that all is right with the world, that some of the good things of life will always be there for you. And one other compelling feeling that I come to experience more often these days. The feeling of time gone by, all too quickly. 


A poem came to mind, days later.

            "Across the fields of yesterday, 
             he sometimes comes to me. 
             A little lad just back from play, 
             the boy I used to be."


Not to belabor this nostalgic event, I'll just say the car was all I had hoped it to be. And Shawn was the right person to own it. For he deeply cared about it, wanted it to be perfect, had worked hard to recreate its beauty, knew more about cars than I did. I had forgotten how well designed the car was, a low, streamlined, powerful presence. How magnificent the dark and light blues were. I drove it around the neighborhood, feeling strangely comfortable in it. Shawn and Mary Lee and I visited for a long time. He told of his endless search for parts, his efforts to restore it as close to the day that I bought it, the same year Mary Lee and I were married. 

That evening we drove to Blueberry Hill for dinner. Top down. Shawn was behind the wheel; I didn't want to risk hitting something. The 3 of us sat in front. You could do that in those old convertibles. Drove up and down Delmar afterwards, ala "American Graffiti." Then hamburgers for dinner. 


The evening ended too quickly, and Shawn decided he was going back to KC that same night. After taking Mary Lee home, I followed him to Loew's and helped him put the Olds back on the trailer. We shook hands, promised to stay in touch, and he said he'd bring her back when he had finished all he wanted to do. Then, for the second time in my life, I watched her roll away, into the night at the edge of the parking lot.


One reassuring thought stays with me. After 46 years, both my marriage and my Olds are still running. It doesn't get much better than that.

Travel Down This Road With Me

The lives of men can be measured by the cars they once owned. Every guy I know can tell you what kind of car they had in what year and where they lived and who they were dating. They even know the horsepower, the mileage, the cost of gasoline then, and what songs they listened to while cruising down the road. Cars don’t only take you somewhere in space. They travel in time.

A phone call I received a couple of days ago turned out to be a bridge to the past. Here's a bit of back-story to set the scene.

My first car was a brand-new 1956 Chevy Bel-Aire convertible. My dad bought it for me at Barford Chevrolet two years before I graduated college. This beauty was white with a black top, white sidewalls, automatic transmission, and an AM radio with buttons. It was - and still is - one of the sharpest looking cars to ever grace the road. At least in my eyes.

Since that first car, I had never been without a convertible. Until now. The Chevy was followed by a ‘60 Corvette, then a ‘65 Olds Jetstar, an ‘84 Dodge Dart - an embarrassment - and finally an ‘88 Mazda RX-7. All convertibles. I sold the RX-7 two years ago, which ended my mobile time in the sun.

Those old cars have the same power over me as old girlfriends and beloved dogs. A fleeting image, a scent, a setting, a song - wham, I am back in the past. Which is where I ended up when I got that call. A young man’s voice inquired, “Gerald Mandel?”

“Gerald?”, I thought. He must be making cold calls, reading my name from some purchased list of potential suckers. He’s going to try to sell me a weekend on Arkansas lakefront property, or season tickets to the Rep. “Yes,” I said, just seconds away from adding, “I don’t buy anything over the phone” and hanging up.

The voice continued. “Did you used to own a 1965 Olds Jetstar convertible?”

Whatever he was selling, I was ready to buy. “Yes, I did.” He couldn’t see the smile of wonder on my face. “Why?”

“I own it now, Gerald.”

“Gerry. Please.”

“Gerry. And I just wanted to talk about it.”

Which we did. For the next half hour. His name is Shawn. He lives outside Kansas City. He found the car through Craigslist, covered in dust in some guy’s barn. It didn’t run. Shawn bought it, towed it to his house, replaced the engine with a Delta-88 425 hp rebuilt job. The car now runs. Pretty well. He’s still working on it.

I, in turn, told him some of my Olds’ stories. How my daughter drove it in high school, called it her Bat Car. (It was dark blue). How I put our two Golden Retrievers, Chelsea and Abbey, in the back seat and went to Ted Drews almost weekly (“cholesterol” wasn’t in my vocabulary yet). How I had to add a can of some STP chemical to the gas tank when they stopped making leaded gas. How I got married in 1965, so the car and my marriage are both 46 years old. And still running. How I still feel the pain of separation when I think about the day I sold it to some guy from Illinois and watched him drive away. It was the last time I ever saw my Olds.

Until the day Shawn called. He emailed me some photos of the way it looks now. It’s gorgeous. I wish I still owned it. Great body, smooth lines, exquisite detail, no dents, bruises, rips or rust. Here’s the clincher. Shawn gets into St. Louis occasionally.

“I’d love to see it,” I said quickly.

“I’d love for you to see it,” he said, “and have you drive it. And get a picture. You and me. The first owner and the last. And the Olds.”

I’m ready to roll. I’ll even buy Shawn a large concrete at Ted Drews.

Now if only someone would call about that white '56 Chevy.

My son Gregg with the '65 Olds, circa 1983.

Same Olds, today, from new owner.