The Giant Car

Machines change from one generation to the next, but one thing doesn’t change – the experiences we have because of that technology and the way that makes us feel.  For instance, a car can be very special to a family.

My mother’s first car was a 1950 red and black 4-door Buick.  It turned out to be a machine that carried around our small family of mother, sister, Grandma, Grandpa and I for eighteen years, and was our key to freedom.

Today almost everyone learns to drive, and that includes women, but my mother was the first woman in her family EVER to learn how to drive.  Neither her mother nor her sister ever drove, and prior generations were still in the horse and buggy. When Mom’s father generously gave her the money for this fifties beauty, we all fell in love with it.

The interior was cavernous, especially to a little child.  There were two long vinyl-and-cloth-covered bench seats, 4 crank-down windows, 2 wing vents, 4-on-the-column gearshift, an AM radio, no safety glass. no rear window wipers or defroster, no carpet on the floor, and no airbags or seatbelts.  It was perfect!  My mother named it “Betsy,” and when she would have trouble starting on a cold morning, Mom would pat the dash board and coo encouragingly,  “Come on, Betsy!”  We would always let out a cheer in unison when the car started.

Betsy had no air conditioning, but fortunately for us in the frozen north, she did have a heater.  We called it a “destination heater.´ Mom would turn it on soon after starting the car, and it would get hot by the time we got to our destination!

We had many adventures in Betsy.  Many places we still walked—to school, to church, to appointments—because our society had not yet become completely car-dependent.  But having wheels gave us freedom for fun.  We went on picnics to the Reid Park where we slid down the “spillway,” climbed the “rocket slide,” and played underneath the giant sand turtle.  

Mom often took us out to the country to visit Aunt Erma, Uncle Harold and Cousin Sharon.  Betsy took us to the Frostop Root Beer Stand, where Mom rolled down the window part way so the carhop could hook on our tray of frosty-cold glass mugs full of root beer floats.  Yum!

Best of all, the glory of having a car was going to the Drive-In Theatre.  On a Friday or Saturday night we would load up the back seat with blankets, pillows, dollies for sister and I, and maybe some Fritos.  One price paid for a whole car full of people, and that is why it was excellent entertainment for a single-parent family. 

When we first pulled in to the parking lot, I remember the crunching of tires on gravel as mom pulled in and parked just the right distance from the speaker.  Again, the window rolled down, the speaker was hooked on, and the window rolled back up.  It was a great arrangement because you had your own little “sound system” inside the vehicle.  The theater screen was huge, and we could see it clearly though our windshield, although on warm nights we might throw a blanket onto the car hood and watch from outside.  It felt so cozy and safe in there – mom in the front seat and sister and I snuggled in the back.  

Sometime during the second feature we would drop off to sleep, but as Mom started the car and the tires crunched over the gravel, I always woke up.

Next came a favorite game of ours.  Mom would pull up to the house, stop the car, come around to the back seat and open the door. 

 “Linda, are you awake?”  No answer. 

I would try to suppress my giggles as I waited for her to pick Linda up and carry her in.

“Lorraine, are you awake?”  No answer.

She would pick me up and carry me, blankets, dollies and all, into the house and put me to bed.  We called it “playing possum.”  Mom knew, but she didn’t seem to mind at all.

When Betsy was eighteen, she developed terminal rust.  We put her out to pasture, but never forgot her.  Thanks, Betsy.