Beater Cars

Sometimes it’s hard to explain to people under the age of 40 that there was a time when most families only had one car. That’s understandable, because now the world is overrun with three car garages and circular driveways so full of full of automobiles that I expect to see a car salesman walking around.  But it’s not hard for me to comprehend.  I remember when we were a one car family.  In fact, since we only had one car,  I have fond memories going with Mom to pick up Dad from the pipe mill where he worked.  I would hide under a blanket and scare him every evening. Gee, I wonder why he never figured out I was in the back seat?

At the time, owning just one car really wasn’t a problem for us because we lived close by the plant where my dad worked.  However, when we moved into the ‘burbs, it was time for my old man to get a work car. In case you don’t know, a work car was a dependable beater that could withstand the rigors of commuting on two lane backroads, and more importantly, parking at a pipe mill. The lack of pollution controls at the time meant that when the mill began making pipe, thousands of tiny flakes of hot metal would fill the air and find their way to the employee parking lot.  As a result, most cars had hundreds of tiny burned pock marks on their roof, hood and trunk. I called it automobile acne. 

My father found an old 1954 Chevy Bel Air that was a perfect beater. This old Chevy was bought with one purpose: dependable transportation to work and to the golf course. Looks be damned.  He didn’t care if molten lava ruined the paint job because It was already badly faded. This behemoth was made out of cast iron. Most World War 2 Sherman tanks didn’t have this much metal. The upholstery was tattered, the radio didn’t work, and there was a hole in the floorboard on the drivers side that my dad swore he peed thru. Thankfully, I never saw that happen.

Dad only washed this car once a year, “if it needs it or not,” he  said.  He depended on the rain to flush the metal embers off the car’s surface, which after a few months, had begun to resemble the surface of the moon. He had a curious habit of leaving a small unwashed square just above the license plate.  Apparently, he wanted to show everyone how filthy the car once was. 

Dad’s old Chevy was the perfect vehicle when you consider the route he took to get to his job. The interstate system was not yet complete, so my father took a series of backroads through a pot hole infested industrial area in  North Birmingham.  

A ride with my father was never a dull experience. The work route was never the same because over the years,  Dad had timed every single traffic light along the way and knew how to save up to 20 seconds by making a quick turn on an alternate street instead of coming to a full stop. Sadly, I think I’ve inherited the same tendency. 

He was not a patient man.  My mom thought it came from waiting in lines while he was in the Army. As a result, he especially loathed the railroad crossings he had to navigate during his commute. I have  seen him weave thru the arms of a flashing railroad sign to narrowly beat a train, flipping off the conductor as he crossed the last rail. When a train stopped him, I could be sure to hear grumbling and a few cuss words I’d never heard before.  If dad thought the delay was longer than it should be, his anger would boil over.  Once I saw him get out of the car, pick up several  rocks, and hurl them at the boxcars. It was like riding with Ernest T.Bass. 

In the late sixties, the EPA clamped down on air pollution, and all the glowing embers from the steel mill vanished.  At long last the employee parking lot was safe for cars. This event, coupled with the increasing unreliability of the Chevrolet, forced Dad to do something I thought I’d never see. He bought a brand new, butt ugly, green Volkswagen Beetle.  I was confused. My dad was wounded in the Battle of the Bulge - shot by Germans, no less. Yet he was buying a German made car. I suppose his forgiveness could be bought for about 22 miles per gallon. 

Within a couple of years, the VW had a few dents and bruises, probably from playing chicken with a train. Car washes were few and far between. And in the early seventies, when Dad learned that my girlfriend Carol had tires and rims from their family’s wrecked Volkswagen, he bought all four. It didn’t matter to him that the rims were red and his car was green, he bolted them right on. The result was hideous.  It looked like it belonged in some kind of weird Christmas parade. 

I suppose I should give my father credit. When I saw the red rims on that dirty, banged up, vehicle, I knew he had created the world’s first German made, holiday-themed, beater car.