Cast My Memory Back There Lord

There was just enough ‘Winter’ in the air to warrant medium weight leather Saturday morning. Bessie is always frisky when the cooler weather sets in, its tough to hold back the throttle when the wind is stinging your face and invigorating your soul! Destination: Zephyrhills Car Festival and the Carlise Classic Car Auction. Yes…Paul is still looking for that ’66 Mustang. Sometimes I think just the process of looking for it is more fun than owning it perhaps.

It is only a 60 mile ride - even for someone who takes all the backroads - but we needed coffee to ward off the chill halfway into it. Call me a ‘wuss, but the cold just bites right through me anymore; if it is below 70, I’m freezing. 

Just off 39S and 301 lies a huge open field known as ‘Festival Park,’ this morning the dust rose above the fallow fields, signaling our arrival at the Carlise Car Auction. I followed the antique pick up truck in front of me, past the vendor entrance to the general admission entrance. Although it was early - 8am! - there was already a line going into the parking area. I asked the attendant if there was special bike parking…..of course, all the way in the front! We lined the bikes up with the others already there - something about classic cars and bikers, its a good mix. It was still cool (cold) enough I opted to keep my leather for awhile longer, paid our admission and walked into the dusty, noisy area of classic cars. 

I was expecting a car show, what I experienced was wave after wave of nostalgia and more than a little melancholy. There were not only cars, but row after row of vendors; car parts, antiques, food, crafts, clothes…all of it linked to an era long gone and appealing to we Baby Boomers who are now in our ’60’s and ’70’s. Mostly men, mostly old…but Old Dudes Rule…Right?!  

Gray haired men who were no longer young; some stooped, most pot-bellied, some had succumbed completely to the excesses of the ’50’s and ’60’s, sucking on portable oxygen or navigating the uneven asphalt and dirt on an electric ‘scooter.’  If you looked real close, you saw the spark, the adolescent spark in their eyes. I could imagine these men as teenage boys, greased back hair, Levis rolled at the hem and a pack of Lucky Strikes tucked into their hip pockets as they leaned under the hood of a ’55 Chevy, up to their elbows in grease. Switching out a carburetor and looking forward to their Saturday night cruise around the local drive-in with their sweetheart. 

They approach each vehicle - whether it is painstakingly restored or just a rusted hunk of junk - with reverence, as if each one might hold the Fountain of Youth. Peering inside, careful not to touch, remarking on the restoration or the possibilities, asking softly if the owner might pop the hood? and once done, the sharp intake of breath is almost audible as they gaze at the engine that has been hopped up souped up cranked up (the language escapes me - it was like Algebra) and coaxed into high performance. And the gaggle of old men became almost orgasmic if the owner actually started the engine! 

I was fascinated with the variety of vendors; if you knew what you were looking for - and apparently most of the people there DID - it was a supermarket of antique car parts. Men - and a female or two - were picking through the assortment strewn haphazardly on tables or on the ground, like it was a sacred archeological dig. There was vendors with antique signs - neon clocks, gas station signs, beverage signs….’signs signs everywhere a sign, blocking out the scenery, breakin’ my mind…’  and then an old Schwinn bicycle caught my eye. Propped against a table, its original color lost to rust. It was the Chopper Stingray model with a banana seat, sissy bar and ‘ape’ hanger handle bars. The first wave of nostalgia hit me….I was about 7 when my Uncle brought home my first bike. He was more than a little drunk, and like all good drunks who want to diminish the anguish their drunkeness causes their loved ones, arrived bearing gifts. The bike was a thing of beauty; lavender, with a white sparkly banana seat, white hand grips with lavender and white streamers! I personally didn’t see a problem with his drunkenness. And that bike was a foreshadowing; when I bought Bessie One, I put leather streamers on the handgrips..when I bought Bessie Two I switched out my stock handlebars for a pair of ape hangers…I guess some things don’t change. 

The smell of grease and exhaust mixed with the smell of fried foods in the crisp November air as we strolled up and down the endless aisles. I remembered growing up on Waite Street mostly at my grandparents house. Across the alley was Smittys Garage; an old pole barn with a packed dirt floor slick with decades of motor oil and axel grease. Smitty and my Grandpa were good friends - hunting, drinking buddies, partners in crime. I followed my Grandpa just about everywhere, including Smittys

 Garage. There was one of those 1950’s Coca-Cola coolers in the corner - the kind you put a dime in, then  you had to wind the bottle through a little maze until you reached the opening and lifted it out…then pop the bottle cap on the opener. My favorite was Grape Nehi. I sat atop an overturned milk crate, sipping my Grape Nehi while Grandpa and Smitty leaned into whatever truck was into the garage for repair. I remember Smitty always wore overalls, crusted stiff with dirt and grease. He was always kind to me and I learned to love the smell of that garage.

And the cars…..I learned to drive in a 1963 VW Bug! Drove it all through high school; it had a hole in the driver side floorboard and in the winter, I had to scrape the INSIDE of the windshield in between shifting gears because it never warmed up until I got to school! I also had a ’67 and a ’70 VW Bug…most of those cars - restored - are going for upwards of $20,000. I think my Dad paid $350 for the ’63!  I remember my brothers 1970 Monte Carlo which was fierce; one just like it sold for $58K on Saturday. I remember crazy ass Steve Krebs and his ’55 Chevy; damn near killed Terry Sroufe and I coming back from a beer run to Celina. The memories; thats why we are all here today, to grab ahold of those memories and hang on till we just can’t hang on any longer. Its our duty; the last of Baby Boomers duty to preserve that piece of Americana.

We made it around to the auction barn where the REAL action had been in full tilt since Friday afternoon. The place was packed with certified bidders and qualified onlookers; all serious car buffs, all committed to preserving a piece of the past on some fashion. The staccato delivery of the auctioneer brought back more memories of my Grandpa. Every Friday night - payday - there was an auction - somewhere out on the Marion bypass, off 36th street. Grandpa would load me into the pickup - in the summer I got to ride in the back….shhhhhhh…don’t tell Grandma - and we would go to the auction. And they auctioned off everything from household items to livestock. I don’t ever recall my Grandpa bidding on anything, he just loved the action - and so did I. 

We jockeyed a space near the area they were pulling the cars into for auction; Paul with his little Mustang fact book, me just taking it all in. It was warm in the barn, the smell of grease, exhaust…the air was electric. Bidding was fast; not every car sold, it seemed to be a buyers market. The cars that did sell were shockingly overpriced; $85 grand for a ’55 T-Bird!? I left Paul to his front row seat and I went out to the staging area to sit with the old guys who just came to look. The cars lined up in front of the little shaded grandstand, I settled in between two sweet old guys that reminded me of Grandpa and Smitty; it wasn’t a milk crate and there wasn’t a Grape Nehi to be had, but it was all there….the shoptalk, the cars, the exhaust, the grease, and this overwhelming sense of well-being. 

Paul came looking for me sometime later, I was chatting amiably with ‘the guys,’ and after taking one last look at the ’66 Mustang fastback..and giving the owner one last chance to sell it at our price…we headed the bikes back home, grateful for a different kind of ride today.