A big part of car culture is building a custom or a hot rod or a chop – something unique that stands on its own as a true testament to your personal style, right? But sometimes a car parks itself across your path that you not only need, but need to leave alone.
My granddad bought a ‘58 Edsel in the Fall of ‘57, just like alot of folks did. But it helps to understand that he was a proper Pennsylvania Dutchman who counted Abe Lincoln and Hank Ford as his heroes – and as a stubborn, sweet cake-dunking, horehound-favoring, Pennsylvania Dutch-speaking gentleman farmer, that ‘58 was a hard pill to swallow. So much so, in fact, that when he finally limped it back to the dealership a year later in favor of a new and much-improved ‘59, noone in the family was allowed to even THINK about that ‘58, much less breathe a word about it.
As a kid, I was bribed into many sauerkraut-laced meals with some quality time behind the wheel of that ‘59 parked in the barn. I loved that car more than the General Lee, Speedbuggy, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and The Rubber Duck Mack combined. That’s REAL love, brother. Comes from a pure heart. And as the Edsel passed to my uncle and I grew up and left PA, it always seemed to show up at important stages of my life.
Finally, the Edsel was ready to be passed along again when my uncle passed away. I have a ball team of cousins and we all got a letter from Aunt Betty stating that the Edsel would be offered to each of us, starting with the oldest, till it was spoken for. And I’m second to last.
But I just knew I was gonna get the Edsel. That car’s been mine ever since I first perched my tubby ass behind the foot-wide steering wheel in the cool shade of the barn. But there was a potential problem: I live in San Francisco and the Edsel was in a barn in Lancaster, PA. Sure, just put it on a trailer and have it shipped west, right? Not that easy, friend: far as I knew, Pop’s Edsel hadn’t ever crossed the PA state line – just like any proper Dutchman should be able to claim. And I wasn’t too sure that the behemoth wouldn’t spontaneously combust or immolate itself in protest as it crossed the Ohio line.
Well, everything went fine, according to the transport driver (and he was a little curious as to why he was instructed to call me as he passed through the last PA Turnpike stall). But, as I breathed a little easier, another knot replaced the first one when he showed up in San Francisco with the Edsel – the last car on his trailer – and fired it up to roll it down to the street. Would it recoil in horror as it laid its four crust-filled eyes on Frisco pavement? Would it lock up its Mile-O-Matic and refuse to succumb to a life of mild West Coast weather and easy drives? During Christmas get-togethers at the 200 year-old family homestead, conversation always turns to the idea that I’ll “move back home when you’re ready to get serious” and I suddenly wondered out loud if this wasn’t the vessel sent for me as it crept toward the ramps of the trailer – it would kinda make poetic sense, actually.
Most of me didn’t really think anything would happen, but I took a few steps backward as I took this snapshot…
