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As kids in the 50s, Dad loaded my sister and I along with Mom into the car during the first week of September most every year. It was time for our annual trip to local new car lots.
They were easy to find--with spotlights shining skyward from each one, visible from wherever in town you might be. Next year's models were on display. Dad insisted on knowing changes taking place with each one. They might only be a minor thing, like taillight modifications, a new fin, wheels or a wrinkle somewhere. Other times, major updates changed their looks completely. On rare occasions we were permitted to sit inside a new car. The aroma was heavenly. But the price was generally outside the grasp of our family. "We were only looking anyway," Dad would tell us.
By the time I began to drive, most makes, models and years were familiar -- if they were less than ten years old. Chevrolet, Ford, Oldsmobile and Plymouths were common in our neighborhood. Working in the Volkswagen dealership's parts department in 1967 brought identification of Bugs too.
When the 1968 Olds Cutlass was introduced, I wasted hours dreaming about them. I coveted the horizontal taillights. I knew a 442 would do better at drawing admiration from those of the opposite gender. I also knew my wallet would never enable having one (Oldsmobile, or girlfriend).
Dad granted permission to drive "Old Yeller" (the family's '55 Chevy Del Rae) to college in 1968. But, dragging Douglas Street Friday nights amidst swarms of 442s, GTOs, Mustangs and Camaros, no heads turned toward the thirteen-year-old yellow sedan, except to point and laugh. I felt somewhat embarrassed to drive it.
Now days I'm at a loss to recognize most cars. There are more makes and models than ever before. Even if it's a familiar U.S. model, guessing the year within five is impossible. I don't know if manufacturers still change the looks of vehicles every year, as once was the case. That's okay. I don't pay attention to those details anymore.
A close friend called shortly before the North Dakota State Fair Parade this year to ask if I would drive that same old '55 Chevy from college as part of the Minot Symphony Orchestra's parade entry. I worried about being away from a water closet the length of time required to complete the parade route. Let's just say it might be "troublesome." In the end, I couldn't say no. As things turned out, driving in the parade was a good decision.
While waiting for the spectacle to get underway, numerous folks approached to ask about the old car. Most knew its year -- or came close. In addition, several shared their own memory of a special vehicle in their life. As temperatures rose and the procession of the parade finally got underway, windows were all rolled down and floor vents opened to provide the only air conditioning available to keep cool. I soon lost count of the number of onlookers on the route (youngsters included) who offered "Great car" or "Sure like your ride" comments.
Several times I became a bit teary, wishing Dad was riding with me. Idling by, a fellow perhaps half my age while making our way through the fairgrounds, I heard him holler, "Is that a 235?" I shouted, "It sure is!" recognizing he wondered about the engine's cubic displacement. "I thought so," he yelled back.
There are at least two elements in life besides hair color and belt size that change between adolescence and old age. One is that we often lose interest in things we once thought we couldn't live without. The other is recognizing there are things we once thought not at all special that can bring considerable pride and enjoyment in retirement.
Sommers is a retired Minot orthodontist, violinist with the Minot Symphony and author of the book, "Retirement? You Can't HANDLE the Truth!"