Thank God dad traded the old ’55 Star Chief in before I really got into dating heavily my last year in high school. I needed a little more class in the sixties, or so I thought if I was to attract the prettiest girls. The truth, and I did not realize it until I was in my early twenties, is that personality is what really gets girls attentions. In retrospect, they would probably have dated me in the ’55 had I had the nerve to ask. This fact has been proved to me more than once since dating high school acquaintances since then. “Why did you never ask me out on a date?” they would ask. 
Anyway, along came the ’64 Pontiac just at what I perceived to be the right time. It was long and wide and its 389 cu-in engine was powerful. Outside he was snow white and inside a beige vinyl trimmed in darker brown, with a backseat more than adequate for a teenage boy to work on his “night moves.”
I remember a friend once asking my dad, while the three of us had our head stuck under the hood admiring the 4-barrel carburetor, “When you going to let Mushy take this out on a date?”
He looked up with a wide grin, took a drag off his Camel, and embarrassed me by saying, “And let him get pecker tracks all over the backseat?”
“Daaad!” was all I could muster.
There were lots of dates, double dates mostly, but the best times were the nights with the guys. It was a time to proudly display your driving skills and show off what “Tonto” could do!
It was standard procedure to drive the car straight to the nearest filling station, pop off the hubcaps so you would look cool, turn the top of the breather upside so he could breathe and call out to you when you pressed hard on the accelerator, undo the speedometer cable, and let about five pounds of air out of the rear tires for traction!
The nights all began by circling The Beacon to see and to be seen. The fantasy was to pick up girls, but the truth is, we were just as happy to be seen by the guys.
I remember a friend’s dad also bought a ’64 Ford Galaxie that same year, he, and I always looked for each other, and before the night was over we usually ended it with a drag race on a straight stretch of HWY 61, the part that flattens out after Bitter Creek coming into Harriman.
We each usually had our entourage of three fellows eager to egg on any nonsense, especially since it did not involve their family car.
Barry and James always got out and hopped in the backseat for added traction, and his bunch did the same. At the shout of GO from Barry out the rear passenger side window, we were off!
Both cars tended to squat and burn the tires like crazy leaving a wiggly black line for about four feet before they each caught and lunged forward. Both 4-barrels were deeply inhaling air at such a rate that you imagined you could see the hoods being sucked inward! What a sound – nothing like that sound!
I think we won an even number of heats over those few months during our senior year, but I only remember the smiles and yelling coming from Barry and James. It was a wonderful feeling, a happy time, but it soon was dampened by worry about whether or not my dad would find out. He would have absolutely beat me within an inch of my life had he known.
He had to suspect, but he never once asked any questions, even after that Sunday morning when he noticed the speedometer was not working on the way home from church. He pecked on the plastic and calmly said, “Huh, strange, the speedometer isn’t working.”
My heart leaped into my throat and I did not know what to say or do. Finally I got out, “Really? I’ll check it when we get home.”
I coupled the cable back onto its proper place and nothing was ever said about it again. Surely, he must have known.
It is a shame you have to get to this age before realizing some of the simple little unspoken ways your dad said he loved you.
Anyway, along came the ’64 Pontiac just at what I perceived to be the right time. It was long and wide and its 389 cu-in engine was powerful. Outside he was snow white and inside a beige vinyl trimmed in darker brown, with a backseat more than adequate for a teenage boy to work on his “night moves.”
I remember a friend once asking my dad, while the three of us had our head stuck under the hood admiring the 4-barrel carburetor, “When you going to let Mushy take this out on a date?”
He looked up with a wide grin, took a drag off his Camel, and embarrassed me by saying, “And let him get pecker tracks all over the backseat?”
“Daaad!” was all I could muster.
There were lots of dates, double dates mostly, but the best times were the nights with the guys. It was a time to proudly display your driving skills and show off what “Tonto” could do!
It was standard procedure to drive the car straight to the nearest filling station, pop off the hubcaps so you would look cool, turn the top of the breather upside so he could breathe and call out to you when you pressed hard on the accelerator, undo the speedometer cable, and let about five pounds of air out of the rear tires for traction!
The nights all began by circling The Beacon to see and to be seen. The fantasy was to pick up girls, but the truth is, we were just as happy to be seen by the guys.
I remember a friend’s dad also bought a ’64 Ford Galaxie that same year, he, and I always looked for each other, and before the night was over we usually ended it with a drag race on a straight stretch of HWY 61, the part that flattens out after Bitter Creek coming into Harriman.
We each usually had our entourage of three fellows eager to egg on any nonsense, especially since it did not involve their family car.
Barry and James always got out and hopped in the backseat for added traction, and his bunch did the same. At the shout of GO from Barry out the rear passenger side window, we were off!
Both cars tended to squat and burn the tires like crazy leaving a wiggly black line for about four feet before they each caught and lunged forward. Both 4-barrels were deeply inhaling air at such a rate that you imagined you could see the hoods being sucked inward! What a sound – nothing like that sound!
I think we won an even number of heats over those few months during our senior year, but I only remember the smiles and yelling coming from Barry and James. It was a wonderful feeling, a happy time, but it soon was dampened by worry about whether or not my dad would find out. He would have absolutely beat me within an inch of my life had he known.
He had to suspect, but he never once asked any questions, even after that Sunday morning when he noticed the speedometer was not working on the way home from church. He pecked on the plastic and calmly said, “Huh, strange, the speedometer isn’t working.”
My heart leaped into my throat and I did not know what to say or do. Finally I got out, “Really? I’ll check it when we get home.”
I coupled the cable back onto its proper place and nothing was ever said about it again. Surely, he must have known.
It is a shame you have to get to this age before realizing some of the simple little unspoken ways your dad said he loved you.
