I’m still looking for cars on the last leg of my drive home from Knoxville. Traveling over the Ohio River on the old double-decker bridge, I can see the Cincinnati skyline. There’s a great view of the historic John Roebling Suspension Bridge, Cincinnati Reds stadium, and Riverfront.
My next stop was Piqua, Ohio, a small farming community north of Dayton. It has a Mayberry RFD-type vibe, with red brick buildings lining the 1940s era downtown. People are friendly, even to out-of-towners and city folk passing through. While growing up, our family spent a lot of weekends visiting our relatives in Piqua and I looked forward to seeing Aunt Betty and cuzzin Sue again.
Approaching Piqua from the south, I noticed an old rest area under reconstruction. Immediately, some way-back memories flashed in my head. Hmm, “didn’t we picnic there when we were kids?” Enquiring minds need to know.
After driving 325 miles, I pried myself out of the car for hugs all around. I brought up the restoration work south of town. I was sure at age 97 and being sounder of mind than I, Aunt B would know the answer. I asked, “Aunt Betty, didn’t we have family picnics at that rest area?”
“Yes,” she replied. “I never understood why Mama wanted to have picnics there. We had nice parks in town, but she just liked doing that.” The grandparents and our two families would load up the Plymouth Fury and Buick station wagon with BBQ food and outdoor games for us kids. It was a practical solution; lots of parking, picnic tables, grills, a big grassy field, and restrooms right nearby.
Back then we played with Jarts, also known as lawn darts. Jarts were oversized weighted darts with pointed metal end points. Each player tosses a Jart underhanded towards a circular hoop target on the ground. The goal was to get the most points by landing the most darts within the scoring zone while avoiding your brother’s foot. What could go wrong?
I checked and apparently, lots did go wrong. They’re banned under the Federal Hazardous Substances Act because each year, hundreds of kids end up at the ER with puncture wounds to their heads and bodies.
Picnics at the local interstate rest stop is a car story all on its own. Did other people do that or was grandma the only one resourceful enough to think of it? So what if you hear a little traffic noise! It didn’t seem odd to me at the time.
After catching up on family stuff and enjoying home baked fresh apple pie, it was time to go hunting again. My car-radar alarmed after seeing more pole barns than homes in the area. Who knows what treasure might be found?
The first car I spotted was a dark 2-door Ford Maverick parked in front of a park near the levy in town. I remember that car. My friend Rick’s family had a red 4-door model, not exactly a chick-magnet. The base Maverick sold for $1,995 in 1970 to compete against the new, smaller Japanese models. A good family car, but boring. It leaned more practical than sexy.
Fifty plus years later, the venerable Maverick looks like a desirable classic car. It’s in excellent shape and looked like a 3-year-old vehicle. No rust underneath. Paint and interior looked original and well preserved. It appeared to be a completely stock car without any fancy options.
No worries about that. This car had character, proud and determined to overcome time and prove something to the modern world. Kind of a girl-next-door look rather than the bikini model look. The Mary Ann of Gilligan’s Island, if Mary Ann was a car.
I’m sure there’s a great story to go with this car, but no one was around to share it. I took a few photos and planned to return later to look for the owner. I dig that car.
Rolling on I came across an old, faded orange, VW Bug. It stood out like a colored Easter egg and could be seen from the parking lot of a closed grocery store. It was parked/abandoned in someone’s backyard near the alley way. And, that someone happened to be standing outside on a smoke break. I approached and asked about the car and if he was ok with me taking a few photos. He was friendly and said it belonged to his nephew. It was a ’72 Super Beetle.
He said, “It only needs a little work to get it going again,” but it had been sitting outside for a few years and the driver’s window was covered up with plastic. People always say “the car was running great” when they parked it. Usually, it was parked permanently for a good reason, like the motor seized or the tranny went bad.
He asked if I was interested in buying it. The orange color looked good on the car, and it would be a great car for someone with a little skill and a lot of time to restore it. No thanks, I don’t need another project right now. He said he would have his nephew call me later.
On my way back to the freeway I stopped at a small, local used car lot. Business looked slower than a submerged dinosaur slogging through a bog. They only had 7 cars. None were classics quite yet, but they might be after sitting on that lot for a few more years.
However, the friendly but tired looking salesman pointed to a lot next door. There was an orphaned 1982/83 Dodge Mirada needing serious work and a 1987 Porsche 924S awaiting a repair. Success – found cars but he didn’t have any more information about them.
Driving onto I-75 for the final leg home, I felt a sense of satisfaction, maybe even accomplishment. Covering 500 miles in one day was satisfying but looking for cars, meeting new people and hearing their car stories were the highlights of the day.
Uncovering a car’s story is just like finding a buried scroll or time capsule. It unlocks a bit of history from an earlier time. In a way, documenting the story gives it a second chance to come alive, even if the car is never made roadworthy again.
So, I’ll continue to exit the highway and keep my eyes peeled for a great car story.
Fear Nada!
2BukChuk