Cruising

Ask anyone from the Class of 1963 at Adams Memorial High School who and what they think of when they hear Dion's song "The Wanderer" and all will say “Bob Bacon and his navy blue Studebaker with the crisp white wall tires.” Lorraine Grocki, Alice Jaworski, Bev Banas, Theresa Cwieczniewic, Bev Katzka, Shirley Alibozek, Sandy Zabek or Judy Turoczy would probably agree. I used to go cruising in my Studebaker, listening to rock ‘n’ roll. Late at night you could hear music from Buffalo New York rather than just WPTR in Albany. Do you remember Boom Boom Branigan? Really late at night, your radio could even get music from Wheeling, West Virginia. I know most Studebakers were not that cool. But take a look at my very first car. It was very cool and way ahead of its time for 1953 or even 1961 when it became mine, was it not? I bought it from my cousin Ernie Garofano, one of Auntie Blanche’s sons.


Percy and Blanche Garofano sitting in a convertible. Blanche was my Mother’s oldest sister.

It cost me $75 dollars. That was five trips, riding shotgun aboard a Comeaus Tractor Trailer to the piers of New York City to unload trucks full of 100-pound bags of lime from New England Lime Company. The Studebaker was a fast looking car but it could barely climb Rte 116, the gulf, up to Dukes Pond, beyond Savoy, with its 120-horse power. I bet I changed flats thirty times with that car. When I joined the Navy, I left the car to my brother Mike. When the brakes failed, he and his friends took it to the Adams dump and beat the roof down to the seats with sledgehammers. Remember the Adams dump up on East Road?You would back your car to the cliff of trash and simply throw everything down the hill. Maybe, if you thought of it, you would look up at pristine Mt. Greylock, the highest mountain in Massachusetts, or maybe not.


A view of Mt. Greylock from near the Adams dump.

If you looked down you saw the Hoosac River, which ran through the valley, south towards Lenox and Tanglewood. They burned everything at the dump and the smoke traveled for miles in the valley. I actually like that smell. In beautiful Bermuda they still burn their trash that way. I always think of my Studebaker when I smell that smell. Isn't it strange the association that comes with the sense of smell? My whole young teenage life was in that car. I don't remember being that upset about its destruction.


Here is a photo of my only brother, Mike, and one of his trucks. He died way too early, at 36.

I was just back from Class A Electrical School in Port Hueneme, California and most of my company, both Marines and Navy Sea Bees, were heading for some foreign place called Viet Nam. Rumsey, our company commander, said we had a war there and who wanted to go. Rumsey ended up doing four tours In Country. I remember thinking that was the very first time that I had heard of Viet Nam, but still most of my company stepped forward. I had my orders already and was heading to cushy stationkeeper duty at South Weymouth Naval Air Station, back in Massachusetts.

Dad was an original WWII Seabee . Here he is sitting on this jeep in Okinawa.




Look at this beautiful set of wheels. It was a black 1935 Chevrolet coupe. Mike Golden from Alabama built it. It was owned by some navy captain and spent most of its life in Hawaii. Mike made it into a hot rod. Goldie was a Seabee mechanic who I was stationed with at Weymouth. It had a tire mounted on the back with its name written on the spare wheel on white canvas, " Mothers Wheels." The engine was a 1963 Pontiac GTO. It was five speed, posi-traction, stick of course, and it ran hot the whole time I owned it. We added a surge tank, but to no effect. It purred like a lion and it was a beautiful car, a real head turner. I sold it to get married. To this day even Sandy admits it was a mistake. Selling the car I mean. Or maybe . . . My Navy friends still ask me about it. “Whatever happened to Mothers Wheels?”



Out of the Navy with no children, we bought this 1967 Spitfire right off the show room floor at Nicks Foreign Auto on Independence Avenue in Quincy, Massachusetts for $2,100. Nicks is or was directly across from John and Abigail's first house, before he became the second president of our United States. Sandy and I had five jobs between us. We would go cruising, even in winter, dressed warmly with the heat turned up full blast and the top down. We wore poopee suit boots that the Airdales, who rode the planes that flew the East Coast, wore. They had a valve on the side that you blew air into and they kept your feet toasty. It got cold in those P2V’s (sonar patrol planes). Those were the days my friend, we thought they'd never end; we'd sing and dance forever and a day. Gee, that could be made into a song. Up till then, no one we knew drove foreign cars, except my cousin Paula. We kept that car until Marnie was on the way, so that was 1974ish. We sold it, sadly, to some kids from the Cape, out of our Stagecoach two-car garage one winter night.





At the same time we owned the Spitfire, we also owned this Pontiac Grand Prix and this Ford. I cannot explain why two people needed three cars, but throughout our married life, we have almost always owned three cars. You can’t make up stuff like this.

One day when I was driving I fell asleep at the wheel in the middle of the afternoon. It was 1970. I don't remember which car I was driving at the time. I was on a major highway traveling at least 60 to 70 mph. Way back then I was an assistant manager at Friendlys Ice Cream. We worked for two days to get the Friendlys in Roslindale on American Legion Highway in shape for the annual inspection called "Spruce Up." After the store closed at 11 pm, we would do the final cleaning through the night and finally be finished at 2 pm, after the lunchtime inspection. So I was awake for about 32 hours. When I decided to run my first Ultra, my friend Norm Tuttle said, "Never mind the 100 miles, when was the last time you were awake for this long?" This was it, I guess. We were inspected from top to bottom. It was even more thorough than a Boot Camp inspection, if that is possible.

I was 18 and Sandy was 17 the very first time we went to a Friendlys. It was in Pittsfield Massachusetts in 1962 and it was with Jackie and Gerry Nimmons of Adams. I got a hamburger, roll toasted on the grill, with onions and a vanilla Fribble. I forget what Sandy got. Jackie and Gerry got married. Eventually. No one I know in Adams has ever been divorced. What's up with that? No divorces in Adams. You can't make up stuff like this!

When was the last time you were up for more than 24 hours?

Today I was on my way home to Marshfield on route three south when the song "American Woman" came on the radio. It was then that I had my flashback to 1970. Interestingly enough it was at the same spot, more or less, where I had fallen asleep, almost forty years ago. I had just passed the Derby street exit and had only one more exit to go to get home to our apartment in Rockland. It was sunny out. Then I fell asleep. I remember hearing a very loud voice holler HEY! There were no cars around me. I woke up and looked in my rearview mirror and saw no one. Some one was looking out for me that day, but I could never figure out who it was. Was it you? Well, thanks!

I cannot remember what was next. I drove company station wagons while selling fence for six years.







Oh, I remember! I turned the Reliable Fence Company car back to them and joined South Shore Gunite Swimming Pool Company in the end of 1975. I had to provide my own wheels. It was this Buick that looked like a Cadillac.



There were two Buick Electras on the Hanover car lot that day. Both were used. One was blue and owned by a man who couldn't use his legs, so everything was hand controlled. It was blue. I bought this grey one, previously owned by a priest. It had a curious noise coming from the transmission but I drove it 185,000 miles before buying a brand new one whose engine exploded at 50,000 miles.



Are you keeping track of what I am saying here? This is all good stuff. Call me with questions. A year later I had a swimming pool appointment in Marshfield and there sat my Electra. I said hello to my prospective clients and then walked over to my old Buick and stroked it.

It was a great car. Once I lost a water pump in New Hampshire while on a pool call. The customer gave me every container she had. We filled them with water and I made it home by constantly refilling the radiator. Ask any mechanic and they will say that when your water pump goes, that’s it. Another time I was driving along Atlantic Avenue on the Cohasset/Hull line. I went over a little hill into Hull and all my belts snapped. I drifted into a gas station, and within an hour I was back on the road again. Years later Willie Nelson, inspired by my story, would write a famous song that I never bothered to cash in on.

So anyway, I blurted out I drove this car for 185,000 miles! You see I have always taken special care of my cars, and the Electra was no exception. It still looked really good. To this day I keep my vehicles spotless. Sandy says, “It’s a Monk thing.“ I remember my Dad saying, "When you are married and have a family you won't be able to take care of a car the way you do now." Isn't it funny what stays in your brain?

My prospective pool customer said I was mistaken. When they purchased this Buick it had only 85,000 miles. Back then car odometers only went to 99,999 then started new again. The car had 185,000 miles on it and I proved it to the customer by pointing out little things like the crack in one of the taillights, and how the driver’s seat was worn. I proved my point and lost the sale because the potential pool customer was so upset by the unscrupulous used car dealer. You can't make stuff like this up.



Somewhere in here we owned a blue Fiat Spider convertible. Sandy cried when some young girl drove it out of our driveway.



I really do not remember much about it. Isn't that strange?

When my second Buick engine blew at 50,000 miles, it was just under warranty and the service manager said that I should sell it and that maybe I should buy a BMW. A real German road car. They were the rage at the time -- in Boston anyway. We ended up owning three. Here’s the first one.



It was a 321 BMW. I drove it into the ground and then sold it to Sandy’s brother Brian Zabek, who drove it forever. Look at the CSI that we had next.



I had no business owning a $65,000 vehicle in 1987, and I am sure it cost me some sales. As a salesman you always check out what the potential customer is driving and what if any stickers they have or organizations they belong to. If they have a golf membership that would be a good thing, or some aviation letters, which could mean they have money, maybe even an airplane. Another selling sign was if they had a Walpole Woodworkers mailbox -- then money was no object. However if they had a sticker on the car that said, "If this car’s rockin’, don't come knockin’,” maybe it was not that good of a sales call. Buyers checked me out instead and probably wondered how much money I was making as a pool designer.

Shortly after that there was a recession, which lasted for a number of years. The BMW dealer in Norwood could not believe that I was turning in the most beautiful car I probably ever would own -- but I did. BMWs were lousy in snow, so I bought the x series with All Wheel Drive next. No photo available at this time.

Sometimes I wonder where all my commission money went. I have 8x10s of the best automobiles that we owned on one wall of my Garage Mahal. As a salesman, it was important to look successful, and besides a nice car just made you feel good about yourself. This is important when you earn money by commission only. You don't sell, you don't eat.

Business turned around again. Sandy’s Alexandra's European Skin Care Salon was making its mark on the South Shore. That is just about the time she told me that she NEEDED a black 9ll Porsche coupe, no spoiler, for her fiftieth birthday. I said some thing like, "It is too much money and a waste of money at that.” Here is a photo of it. She said “ I will look funny driving it when I am 60.” I need it NOW!





That car could fly. “If it had a set of wings I know it could fly.“ We owned it for ten years, but sold it to finance the purchase of a small island in the Caribbean. I could always tell when Sandy pulled into her garage stall because the whole house would just rumble. Twelve-year-old boys would give you "thumbs up” as you rode by. I miss polishing it, and looking at it, resting in the garage, especially through all of the New England winter. Yah, I had a cover for it! Well gee, you don't want it to get dirty do you? We would drive it only about 5,000 miles a year.

Now we own a Volkswagen Jetta, which has been at the dealership for the last thirty days. We have a loaner. A big gray box that doesn’t fit in the garage. My tie rods just went on my almost-new Dodge pick up truck.







My grandparents, Hattie and Frank Bacon, owned a weird-color, olive green, four-door, really large DeSoto. We held a family reunion in it one year. It barely fit in the third stall of the cinder block garage that my father and grandfather built on 90 and 92 Howland Avenue. I do not remember my grandfather ever driving it, but I am sure he did. I have in my office a glass quart container with a metal top that screws on -- it was Frank Bacon’s. It's delightful, it’s de-lovely, it's DeSoto. You can tell at a glance that this swell car is full of romance. You can hear the engine murmuring low, GET UP AND GO! That was the jingle for DeSoto in the fifties. If you watched Groucho Marx’s “You Bet Your Life, “ then you have heard the ad.



Kezia’s husband Chris is a car nut. To date he has owned 41 cars. That number doesn’t include motorcycles or tractors. Both his brothers are mechanics. My grandson, Abel, is only three, but he is already crazy about wheels, trucks and bull sodas. I don’t think he will ever get over it. His Dad never did.





Abel’s favorite movie is Cars. Have you watched it? It is pretty cool. It reminds Sandy and I of Moab, Utah.



I once had a psychic as a fence client. She told me I would try to climb an icy hill with a station wagon and end up sliding backwards down the hill, wedging the car between a tree and a rock wall. It had happened to me in Cohasset the year before! But that wasn't the worst accident.

Two Jettas ago, while vacationing at Brant Lake, New York, Sandy and I decided to day trip to Saratoga. Not the spa. Not the racetrack. My ultra running friend, Rich Busa, (we met at the Essex Junction, Vermont 50 miler) had told me not to miss the battlefield where the tide finally turned in our favor during the Revolutionary War. Do you remember? We were on top of a hill, listening to a talk amongst the cannon, when suddenly we were told that a fierce storm was to hit anytime and we should exit the park immediately. As we drove down the hill to an exit, the wind started to howl and the sky turned yellow/black. The wind blew the heavy rain absolutely sideways. We reached a fork in the road. Sandy asked which way. I said, "Go right." One, two, three, four, five, six, seven deer ran in front of us, being driven out of the woods by the strong winds. I said, "Go slow. Don't hit the deer." The next thing we knew, two trees had fallen on and crushed the Jetta, and stopped us dead. "Are you OK?" we asked each other. Sandy was covered in glass. It was pouring rain. We were encapsulated and could not get out of the car. Park personnel cut us out with chain saws rather quickly. Someone behind us had a cell phone and called the incident in. Later Sandy said, "Now can we get cell phones?" We were back at the cabin on the lake three hours later, unscathed, driving some rental with Vermont license plates. We were to go to a concert that night, but instead we just huddled together, drank wine, and talked about how lucky we were to be alive.

I turn no heads with the blue Jetta, nor in my present red Dodge Ram pick up truck. No one ever says, “What year is that?” Or “WOW! Nice car.” No one waves or gives me the thumbs up. No girls want to ride with me because of my wheels. But they certainly did to years ago when I would go cruising.

Bobby Bacon, 2009