The Gospel Accordingto a 1956 Chevy

On a cool October afternoon in 1969 I stood at the curbof my high school parking lot enjoying the scene of yellowand orange maple leaves flickering in a light breeze. It was around5:00 and most of students had gone home for the day, except forstudents in three different groups.

The football team had just ended practice, and as I stood atthe curb, I saw them emerging from the side door of the athleticbuilding. They were big guys, muscular and confident, especiallyRalph Dickerson, one of the stars. He emerged from the doorand shaded his eyes with his hand as he looked toward where thesecond group was breaking up their practice—the cheerleaders.Reena Todd, one of the cheerleaders and recently crowned beautyqueen, saw him and waved. She hugged a couple of her cheerleaderfriends and bounded up the sidewalk, blond pony tail bouncing inrhythm to her gait. She kissed Ralph on the cheek and then armsaround waists, they headed toward his red GTO.

A shot of envy spiced my gut at the sight. I had a profoundcrush on Reena, but everyone knew she was Ralph's girl, and thetwo of them took no notice of me, standing on the curb waitingfor my father to come and pick me up. I had been part of the thirdstudent group to have practiced that afternoon—the orchestra.And while Ralph had his arm around Reena, I had my armaround my cello. While Ralph and company clashed in muscleand might on the gridiron and Reena and company danced onthe sidelines, I had been on the stage in the theater, bowing thesupportive role to Grieg's Ist Piano Concerto in A minor. Ralphwould throw himself at the defensive line on Friday night. I woulddraw a bow across my strings on Saturday night and the crowdwould be minuscule compared to those underneath the "Fridaynight lights."

Ralph's long blond hair glistened as he opened the door forReena and she slid into the front seat of his GTO. I saw herscootch sideways on the seat so that when Ralph got in on thedriver's side, their shoulders nearly fused. They kissed deeply andI felt weak and exposed standing there looking on. A girl like thatwould never notice a skinny cello player. Besides, I didn't have mydriver's license yet and to top everything off, I was waiting for mydad to come and pick me up. I had no brawn. I had no car. I hadno chance. I heaved a sigh.

Then I saw a patch of blue moving beyond the maples out onLawyer's Road. It was my dad in his 1956 Chevy. I watched as mydad drove the long straight driveway and turn into the lot. A beamof yellow afternoon sunlight warmed his stubble studded face.He had the window down, left arm hooked over the door, sleevesrolled up high to reveal a mechanic's biceps, and sucking on a stogythat had gone out probably four miles previously. He stopped infront of me and hooked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate thatI was to put the cello in the trunk. I slammed the trunk down,took a last look at Ralph and Reena, still one silhouette in theGTO, and slid in beside dad and the aroma of old cigar.

Dad pulled the '56 into a tight u-turn, and headed back outthe way he'd come. We stopped at the exit and pulled out onLawyer's Road. Dad asked me how practice had gone and I saidit was fine. He asked when the concert was and I started to tellhim when I noticed him staring in the rearview. He worked hisstogy from the right corner of his lips to the left, pulled it out ofhis mouth and spat a brown stream out the window. He crammedit back into his mouth and growled, "That pretty boy behind me'sgettin' me MAD."

I looked over my shoulder and there, no more than a halfcar-length behind us was Ralph's red GTO. I could see himand Reena sitting so close together it looked like a two-headeddriver. Ralph's hair blew in the breeze through his open windowand I saw him reach up and take a cigarette out of his mouth,something I thought his coach probably wouldn't approve. Asthey wove back and forth behind us, barely a half car length away,waiting for oncoming traffic to clear, I could see my father's faceturning red. I could see his jaw bones working as he chewed hisstogy. My dad hated tailgaters.

Oncoming traffic cleared and I heard the baritone crescendoof the GTO as Ralph whipped out to pass us. He glided up rathereasily beside us and I saw Reena looking at us sort of sideways asshe tossed a little hair back and sat a little straighter in the seat.Ralph had sucked in his chin and was reaching up for his cigarette,a designed move to emphasize that he was cool. Their rear bumperwas just about even with our front tires when it happened.

Actually, Ralph had no way of knowing what he was dealingwith. My father had bought the '56 as a second vehicle and hadtaken it to a friend of his who built small track race cars. They'dtaken out the 283 power glide and replaced it with a 409 four-in-the-floorwith a Holly four-barrel carburetor. They'd stiffened thesuspension and installed rack and pinion steering. My dad had leftthe mufflers on the exhaust system because he didn't like noiseand had mounted white-walled tires because they were relativelyinexpensive, both of which gave the car a decidedly granny feel.But if you paid attention to the low rumble when it idled youwould suspect that if revved up, this engine would register 9 onthe Richter scale. My dad's friend had done a masterful job ofturning a perfectly domestic looking '56 Belair into a monster.

We had been going about 40 miles per hour when Ralph gotalmost past us. That's when dad "stood on it." Blue smoke eruptedfrom around our rear tires and we shot forward like a navy jetfrom a catapult. I felt a powerful shove against my chest as I sankinto the seat cushion. A loud, low growl ground just beyond thedashboard. Trees, mailboxes, paper boxes, telephone poles, fenceposts all blurred as they shot past the window in an acceleratinghaze. My hair blew straight back. I don't know how many secondsit took us, but when I looked over at the speedometer, it wasneedling just past 95. We plunged down a long straight-awaytoward a shallow swale where Lawyer's Road crossed a creek.About a quarter mile up the opposite hill where the road climbedback out of the creek run, Lawyer's Road suddenly leveled off andonly then did dad hit the brakes to bring it back down to the speedlimit. I looked back over my shoulder and Ralph's GTO was a redblotch in the distance still descending the slope toward the creek.

I was elated! I looked at my father. "I can't believe you didthat! Man, that was cool!"

My dad's shoulders were shaking, he was laughing so hard. "Icouldn't resist it. I just couldn't resist it!"

"That was GREAT," I said as I looked back, now unable tosee Ralph because of the crest of the hill.

That's when my dad quit laughing and said, "Not a word toyour mother, you hear?!"

"Oh, no sir! No sir."

Of course not. This was a moment of true male bonding,a moment just between us macho, fast flying, risk-taking men.I wasn't about to reveal this to my mother. And I meant it. Isettled back into the seat and I fancied myself driving that '56 toschool after I turned 16. I'd save my money working as a bag-boyat a local supermarket. I'd buy a couple of glass packs1 for theexhaust system so I'd sound like an earthquake rumbling throughthe parking lot. I'd put on black walled, wide track, low profiletires and chrome reverse wheels, and my heart beat faster when Iimagined the first day I drove it to school. Nothing would be moresatisfying than pulling up beside Ralph in his GTO and watchinghis eyes bug out when he heard the sound of my 409 growlinglike a caged lion beneath the hood. Reena Todd would slide justa little away from him on the seat to get a better look at me andmy '56. She'd want to sit beside ME in MY car.

As we cruised through the autumn evening, I thought, Wow!Reena and Ralph had seen ME in that power machine! As dadturned from Lawyer's Road onto Idlewild Road toward oursubdivision, I felt pride well up. Pride in my dad, and a senseof power. My dad kept chuckling. "Did you see the look on hisface?" He tossed the stogy across the opposite lane. "His mouthwas hanging open!" And we laughed again.

I said, "Man, I can't wait to get my hands on this thing!"

That's when dad's laughter tailed off and we drove the restof the way home listening to the sound of the wind through theopen windows and the deep throated hum from underneath thehood. I hooked my right arm out the window and grinned intothe breeze. All was well with the world.

Then, in March of 1970, one month prior to my 16th birthday,dad sold the '56 Chevy.

I discovered this when I came home one day from someactivity, the nature of which I've totally forgotten. But I stillfeel today the sinking sensation in my chest I felt then. Sittingin the driveway where that '56 used to sit was a 1964 Chevy IINova station wagon. In case you aren't familiar with that line ofGM automobiles from the mid-60's, the Chevy II Nova stationwagon looked as if some engineers in Detroit were sitting arounda table one day and said, "Let's see what a car would look likeif we put four tires on a cardboard box." The Chevy II sittingin our driveway where the '56 should have been had an in-linefour cylinder engine. It barely pulled the hill up our driveway infront of our house. It sounded like a squeaky sowing machinebeneath the pale green paint. The narrow, white-wall, bias-plytires finished off one of the most uninspiring automobiles a 16year-old North Carolina redneck boy could possibly imagine—ordread. Looking back, I have no recollection what happened to it.I didn't care. Still don't.

But I can remember standing in the driveway looking at thatartless piece of junk and setting my feelings aside. I grudginglyadmitted that this boxy station wagon was more in keeping withmy family's character than the '56. We were more the cardboard-box-on-wheelskind of family. We went to church twiceon Sundays, every Wednesday evening for dinner, prayer meeting,and Bible study, and I went to the church recreation center everyThursday evening for the boys mission group. It was a safe andproper life that conformed to reputable standards and "moldedcharacter," as my mother often said.

That was, indeed, a Chevy II Nova family.

We were NOT a '56 Chevy family. No 409 powerhouse forus. That was too dangerous. Too expensive. Too risky. '56 Chevykind of people didn't attend church regularly, if they knew Jesusat all, and their boys drank beer, were sexually promiscuous, anddidn't attend church mission groups. Oh sure, those boys hadbigger muscles, stood taller, and commanded the girls' admiration,but they were headed to no good end. I tried my best to acceptthis assessment of the world. I did my best to acknowledge thatwe were wiser with our Chevy-II-Nova-station-wagon kind of life.

After I reached adulthood and was well into a pastoral career,my dad and I would wax nostalgic about former cars we'd owned.Otherwise inarticulate North Carolina rednecks can becomedownright verbose when talking about their cars and the subjectof our vehicles yielded about the only conversational fluidity mydad and I ever achieved—that and his memories of his World WarII service. And always—always—when we'd remember that '56Chevy, my dad would grow almost contemplative and sigh. Morethan once he said, "I wish I still had that car." He never longedfor the station wagon.

Now, I can appreciate dad not wanting his hot-headed,immature, testosterone-driven adolescent son proving his worth withhis right foot rammed through the throttle of a 409 powerhouse.In fact, when I told the story at his funeral, I lauded his willingnessto risk my profound anger at him rather than pleasing me and riskletting me kill myself. I spun it as dad giving up something he lovedfor the sake of the well-being of his son. The congregation roaredwith laughter as my mom stared on slack jawed. I had obeyed myfather to the end and had never said a word to my mother—untilthat moment. And while I honestly believe that the exponentiallygreater insurance rates had the greatest influence on his getting ridof what amounted to a drag racer, I'm also certain that his love forhis son's life had an influence on the sale, as well.

Nevertheless, why did my dad long for the '56 and laughwhen we remembered the station wagon? That '56 was powerful.It represented autonomy and self-determination. It gave you theoption of defining your own pace and direction and thus allowedyou a measure of independence. It spoke of success and adventure,and with its beautiful design, it possessed an artistic and poeticquality. And yes, it was sexy! All those traits spoke of an energeticand engaged kind of living, an interesting and joyful life, zest andabundance.

Of course, that kind of power involves tremendous risk. Whatabout the cops? What about the gas? What about the insurance?What about going too fast and losing control? And besides allthat, it sends the wrong message. What will the neighbors think?

But that's the kind of car dad remembered with fondness andlonging. That was the car he loved.

What did the 1964 Chevy II Nova station wagon represent?Its tiny little engine meant safer movement, guaranteed. You'drun with the pack freed from the temptation to pull out and pass.You'd absorb the safety of numbers, conform to the domesticationof mass culture. Yes, the station wagon's straight plain lines andboxy design allowed for more storage space. But it was decidedlyunpoetic, and unartistic. It had no sex appeal at all. The car couldgenerate no sense of adventure or suggest independence. It spokeof conformity to vague notions of propriety. The station wagonsaid that you'd accumulate lots of stuff and carry it with you. Theneighbors would accept you better and respect you more in thestation wagon.

My dad loved the '56. He settled for the station wagon.

My dad settled for a station wagon life, too, all the whilelonging to live a '56 Chevy life. He accepted the notion that astation wagon life made more sense and that a '56 Chevy lifewas simply frivolous at best, too dangerous at worst. Honestly,though, what sounds more energizing to you? A four-cylinder,pea-green station wagon which requires a down hill slope to get