It was in 1992, or perhaps 1993. Our friends, Al and Jessie Wilson from International Paper fame, had gone on a business trip and left me their house key with the charge to visit their home in Old Greenwich, CT on weekends or whenever I could find time, see if 'everything was alright' and "move their two cars a few times around the block". They had a conventional Buick and this gorgeous, beautiful Jaguar, which they had bought when Al came to Switzerland in 1958 to 1959 to set up a European Branch operation in Zurich. They loved that car so much they had it shipped to the US when they returned. I loved that car so much I couldn't wait to leave Manhattan, where I lived at the time I got this picture, and get my hands on the steering wheel.
The block around which I moved that car that weekend became rather large: From Old Greenwich over the Whitestone Bridge and up the Long Island Parkway and eventually all the way out to Montauk Point where I was forced to turn around and head back. That trip was unforgettable. You sit in that car and you see the scenery move by and there is not a sound until you open the windows. It is as if you were floating on a cloud, but not, as you might think, in a soft, wobbly fashion, but firm, with a grip on the road that makes you feel like you are driving a sports car instead of this limousine. The carpets in the back, where I had been condemned to sit with my parents during our many tours with the Wilsons in Switzerland were so soft and deep piled, one was tempted to take ones shoes and sox off and play in the fur with one's bare toes. Al loved that car so much, he never let anybody else drive it, and giving the keys to me was a vote of confidence I never forgot.
That car also was not one of many in the US during that time. Yes, the school kids in CT "all" drove the flying cigar, that famous two-seater XKE that took the fashion sports world in storm, back in the fifties. Those were the kids from families where the father was rumored to be so snobbish that he would leave his Rolls Royce and driver at home and drive his VW Beetle to work himself. The little bug also was a fashion item at that time, and became the choice of the flour children, together with its brother, the VW-Bus, only later in the sixties, when the fickle market turned its back on the VW and the used car lots filled up with the rejected vehicles. By that time, Wolfsburg had set up manufacturing of its cars in the US and failed when the public interest turned to other things. Anyway, Where that Jaguar showed up in its shiny British Green coat and the polished chrome trim, people would turn their heads. Young women were irresistibly drawn to that machine. Young, single drivers loved such fringe benefits!
That car had two tanks! in the back, there were two chrome fill-nozzles with quick-opening snap closures like sports cars. I forgot how much each tank held, but when I set out on my drive around the block they both were more or less full. On would burn the gas out of one tank and when it became empty one would switch a valve located in front of the stick shift and connect the fuel line to the other tank. That's something like the VW Beetle had, also, except that the second tank was merely a reserve and the switching reminded the driver that he had to start looking for a gas station in earnest. The Jag, on the second tank, could drive another few hundred miles.
When I got back to Old Greenwich that evening, both tanks were practically empty! So was my wallet. It was before the time of credit cards and the way out of such a dilemma for a bread earning start-up engineer was bread and water in order to save the money needed to fill those tanks up again before the Wilsons would return from their trip. A sobering experience, which made me judge sizes of blocks to drive around a bit more prudently in the future.
********************************************************************************
Sunday, December 9, 2012 at 10:18 AM
Did you mean 1962?! What a fun memory. A great chapter for your book...
L.
*********************************************************************************
Sunday, December 9, 2012 at10:57 AM
I rather think it was 1962, because in 1963 I began courting Tiiu and a trip such as that would have included her. It did not.
That yellow sweater you see me wearing was one of my favorites dating back to my skiing in Switzerland. I don't believe there are many ski trips on record where I did not wear this sweater. Later, when we lived in Washington Valley, TIIU got her hands on it and stuck it in the washing machine. Because it was pure wool, it came out too small for Elanore to wear it now. And it was solid enough to keep out rain. I cried and my mother got me another one next birthday or Christmas. It suffered the same fate. There is yet another sweater dating back to my skiing days before coming to the States. It is black, full, withy shawl or cowl collar. Somehow, I managed to keep it out of all helping hands and I can still wear it. I keep it 'in case I might find myself in Vermont one of the coming winters'. It's no good for NC.
You know, Laurie, I got up early, very early, to look for pictures I could use for Christmas cards.
Obviously, I was side tracked. Happens every time we open the old shoe boxes with old pictures. I haven't even had breakfast yet, even though I'm fully dressed, of course.
So now I go and do something to stop that rumbling in my stomach. Have a wonderful 2nd of Advent, and a wonderful, memorable weekend with your Iivo.
********************************************************************************
Sunday, December 9, 2012 at 11:22 AM
But not 1992, as you originally (mis)stated...
You have always been--and continue to be--an exceptionally handsome man, but you didn't look like that the year I married into your family!
I love reading these musings. Let's get your blog up and running, on the way to a book...
********************************************************************************
Sunday, December 9, 2012 at 5:03 PM
My goodness, what a typo. Of course it was rather 1962 than 1992. Thanks, Laurie, for catching me.
I better watch out! In the wrong pace, a mistake like that can cost one the right to have a glass wine for dinner!
Consider it corrected.
Love, Opa
No comments:
Post a Comment