When 1954 became 1967

We own three cars.

Two people; three cars.

It really is stupid, but I blame it on California. You need a "beater" for just running around and at least one late model ride with a top that goes down so that you can enjoy the sunshine and semi-fresh air that you delude yourself into believing your tax dollars are providing.

As I said...I blame California.

When I was a kid in the Midwest my family had one car and, like most everybody else, it was the car that dad drove to work. I don't recall that any of my pals came from multi car families. Well, the kids of car dealers always seemed to have plenty of rolling stock at the curb, but that was different.

In the late 1960's I, like most baby boomers, was asserting my independence at college and having pretty much the time of my life as I basked in the fresh air of being on my own and away from parental restraint. Doing just enough to get decent grades, I hoped to ride the good time train for just as long as possible before getting drafted. It seemed to work.

I had a radio job that paid decent money. My classes were in broadcasting, theater and film; not exactly a killer curriculum. And, I had the coolest looking bright red Ford Galaxy XL rag top to transport me to all the parties I was physically able to attend. Sweet.

In one of my classes I met one of my best friends of all time, Doug Steckler. Doug is, without question, one of the funniest people on the planet. He is funnier by accident than most people are on purpose. We have remained friends for more than forty years and he still makes me laugh out loud. (Something I rarely do.) He spent time with Chicago's Second City and was one of the key people in the creation of television's SCTV. In the 90's he joined me on the lowest rung of the show biz ladder when he teamed with Tim Conway Jr. on KLSX radio in Los Angeles.

What started me thinking about cars, college and Doug Steckler is this:

Every time I get in my newest car I think of this true story that happened to Doug during our partying days at the University of South Dakota.

In those days all cars started with a key. Today, many cars require a fob to be inserted in the dash where a computer reads a code before allowing a button to be pushed to fire the engine. No key.

Here is the story:

It was a Friday night in the Fall of 1967. Doug and I were at a party having our usual WAY too much fun. We both told ourselves that we needed to call it a night fairly early because we were scheduled to be on a chartered bus early Saturday morning to go to Minneapolis with some theater appreciation class we were both taking for an easy A. No problem.

I can't remember if we were drinking cheap scotch or cheap rum, but we had picked-up plenty of it on our way to the party. I'm told that we had a marvelous time.

I left around midnight and somehow found my way back to my apartment. Doug left around 2 AM and had some trouble negotiating the whereabouts of his car, a 1954 green Chevrolet.

He had been helped to his car by well meaning revelers and miraculously made it home. (Drunk driving was not frowned upon in those days as it is today. Like Andy Griffith's Mayberry, every small town in the Midwest had its very own Otis Campbell.) The next morning I picked Doug up at his home. He was living with his parents and sister at the time. We both were massively hungover, but with the resilience of youth managed to ride the bus to Minneapolis and actually enjoy the play we saw at the Tyrone Guthrie Theater. I still recall that it was something by George Bernard Shaw.

When we returned to South Dakota that evening Doug was in for a big surprise. His dad was waiting for him at the door of their house and looked more than a little put out. The state police had just left the Steckler abode and that was just the icing on the cake. It seemed that the night before Doug had driven a brand new 1967 Plymouth home to the Steckler garage. In his impaired condition, Doug had pointed to the new Plymouth when being "helped" to his ride and the key to his '54 Chevy HAD WORKED! What were the chances???!!!!

A million to one? I'm sure a car guy could hazard a reasonable guess, but not me. About the only good news that Doug got that evening was that the law student who owned the Plymouth had decided not to sue or press charges. I seem to remember that there were witnesses to some rather unbecoming party behavior on the part of the future barrister.

I hope that you youngsters take a lesson from two old reprobates like your Uncle Ken and Uncle Doug. The next time you find yourself "over served", point to a yellow taxi cab when somebody asks "which car is yours?".

Just don't try the '54 Chevy, that one is Doug's...I think.