About 10 years ago, I was returning home from a road trip in my RV, and I stopped for the night at a campground on a remote stretch of US 84 in southern Alabama. It was in the middle of nowhere. I was relieved to find a place to stay.
The campground was a small private place, attractive and clean, with spacious campsites and lots of tree cover. Sometimes, you get lucky.
In the office was a woman of about 50, the owner, who lived on-site and ran the operation. She checked me in and told me to take any site I wanted.
I selected a campsite and, rather than hooking up for the night, drove to the nearest town for supper. I prefer restaurant meals on the road. Cooking in the RV is a pain.
Later, back at the campground, I heard a knock at the door. I opened it, and there was the owner. I stepped out of the RV.
She said she wanted to make sure all was well and to ask if I needed anything. I told her I was fine.
But she seemed reluctant to end the conversation. She sat down at the picnic table and kept chatting in an awkward way. I could tell something was on her mind.
The story slowly came out. She and her husband had bought the campground five years earlier. He later died, and she now ran the campground alone. Life there was quiet and routine.
The operation wasn’t a huge money-maker, she said, but the books would confirm that it remained in the black.
I continued listening politely.
Eventually, she came to the point. She wanted to sell the campground and move back home — I forget where that was — with her parents and siblings.
She said the property was listed with a broker, but any passing guest might be a potential buyer, so no harm in asking.
I told her I wasn’t a candidate. I was retired and leading a comfortable life close to relatives and friends — precisely what she wanted — and I didn’t want to change that.
What a terrible situation for that poor woman. Essentially, she was trapped there, probably lonely and depressed, if not still in mourning.
I think about her sometimes and wonder how things worked out.
When my dog Jake and I go walking near the Baptist church in Jefferson, Jake likes to check out the church’s central courtyard because he once encountered a squirrel there.
Among the windows overlooking the courtyard are two from the church’s Pre-K classroom.
One morning last year, Jake and I entered the courtyard while a Pre-K class was in session. Immediately, the kids spotted Jake and gleefully ran to the windows. Also immediately, the teacher barked for the children to take their seats and closed the blinds on both windows.
One morning last month, Jake and I entered the courtyard while a Pre-K class was in session. Immediately, the kids spotted Jake and gleefully ran to the windows. Also immediately, the teacher raised the blinds so the children could see better.
Jake dashed back and forth between the windows, tail wagging at high speed, paws on the sills, at eye level with a dozen kids, to the delight of all.
Winnie-the-Pooh
The world of Winnie-the-Pooh and Christopher Robin was created in the 1920s by English writer A. A. Milne in his popular series of children’s books. The backstory of Pooh’s creation is interesting.
The Christopher Robin character was based on author Milne’s son, Christopher Robin Milne. Christopher’s favorite teddy bear was Winnie, named after Winnipeg, a Canadian black bear at the London Zoo.
Christopher Milne also owned stuffed animals named Tigger, Eeyore, Piglet, Kanga, and Roo, all of whom became characters in the stories.
The illustrator of Milne’s books, E. H. Shepard, based his drawings of Pooh on his own son’s teddy bear Growler.
Pooh was the name of a swan owned by a friend of the Milne family.
Deplorable
You’re familiar with Aaron Burr, who, in 1804, while serving as Jefferson’s vice president, killed Alexander Hamilton in a duel. History says Burr (1756-1836) was a rotter, a scoundrel, and a deplorable jerk, on a par with our own deplorable jerk extraordinaire, Donald Trump.
Dueling was illegal in 1804, and Burr was charged with murder in New Jersey (where the duel occurred) and in New York (where Hamilton died). Being famous and entitled, Burr simply returned to Washington and served the rest of his term as VP. Sure enough, the charges fizzled out.
Jefferson disliked Burr anyway and dumped him as his 1805 running mate. Whereupon Burr headed west and allegedly plotted with a group of co-conspirators to create a new country with Burr as president. It would consist of several commandeered US territories (parts of the future Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona), plus a portion of northern Mexico. Allegedly.
Jefferson found out and had Burr indicted for treason. Burr fled to Europe. Eventually, the treason charge was dropped for lack of evidence. In 1812, Burr quietly returned to the US, but remained out of the public eye.
In 1833, in his 70s, he married a wealthy New York widow. Four months into the marriage, she discovered that her fortune was dwindling; Burr was investing her money in land speculation schemes and losing. She filed for divorce, pointedly choosing Alexander Hamilton, Jr. as her attorney.
On the day the divorce was finalized, Burr died of a stroke. The word karma comes to mind.
In 1953, when I was a preteen, the Boston Braves moved to Milwaukee, and my younger brother Lee and I became big fans of the team. We knew the entire roster in detail and of course had our favorite players. My hero was young right-fielder Hank Aaron. Lee’s idol was slugging third baseman Eddie Mathews.
Lee Smith, Eddie Mathews fan.
In those days, Milwaukee’s ace pitcher was the great lefty Warren Spahn, and at some point, Lee acquired a small hard plastic figurine of Spahn. It was like a G.I. Joe action figure, minus the bendable limbs. Eight inches tall, well molded, neatly painted, durable.
And, if you aren’t too picky, it can be said to bear some resemblance to Warren Spahn.
The Spahn figurine took its place among the toys in the Smith household and was around for years. My sister Betty remembers Warren well. She frequently included him when she had tea parties with her dolls.
Time passed, and we kids grew up. We went out into the world. started careers, got married.
One day, probably when I was in my mid-20s, I got in my car and found the Spahn figurine propped up on the steering wheel. No note, no explanation. Lee never mentioned it. Nor did I.
But some months later, I managed to sneak the figurine into Lee’s house and left it in a kitchen cabinet. Again, neither of us spoke of it.
But it was the beginning of a decades-long ritual in which the figurine quietly changed possession 10 or 15 times, maybe more.
The unspoken goal was to return Warren when enough time had passed — a few months, a year or two — so that your brother had forgotten about it and would not expect it. And still, neither of us spoke of the matter.
I last left Warren at Lee’s house about a decade ago, and I hadn’t thought about it in quite some time. So, when a large package arrived from Lee a few days before my birthday in January, I suspected nothing.
I was totally blindsided when I opened the package and found the Spahn figurine inside multiple boxes and layers of Styrofoam. I did not see it coming.
In truth, I was delighted to see Warren again — so much so that I broke tradition and texted Lee about it. I admitted that he got me good, which pleased him greatly.
The next day, I had a haircut appointment, and I told my stylist the story of the Warren Spahn figurine. “That thing is probably collectible,” she said. “Have you checked online?”
Wow. That should have occurred to me, but never had. So, I took a photo of Warren and did a Google image search.
And I was introduced to the world of figurines manufactured decades ago by Hartland Plastics, Inc. of Hartland, Wisconsin.
Starting in 1939, Hartland Plastics produced a stream of action figures — baseball players, football players, historical figures (General Custer, Wyatt Earp), and characters from TV westerns (Roy Rogers, Dale Evans, Matt Dillon).
Here are some of the Hartland baseball figures:
The figurines sold well and quickly became collectible. When Hartland ceased operations in 1978, they became even more in demand.
Today, as far as value is concerned, the figurines don’t exactly rank up there with Fabergé eggs. Most Hartlands are worth $50 to $400, depending on scarcity, popularity, whether the packaging survived, and so on.
The highest price I saw was $1,500 for an uncirculated figurine of Pirates shortstop Dick Groat with original packaging.
But prices and Dick Groat be damned. The real question was, did Hartland manufacture an Eddie Mathews figurine?
Yes. Yes, they did. And I purchased one immediately on eBay.
While I was waiting for Eddie to arrive, I telephoned Lee and casually asked if Warren had been his only figurine. “Did you have others?” I asked. “An Eddie Mathews maybe?”
“I wish,” he said.
Days later, Eddie arrived. This is the figurine.
If you aren’t too picky, it can be said to bear some resemblance to Eddie Mathews.
I took a few photos of Eddie, repackaged him, and mailed him to Lee.
Lee called, and he was highly emotional. Beyond elated. He was uncharacteristically animated and thanked me repeatedly.
So, Lee was majorly pleased, and I had the satisfaction of surprising him. Under the circumstances, I guess the Warren Spahn figurine is permanently mine.
My hair stylist of the last dozen years has retired early, for interesting reasons. When I met her, she was in her early 20s and newly married, but her doctors told her she was unable to have children. Except — oops — she turned up pregnant.
But complications arose. She had several scares when her blood pressure tanked. She almost died during delivery, and the baby was premature. But mother and son eventually recovered.
Two years later, against the advice of her doctors, she got pregnant again. After a difficult time and another scary early delivery, she and her second boy rebounded, albeit slowly.
Two years ago, against the advice of doctors, family, and friends, she became pregnant again. But this time, the pregnancy was textbook normal. No health issues whatsoever. After a full nine-month term, she delivered a healthy girl without incident.
My friend is now a stay-at-home mom, home-schooling the two boys. I see the family around town sometimes. My back-up hair stylist is now the primary.
This story makes me happy.
Pandemonium
A dramatic incident occurred recently in my usually quiet life. It consisted of 10 seconds of utter chaos, an episode that is etched forever in my memory banks. I chuckle out loud each time I mentally replay the scene.
Not long ago on a morning walk, my dog Jake surprised a squirrel — surprised as in met it eyeball to eyeball as we rounded the corner of an old shed. The startled squirrel leapt into the air, bounced off the side of the shed, zipped across Jake’s back, and scrambled up to the shed roof.
But the metal roof was steep and slippery, and the squirrel’s claws found no purchase. Running frantically, but sliding steadily backwards, the squirrel fell to the ground, landing at Jake’s feet.
Barely eluding Jake, the squirrel bounded into a tree, ascended to the uppermost branches, flung itself into the air, and landed with a thunk on the roof of a nearby house.
Fortunately, the roof of the house was not metal, and the squirrel made its escape.
The Rest is Cake
Becca Lawton, a river guide at Grand Canyon during the 1970s and 80s, has written several books about life as a boatwoman. In her most recent, she nicely sums up life in the inner canyon and how being on the river can affect you. As I can attest, the influence of the place is real and powerful. Becca wrote this…
The Canyon may appear vast and overwhelming when seen as a whole, especially when viewed in the mere 17 minutes the National Park Service notes as the average tourist’s visitation time to the rim.
What the mini-visitor doesn’t grasp in that time are the pockets of sanctuary tucked everywhere in the Canyon’s recesses. Deep green waterfalls. Pockets of shade and cool. Pools in red rock. Ferns, monkeyflowers, cottonwoods, willows.
“You only have to get them there,” Canyon guide Louise Teal says. “The rest is cake.” Get people to the river, earn their trust, and take them deep into what Louise calls the “zillion-year-old rocks.” She and I were passengers before we took up guiding. Then we never wanted to be apart from the Canyon’s soul-stirring sunsets, embracing rock walls, and endlessly flowing water.
Those we guided, too, found it a beautiful, intense, and, in Louise’s words, “completely fulfilling place.” It is — a place out of time and out of overwhelmed mind.
So take me to the river. Drop me in the water.
Experts say it usually takes about three days for a trip passenger to fully “arrive” on the river and mentally disconnect from their outside lives. Honestly, I don’t think it ever took me three days.
Did I mention that my road trip to the Southwest last month was excellent? I wore shorts and short sleeves every day. Never needed a jacket, rain gear, or umbrella.
Had zero trouble finding decent lodging. Had very few so-so meals. Never got tired from driving. Came home with souvenir t-shirts from Hatch, Gallup, Flagstaff, Sedona, and Grand Canyon.
Furthermore, thanks to the record so helpfully provided by Google Timeline, I can elaborate on how the trip went down…
After dropping off Jake at the kennel, I drove south to Atlanta, then west on I-20 across Alabama and into Mississippi. I spent the first night in Jackson. Supper was an insanely delicious brisket plate at the Pig & Pint. Rating: A+
On Day Two, I continued west on I-20, crossed the Mississippi River at Vicksburg, drove across Louisiana to Shreveport, and into Texas. There, being an intelligent person, I abandoned I-20 and picked up US 84, which goes through neither Dallas nor Houston. I stopped for the night in Waco and dined at La Fiesta Restaurant & Cantina. Rating: B.
On Day Three, I followed US 87 northwest from San Angelo back to I-20, then west through Midland and Odessa. I stopped for the night in Pecos, where I enjoyed a fine meal and beverage at Javelinas Draft House. Rating: A-.
On Day Four, I picked up I-10 to El Paso, then I-25 north through Las Cruces, New Mexico. I stopped for a few hours in Hatch, New Mexico, the famous “Chile Capital of the World.” Hatch is a fun place. The smell of roasting chiles is delightful, and the gift shops carry an amazing selection of chiles — fresh, dried, cooked, candied, and pickled — and Talavera pottery.
After Hatch, I continued north on I-25 and stayed the night in Los Lunas, following dinner and a brew at Buffalo Wild Wings. Rating: B.
On Day Five, I drove north to Albuquerque and west on I-40 past the pueblos, stopping for the night in Gallup — after making the rounds of the numerous shops and trading posts. Supper was at Anthony’s A Taste of the Southwest Mexican Restaurant. Rating: B-.
On Day Six, I continued west on I-40 into Arizona. After a stop at Petrified Forest National Park, I continued to Holbrook, then Winslow, where I visited the very cool gift shop at La Posada Hotel and the “Standin’ on the Corner” statue downtown.
That night, I stayed in Flagstaff and, as is my tradition, enjoyed a draft and a brewer’s platter at Beaver Street Brewery. Rating: sadly, a C. Usually a solid A, but that’s life.
On Day Seven, after a morning of strolling around downtown Flagstaff, I drove south on US 89A through fabulous Oak Creek Canyon to the ultra-touristy, but still enjoyable Sedona. Lunch was a massive cheeseburger and a cold one at the Cowboy Club. Rating: B+.
After wandering around Sedona for a bit, I returned to Flagstaff for the night, where I enjoyed a dinner of soup, salad, and a tall draft at Lumberyard Brewing Company. Rating: A, no question.
On Day Eight, I headed north on US 89 to Cameron Trading Post, detoured over to Desert View Watchtower at the east end of Grand Canyon National Park, then went north to Page. At Glen Canyon Dam, I took photos of sad, receding Lake Powell and found lodging in Page for the night. Dinner was pizza at Strombolli’s Italian Restaurant and Pizzeria. Rating: B.
On Day Nine, I left Page and proceeded to Marble Canyon Lodge and Lees Ferry, then back through Flagstaff and west to Williams. Back in good old Flagstaff for the night, I had fish tacos, homemade chicharróns, and a nice draft at Mother Road Brewing Company. Rating: A-.
On Day 10, I drove north to South Rim Village at Grand Canyon National Park, where I had booked a cabin for two nights at Bright Angel Lodge. That day, I wandered along the rim taking photos of the Big Ditch — the same photos I’ve taken again and again over the years — and paid the obligatory visits to the village gift shops.
My cabin at Bright Angel Lodge.
I planned to have dinner at the Arizona Steakhouse, my favorite GCNP eaterie, but alas, it was open for lunch only. The other main option, the dining room at El Tovar Hotel, requires reservations, and I’m not impressed by El Tovar anyway, so I went to the Maswik Lodge Pizza Pub for a beer and a slice. Rating: maybe a C.
An hour later, unsatisfied by the puny slice, I proceeded to the Bright Angel Tavern and ordered some hot wings and another beer. Rating: B+. I ended the evening happy.
But not for long; the weather, alas, finally turned on me. The forecast for the next few days was for rain at South Rim. The prospect of a day of taking photos in the rain had no appeal, so I went to the front desk and canceled my second night in the cabin. Let some other tourist score a last-minute cancellation.
Later, back at the rim, I was rewarded by my first-ever rainbow at Grand Canyon. This is when you trot out the word awesome, people.
Okay, it was time to head back east. On Day 11, I left the rain behind at Flagstaff and returned east on I-40, back through Winslow, Holbrook, and Gallup, and stopped for the night in Grants, New Mexico. Dinner was a sirloin steak smothered in mushrooms and onions at La Ventana Steaks and Spirits. Rating: A.
On Day 12, I rolled through Albuquerque on I-40 and continued east. The truck traffic soon became too much, so I exited I-40 at Clines Corners and drove south to US 60, which I followed through Encino, Vaughn, Fort Sumner (where I stopped at the Billy the Kid Museum), and Clovis.
I then crossed into Texas and proceeded to Lubbock for the night. Supper was tacos and a draft at the Copper Caboose Restaurant and Sports Grill. Rating: B+.
On Day 13, I continued east on US 82 through Wichita Falls, and on to Paris, Texas, for the night. Dinner was a chopped pork plate at Phat Phil’s BBQ. Rating: A.
On Day 14, I passed through Texarkana and continued east on US 82 across southern Arkansas, crossing the Mississippi River at Greenville. I stopped for the night in Winona, Mississippi, and for supper had a quesadilla at Tequila’s Restaurant. Rating: B+.
On Day 15, I followed US 82 east into Alabama and picked up I-20 in Tuscaloosa. I stayed on I-20 through Birmingham, back into Georgia, on to Atlanta, and north on I-85 to Jefferson. I was home by late afternoon. Supper was a bowl of Nongshim Bowl Noodle Soup, Spicy Shrimp flavor. Always an A.
That final day of the trip was a Saturday, which was nice because weekend traffic in Atlanta usually is less awful than on workdays.
But, no, a wreck on the northern perimeter, I-285, left me trapped in a monumental traffic jam. This was my view of things for, oh, 90 minutes.
Two points in closing:
First, my hat is off to Google for shadowing me 24-7 and documenting my every move so I could reconstruct the trip via the Timeline feature.
Second, Jefferson is a pleasant, peaceful little town. We have just five traffic signals, not counting the four at the loathsome I-85 interchange. Traffic jams around here are rare and brief.
A road trip, one could say, is like a box of chocolates.
I just got home from a two-week road trip to the Southwest, and it was supremely satisfying. All went well. I wandered far, experienced much, and dined lavishly.
Owing to the lavish dining, I returned home five pounds heavier. But I’ve since shed four of the pounds, so…
Looking back on the said box of chocolates, certain memories stand out.
The Coyote
On the morning of Day Eight, I drove north from Flagstaff on US 89 on my way to Page, Arizona. In the community of Bitter Springs on the Navajo Nation, I turned left onto US 89A, which leads north to Marble Canyon, where Navajo Bridge crosses the Colorado River.
As I made the turn, I noticed a large sheep pen beside the highway on the right. The pen was about the size of a tennis court, maybe larger. Inside were 50 to 75 sheep, grazing peacefully.
The enclosure was extra substantial. It was about six feet high, constructed of chain link, and rimmed with barbed wire. This was a serious sheep pen.
And next to the fence, stoically observing the sheep mere feet away, was a coyote.
I slowed down to get a good look. The sheep grazed peacefully, apparently unperturbed. Maybe they were accustomed to the presence of a coyote at the fence line. Or multiple coyotes.
The coyote watched the sheep quietly and never moved. How long he remained there, and whether this was a regular scenario, I can’t say.
But two hours later, when I passed through Bitter Springs again on my way to Page, the coyote had not moved one inch from his post.
Twilight Chat
Usually, when you see a uniformed ranger at a national park, he or she is surrounded by tourists and either answering questions or delivering a lecture.
But late in the evening of Day 10 of my trip, as I strolled along the rim of Grand Canyon at South Rim Village taking photos of a glorious sundown, I came upon a “lone” ranger seated on the retaining wall, quietly taking in the scenery.
She was young and either Hispanic or Native American. As I paused a few steps away to take photos, she said, “I have SO many photos of this place, and I keep taking more.”
“Me, too,” I said. “But I gave up fighting it long ago.”
“Oh, you’re a repeat visitor,” she said. “Are you familiar with some of the landforms out there — Brahma Temple, Zoroaster?”
And that started a 10-minute conversation in which we shared Grand Canyon stories.
I told her about the enlarged photo on my living room wall, taken on the Clear Creek Trail, looking up at Zoro between those massive arms. And about my hike with my sons Britt and Dustin up the “Banzai Route” to Utah Flats on top of Cheops Pyramid.
And about my raft trips and mule trips and backcountry hikes and trips to Phantom Ranch. I told her I’ve now been to Grand Canyon 29 times.
She had done all that and more. Even worked at Phantom for a time.
It’s so gratifying to meet someone who really knows Grand Canyon. Who gets it.
Zoroaster Temple as seen from the Clear Creek Trail.
Two of my favorite observations about life come from Buzz Holmstrom, a filling station attendant from Oregon who, in 1937, built his own boat and rowed it down the Colorado River through Grand Canyon. He is thought to be the first person to run the river solo.
Buzz wrote in his journal that he gained nothing tangible from the trip. His reward was simply in “the doing of the thing.”
Buzz also praised traveling solo. “I know I have got more out of this trip by being alone than if a party was along, as I have more time — especially at nite — to listen & look & think & wonder about the natural wonders, rather than listen to talk of war, politics & football scores.”
A wise man, that Buzz.
This post I wrote some years ago tells more about Holmstrom and his grand adventure. And the journal of his trip is well worth reading.
In my next post, more details about my route and adventures.
Humans have a habit of believing preposterous nonsense — embracing ideas that defy evidence and common sense. I could point to the behavior of today’s conservatives, but instead, consider the ancient Egyptians. They decided that the soul could not live on in the afterlife unless the body of the deceased was preserved. Seriously. Hence, their obsession with mummies.
The Egyptians traditionally buried the dead in the desert sand, which conveniently mummified the bodies. It was fine just to drop common folk in a hole, but it was inappropriate if you were important. So, for the rich and powerful, the Egyptians began building monument-style tombs.
The first such tomb was a mastaba, which in ancient Egyptian means “eternal house.” Mastabas were rectangular structures with inward-sloping sides and flat roofs, constructed of bricks made from mud. They protected the body from animals and grave robbers, but the absence of sand meant no mummification and — drat — no soul living on in the afterlife.
So they developed artificial mummification. For bigshots, of course. In time, the bigshots also concluded that mastabas weren’t elaborate enough, and pyramids became a thing.
In summary, the concept arose that your soul is doomed if your dead body decomposes as nature intended. Egyptian society seized on that idea and focused on it for several thousand years. You can’t make this stuff up.
The Island
For four years in the 1950s, my dad was stationed at Tyndall AFB, Florida, and we Smiths lived in nearby Panama City. In 1956, Dad got a one-year assignment as base commander at Thule AFB, Greenland. No dependents live at Thule, so Mom and us kids remained in Panama City.
Dad called, wrote, and sent photos regularly, which kept us up to date about life at Thule. One fact about the place that got a snicker from my 14-year-old self was the story of a small island within sight of the base named, in the Inuit language, Iganaq.
Due to its appearance in profile, people at Thule called the island the Witch’s Tit. Dad got a snicker, too, from telling us that.
In 1958, Greenland changed the name of the island from Iganaq to Dalrymple Rock. This was to honor Dr. Paul Dalrymple, a geographer and meteorologist who spent a good part of his career in Greenland.
Despite the name change, I’m sure the island remained Iganaq to the Inuit. And to the people stationed at Thule, it’s probably still the Witch’s Tit.
Unexpected Journey
When I stopped for lunch in Commerce recently, I had no way of knowing I was about to drive a mom and two preschoolers to the next county.
As I arrived at the Wendy’s parking lot, a female voice called out, “Sir! Sir! My car broke down, and my boys are with me, and my phone is dead! Can I borrow your phone to call my Nanna?”
The mom was in her late 20s and understandably stressed. I handed her my phone. She called Nanna, who didn’t answer, probably because it was from an unknown caller. So the mom sent a text. Still no reply. Nanna was MIA.
The mom thanked me and told me to proceed with my lunch. She said Nanna probably would respond soon. So I proceeded with lunch.
After lunch, I checked, and still no word from Nanna. I couldn’t just leave them stranded, so I told the mom I would drive them to Nanna’s house, which was about five minutes away. The mom protested feebly while transferring the boys and their car seats to my car.
She spent the drive trying to set me up with Nanna, who was described as healthy, active, attractive, and a widow. I was politely noncommittal.
Nanna was home, working in the garden. The mom wanted me to give Nanna my phone number, but Nanna (indeed a handsome woman) steered the mom away while waving a thank-you over her shoulder. I drove back to Commerce, where I bought some dog treats at Marshall’s.
The day I graduated from college in June 1964, having gone through the ROTC program, I also was commissioned a second lieutenant in the Air Force. Eventually, I would be called to active duty for a four-year commitment.
In my case, eventually was 30 days later at Cannon AFB in Clovis, New Mexico.
At the time, I was driving a 1956 Chevrolet Bel Air. It was my first car, a gift from my parents a year earlier.
The Bel Air looked great, but, unfortunately, wasn’t so good mechanically. Driving from Georgia to Clovis took its toll. So did taking weekend trips around New Mexico. The first time I drove home to Georgia on leave, the Bel Air seriously struggled.
It was time for new wheels — the first car purchased with my own money.
Being a debonaire young lieutenant-about-town, I needed a vehicle suitable for my station. So, in March 1965, after much deliberation, I signed a deal with the Ford/Lincoln/Mercury dealer in Clovis to buy a 1965 Mercury Comet Caliente convertible — brand new, custom-ordered from the factory.
In Spanish, in case you didn’t know, caliente means hot. Mostly, the word is used in the sense of spirited.
My Caliente was carnival red with a white top, white leatherette interior, bucket seats, dual mufflers, automatic transmission, and a 289 cubic inch V8 engine.
Between the small frame and the big engine, that puppy could leave rubber anywhere, anytime, even without a clutch to pop.
This is a 1965 Comet Caliente, carnival red with white top and interior:
She indeed was caliente.
What, you ask, did I pay for that fine car in 1965? Well, the sticker price was $3,335.60.
To prove it, here’s the sticker.
As for the purchase price, I must have been on my game that day. The dealer and I settled on $2,550.00 cash.
To prove it, here’s the check.
In case you were wondering, $2,550 in 1965 was the equivalent of about $23,000 in today’s dollars.
The Caliente proved to be a terrific vehicle. She and I had some good times together, and I remember her fondly. She was beautiful, fun, and reliable. Not to mention built like a tank.
I mean that in the kindest sense. That car was constructed of premium-grade steel that a sledgehammer probably couldn’t dent. Not that I ever put a scratch on her.
The auto industry stopped using heavy steel to build cars decades ago. Pity.
Today, I drive a Subaru Crosstrek, and I love it. It’s super reliable and has amazing electronic safety and convenience features. The Caliente, like all cars from olden times, pales in comparison to modern vehicles like the Crosstrek.
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