Uncle Jimmy and My First Car

 

Introduction

Life is full of coincidences and odd connections.  Or, maybe what I perceive as connections aren't connected at all and just mental ramblings in my mind.  Whatever the case, let me tell you about my first car and my Uncle Jimmy.

Now, obtaining one's first automobile is a huge event in a person's life.  Overnight, there are so many changes including new responsibilities, both personal and financial.  New freedoms and opportunities also emerge.  The possibilities are endless and let's not forget the elevation of one's social status and a potentially huge boost in self-esteem.  I'll bet that every boy has a ton of photos of his first car.  Artistic images taken following wax jobs offering multiple angles of viewing that catch the shiny reflections plus photos taken by friends that include the proud owner in the frame.  Or maybe not. 

Chapter 1 ~ Meet Uncle Jimmy 

In every extended family there is an Uncle Jimmy.  That one oddball relative who has been a disappointment all his life.  Always in some kind of trouble and whispered about at family gatherings.  Rumors abound of him getting beaten up or of being thrown in jail for one nefarious deed or another, but he was always the friendly uncle who was awkwardly outgoing, especially around children.  Though seldom seen, he would show up without notice and when he did parents would tell their kids to hide their piggy banks.  When he left there was always something missing. 

There aren't any pictures of Uncle Jimmy in anyone's photo albums.  Only group photos with his face scratched out or heavy black paper scrapbook pages with empty corner mounts where pictures of Jimmy used to be.  

Chapter 2 ~ Boeing Beaters

 In the 1950's - 1960's there was code among certain Boeing workers where cars for commuting purposes were sold, one employee to another, for $25.00.  These $25.00 cars could be of any vintage and in almost any condition.  It was understood that they were to be used for commuting only.  Family transportation was discouraged.  They could have plenty wrong with them but they needed to run and the brakes needed to work.  It wasn't desirable but it was acceptable if the only way to get them to run was to start them on compression.  It was expected that the tires would be worn, maybe even bald, but the cords could not be visible.  Some of these Boeing Beaters had been passed around numerous times for $25 and it was easy to find one through word-of-mouth or on the bulletin board in an employee cafeteria.  My Dad went through several of these beaters and some that I recall include a couple of Ford Model A's. Since his automotive tastes tended towards the eccentric he liked Nashes so there was a 1940 Opera and a 1939 Ambassador Coupe in the mix.  These cars took an engineer's mindset, skills and constant tinkering to maintain.  Such was automotive ethic of the family that I was born into. 

Chapter 3 ~ Need for Speed 

While attending Everett Community College I faced a 30 mile commute each way.  I bummed rides with four guys I knew from high school but they all had their own lives and personal priorities so a ride to or from school wasn't a gimmee.  I ended up hitchhiking on occasion and whenever I did I never once got rides that took me anywhere close to campus or home.  Consequently, I did lots of walking.  A good ride was one that required less than three miles on foot.  My personal transportation consisted of a broken down 3-speed English Racer, a homemade Tote Goat and a 1957 Lambretta 160 scooter.  I tried riding my scooter to Everett but that was a death trip.  The speed limit on I-5 was 70mph and I could only do 50mph tops.  At that speed the clutch would overheat and start to slip which reduced my speed to about 40, then 30, then 20mph.  And then there was the rain.  When one of my rides to school resulted in a horrific car accident that only two out of four of us survived, I knew that it was time for me to have my own car. 

1957 Lambretta 160

I had saved $250.00 by pumping gas at Bergie's Richfield so I reasoned that I could afford ten Boeing Beaters or a car ten times nicer than my Dad drove. Since he knew how to work on cars, I was happy to have his help selecting my first one. What I didn't take into consideration were his off-center tastes or his belief that this life was for learning. In his mind this was my opportunity to learn how to keep a car running so he found me a "beaut". A 1957 Volvo 444 was being offered for sale by one Louis Rubbelke (a Boeing engineer) for $250.00! The ad said that it had new paint.

Chapter 4 ~ The Test Ride 

It was blue and freshly painted by Spray King.  Never mind that the new paint had been applied over dents, dings and rust.  It was oddly shiny in a still off-gassing way.  Both halves of the two-piece windshield were cracked and broken.  One large dent on top of the front fender was coated with rust and remnants of blue paint.  It looked like a round section of paint had simply failed to adhere and had popped out in one large chunk.  When Louis took me for a ride it seemed sort of OK.  I mean, we didn't have to push it to get it started.  I wasn't expecting much for my $250.00, just a beater to drive to school that was ten times nicer than my Dad's car.

Not My '57 Volvo as no pictures exist

The knob for the choke was missing and had been replaced by a pair of vise grips.  I could work with that and besides, I could always use another pair of vise grips.  I noticed that he shifted from 2nd to 4th, skipping 3rd gear altogether.  I asked him why and he said that it was because the car had come with a three-speed transmission that he had upgraded to a 4-speed so 3rd was a touch rough.  "Huh"?  I guess that I needed to be an engineer to understand that logic but "a touch rough" was OK since the transmission had been upgraded, right?  Also missing was the handle to raise and lower the driver's window.  Louis said that he had lost it and that I could pick one up for cheap at a junkyard.  That was fine with me because my Dad had introduced me to junkyards and I liked nosing around in them.   When I drove it I found third gear noisy but not "rough" as expected.  The speedometer kind of jumped around from zero to whatever speed we were actually going and the steering was a bit weird.  Louis said that the car was overdue for a front end alignment.  Not a deal-breaker.  What really impressed me was its full set of decent white sidewall retreads. 

Like I said, I didn't have high expectations for my first car.  I hadn't come from a high school where there was a car culture and I was used to seeing my Dad, a solid role model, driving ugly old cars so that was a low bar to clear.   This car had some rust, dings and bruises, but it generally fell within my requirements.  It did have "good" tires, and the owner was a Boeing engineer so that was good.  My Dad liked the fact that this Volvo had an old timey look that you didn't see around town so that fit his quirky requirements, too.  I think that Rubbelke about fell over when I handed him the money.  On the hand-written bill of sale I noticed that AS IS was underlined in capital letters.

Chapter 5 ~ Vise Grips in the Rain

It was the day after taking possession that I noticed that Louis had kyped the vise grips while I wasn't looking and learned why the driver's window had no knob.  While driving downtown in a pouring rainstorm I turned the corner at 5th and Olive Way and the weird steering sent me over the curb.  Big bump!  I mentioned the odd steering, right?  With that jolt from running over the curb the driver's window fell down inside of the door with a loud bang.  

"What the hell??!!" 

I found a place to park in the pouring rain and pulled the door panel off to see what had happened.  Inside the door I found that the channel that guided the window up and down was completely rusted out and flopping around.  The mechanical crank mechanism was totally rusted and seized up.  At the bottom of the door was a piece of 2 x 4 that had been propping the window up.  After recovering from shock, I pushed the window back up and jammed the wood back into place.  I needed better weather to investigate that further.

During that same deluge I learned about the limitations of vacuum wipers.  That reality would come back to me while trying to pass a semi on I-5 in a driving rainstorm, but that's another story.

Chapter 6 ~ My Dad's Dream Come True

Due to the rough 3rd gear it was no time at all before I had checked out the large blue Chilton's Motor Repair Manual that included Volvo from the library and learned how to rebuild a transmission.  Other lurking issues came to light that darkened other select pages with my greasy fingerprints and taught me how to replace timing gears, rings, bearings, rods and valves.  My Dad, being a fan of Boeing Beaters, was amazing as he knew how to do all that stuff and was able to offer encouragement during my learning process.  Eventually, the jumpy speedometer cable broke altogether but not before I had learned that at 70 mph the loose front end vibrated so badly that the car drifted around on the asphalt.  Slow to below 70mph and it smoothed out just enough to track sort of straight.  The steering was still strange and sticky and if turned all the way to one side or the other had a tendency to lock up. 

Chapter 7 ~ Cruising Alki 

Then one summer night my buddy Berry and I were cruising at Alki in the Blue Beater with the driver's window in the "rolled-down" position.  Inspired by some truly hot cars, cool people and desperation to be a part of the scene I laid the biggest patch of my life.  I had visions of lighting up my white sidewall recaps and smoking the tires in a big U-turn across Alki Blvd.   What actually happened was the steering locked in a tight left turn punctuated by a barely audible chirp just prior to my 4.56 rear end meeting its maker.  The engine raced but the car continued in a tight turn coasting to a stop right there in front of God and everybody.  I wasn't sure what had broken but hoots, hollers and laughter filled my crimson red ears.  To the amusement of all Berry and I had to wrench the wheels straight by hand and then push my first car ½ block down the street to the first open parking spot.    

I needed a tow, so I called a guy I knew (Scott Taylor) who worked at a gas station that had a tow truck.  He said that he would tow me when he got off work for two cases of Rainier.  When he showed up he was already sloppy drunk and we figured that we would let him tow my car to his gas station while we safely made our way home by some other means.  He started lifting the front end of the car off the ground and when he got it about 3 feet in the air the cable broke dropping the Blue Beater hard onto the ground.  All of the spectators just laughed and Scott said that we would have to tow it with a chain.  He said that meant that he would have to drive very slowly and that I would have to ride in the car to steer and apply brakes.  Since he had said he would be driving very slowly I reluctantly agreed.  Berry crawled into passenger seat choosing my company over Scott's as the thought of having to talk to him for 12 miles was more than he could stand. 

 Chapter 8 ~ Fear and the Aroma of Tacoma 

Things started off badly with Scott driving well above the speed limit along Alki Blvd.  I couldn't see anything other than the back end of the tow truck, the brake lights and Scott's head.  He was driving next to the curb and when he swerved to the left I was horrified to see that I had to react fast to avoid plowing into a parked car.  With that, Scott turned and laughed through the back glass of the truck.   Twice more he pulled that stunt and I was expecting a respite at the stop sign where Alki Blvd. intersects with the Spokane Street Viaduct.  Berry and I had discussed jumping out when he stopped but he blew right though that stop sign.  Berry had his door unlatched and would have been pulled right out of the car when it swung open if not for the aftermarket seat belts I had installed.  Straightening out I fought the stiff steering of the Volvo for control. 

Scott seemed agitated as he kept turning to look out of his window and then to turn and look back at me and laugh.  The ride across the viaduct to I-5 was fast and Scott threw in a few unnecessary swerves just for the heck of it. 

I thought that the night air smelled a bit like puke and thought that Berry might have gotten motion sick with all of the swerving but whenever I glanced at him he was sitting stock-still hanging onto the dashboard for dear life and staring straight ahead.  His cigarette was dangling from his teeth as he had bitten through the filter of his Winston.  Maybe, I thought, I was smelling the bile raising up my own throat.  The smell came and went and I decided that it must be the aroma of Tacoma.   Since I had no way to close my window I couldn't do anything about it plus, I was busy trying to stay alive.  

 Chapter 9 ~ Freeway of Terror

Once on to I-5 north I wasn't sure whether to pray for a cop to chase us down or if Scott was unhinged enough to try to outrun him with me in tow.  He was moving his head back and forth and turning to laugh like a madman.  I knew the instant that we hit 70 mph as the front end started to shake and dance like never before.  I carefully drifted around behind the truck and I hadn't been so certain that I was going to die since that night at White Pass.  We passed cars left and right with me shaking along behind like a fish on a hook.  I determined that if I somehow survived, I was done with Volvos, the Boeing Beater philosophy and Scott Taylor.  He was dead to me. 

Chapter 10 ~ Safe at Last 

By the time we entered Montlake and Scott slowed to 30 mph I was physically and emotionally exhausted.  I couldn't believe that we were still alive.  When we pulled to the curb I got out with shaking knees and noted something sprayed on my fender and door.  As Scott stepped from the cab of the truck I was overcome with the smell of puke and realized that his head movement had been to facilitate his vomiting.  Berry rolled out of the Blue Beater and collapsed on the parking strip.  He laid there with a crushed cigarette filter still clenched between his teeth.  I gave Scott $15 for beer and told him to go drink it all up and die.

Shortly thereafter I learned how to rebuild the rear differential and got to dirty some new pages.

 Epilogue

 Just as there are no photos of my Uncle Jimmy there are none existing of my blue 1957 Volvo 444.  Both seem to be deemed unworthy of remembrance.  Every other car that I have ever owned shows up on those heavy black pages or has been scanned to my computer just like photos of every other aunt, uncle, niece, nephew and cousin.  Black and white or color.  No difference, they are all there other than that damned Volvo and Uncle Jimmy.  Like Uncle Jimmy, my first car wasn't to be trusted and like Uncle Jimmy it was an unreliable ne'er-do-well, ready to start a fight or steal a piggy bank. 

I am certain that somewhere on the shoulder of that endless afterlife highway, my broken-down 1957 Volvo 444 sits in the pouring rain with the hood up and the driver's window permanently down.  The speedometer is stuck at zero miles per hour.  The fender and door are streaked with puke so thick and vile that the torrential downpour can't wash it away.  Uncle Jimmy is sitting behind the wheel with rain drenched hair plastered to his head reading the blue Chilton's Motor Manual for Volvos and trying to figure out how to make it run.  He figures that if he just had a pair of vise grips he could fix it up, good as new.  

He's wrong.  My first car and Uncle Jimmy are broken down, faceless and together for all eternity.