A Boy's Memory of Cars

I once spent a day as my father (James Deane) reminisced about his boyhood memories of automobiles owned by his parents. So, we made a list. Where possible, I have inserted a picture of the named vehicle. This first picture on the left is a family photo. The boy is George Hanes Jr., a cousin. His nickname was Buster. 

Dad lived in Kinzua, Pennsylvania during the years mentioned below, He said the following:

At age five, the first car I remember was my family’s 1919 Model T Touring car. Mother was always the driver because of my Father's amputation. We bought new cars frequently.

At age 6, we had a 1919 Overland, made by Willys."

This next photograph is the Overland. From left to right, are George Hanes Sr. James Deane, his brother Oliver (Buddy), his father Frank and mother Mary. She is pregnant with her next baby, Roger Carl Deane. 

"By the time I was age 7 we had a 1920 Oakland, not to be confused with the Overland. The Oaklands were manufactured in Pontiac, Michigan. The following year we had a 1923 Oakland. After this they became the Pontiac Motor Company.

At age 9  we had our first Studebaker. It was a 1923 “Phaeton” and had pull down isinglass curtains, sort of like window shades, but made of Mica. These were in the ceiling and attached at the door, and helped cut down on the wind or kept the weather out. The following year we had a 1925 Studebaker, “Dictator” sedan. I wish they still made Studebakers. They're one of my favorite cars.

When I was eleven we got 1927 Hupmobile, sedan. It was made by the Hupp Motor Car Company from Detroit. We didn't have to pay a dime for it. There was a contest. Whoever sold the most subscriptions to the Warren Times Mirror would win. My mother knew a lot of people and was very well liked. She also was wrote articles for the newspaper occasionally. She sold the most subscriptions, and won the Hupmobile. Unfortunately, we could only keep the car for three months. There were financial problems and it had to be sold.

At age 12  we had a 1928 Studebaker, “President” sedan. We kept it until it was junk. Maybe that's why I like Studebakers.
We also had a 1927 Ford which was originally Grandpa George Frank Dean's car.

Cries with Cop

I started to cry while driving on the freeway. I have no idea why. It wasn't simply that sense of tears starting to spring that you can hold back with a tightness in the throat. No, this came from somewhere deep. Like a volcano wanting to break loose. Tears unbidden. Tears with plans of their own.

I knew I had to get off the freeway as soon as possible to avoid being a danger to others. I can drive while crying. I've done it before. Haven't we all? It wasn't even a matter of understanding why I felt so sad.

There was an exit up ahead a couple miles, but I had to pull over right there and then.  I had the flashers on so that other drivers would at least notice I was on the side of the road. Not wanting to break down sobbing, I was looking around for some tissues, and thereby noticed from the rear view mirror, a vehicle coming up on me  from the rear. A police vehicle. Oh dear, oh yuck, oh %^*&! Can I get a traffic ticket for having pulled over on the freeway without having a flat tire of overheated engine? I would soon find out.

Officers in this area frequently come up to the passenger side of the car to talk to the driver, because the danger of a high speed vehicle clipping them while passing too closely. Therefore when the officer came to my door, I opened it so he could lean in. It was just beginning to sprinkle.

He took one look at me, and I noticed in his eyes a flicker of recognition. He knew instinctively that this wasn't a stalled car problem. Maybe he was thinking, a crying woman, Oh no, oh yuck, oh %^*&!". But he said with concern, "Are you all right, Ma'am?"

I didn't know what to say. (I just started crying for no reason, officer, over nothing?) No, I didn't say that. I lied. Okay, maybe not a full lie, a little white lie. I told him my mother died last year... and a bit of overwhelming grief struck me while driving... and I thought it would be safer for me to pull over to calm down. He said some comforting words, and to get me out of danger of the traffic, he followed me to the next exit.

Maybe it is true after all. Maybe I am missing my mother. She was 87 when she died a couple years ago. She was my best supporter, and loved to me read anything I might have written. A letter, a poem, a story, one of my opinionated pieces or a journal page about my cats. She would have liked this posting to know a caring cop had stopped to help her daughter. She would have understood how tears and sadness come from nowhere, with no known reason. She would have understood my white lie.

Please note:  I love to take pictures of vintage cars. The last picture is of my Mom in our 1955 Nash Rambler.