BACK-SEAT VIEW OF MEMORY LANE
Shane’s fourth article for Drive, published 26 August 2011 (photo by Steven Siewert).
For many people, cars are just a mode of transport but to some, a car is something much more.
To a cab driver a car is an office, to an ambulance driver it’s a mobile hospital and to people like my mate Wayne Scott Kermond it’s a birthplace. Wayne was born in the back seat of a 1961 Chrysler Royal.
Wayne’s family was a touring group of vaudevillian entertainers and Wayne’s mother, Pamela, was nine months pregnant and still on tour in NSW when Wayne decided it was time to make his first appearance.
So Wayne’s father, Warren, pulled the Chrysler over to the side of the road and Pamela produced something more special than any production they had ever been a part of – their first child.
The other day, my mum and I started recalling some of our favourite memories of road trips. The first car and trip that came to mind was one in our old Mini at Easter. I was only three, my sister Kim was eight and my brother Clayton was 11.
We were all in the back ploughing through our chocolate eggs, apparently at no risk of putting on weight or having our teeth rot due to the fact that we had more of the chocolate on our face than we had in our mouth.
The day was as hot as hell and we each had a pillow. A scuffle broke out and one of the feather-filled pillows burst.
The only form of airconditioning in the Mini was the windows-down option, so the cabin was instantly turned into one of those money booths you see on game shows, except it was feathers not cash flying around – and we weren’t going to win anything.
The only element of suspense was whether dad was going to crash the car or throw us from it.
Dad pulled the car over to the side of the road and looked into the back to discover his three children now looked like oversized birds.
Our faces were completely covered in feathers that had stuck to our chocolate-coated noggins. Dad said we would have won any National Geographic fancy-dress party hands down.
Another time, we had so many people stacked inside the Mini that we got pulled over by a policeman. When he got to mum’s window, before anyone had a chance to say a word, I yelled from the back seat: “G’day, sexy legs.” My first run-in with the law was at age six.
The car was good enough to us but mum said there was a while when we had so little money we couldn’t afford to repair or replace the broken starter motor and for about six months, when I was about five years old, my siblings were at school and dad was at work, my job was to push the car fast enough so that mum could drop the clutch and get that pint-sized road princess to cough to life.
The more mum and I spoke about that old car, the more I missed it, because it was filled with our family’s stories. I would give anything to sit in that little black Mini just one more time with mum.
Both Wayne and I have good reason to talk about our love for our missing automotive family members but I wonder if the kids of today will feel the same way about the cars their parents drive? Yes, they’re reliable but in the old days a car’s character and charm often came from its failings.
Sure, in some cases it was a reliable workhorse or perfectly maintained classic and the family would rave about their chariot named Betty or Bess, but I think most of the stories that can get a family laughing during a Sunday roast are the yarns of an old beaten-up bomb that required constant love, attention, air, oil and water; one that will not be remembered for its shiny duco and tight gears but for its memories and tales.
God love old cars (but then again, I don’t think he did – after all, he gave his son a donkey). If you or someone you know has been reunited with a special car from their past, feel free to email me on info@shanejacobson.com.au or catch me on Facebook or Twitter.
