As I have mentioned in this space before, I love motorcycles.  I always have, and I know the reason why.  As a kid, I was not allowed to get anywhere near a motorcycle.  That is because my father wrecked a 1939 Indian Scout when he was thirteen years old.  He worked as a soda jerk at East Atlanta Pharmacy.  One of his buddies owned the Scout, and Daddy rode it home for lunch one day.  On the way back, he pulled out of Pendleton Street onto Gresham Avenue in front of a car.  The car hit him broadside, tore up the bike, knocked him cross-eyed (literally) and ended my chances of ever owning a motorcycle until I was old enough to buy one on my own.  It wasn’t the car’s fault, and it certainly wasn’t his fault for pulling out in front of the car.  It was the motorcycle’s fault.  Never mind that a thirteen year old should just be graduating from a Huffy to a Schwinn Flyer and not climbing onto an Indian Scout.  That didn’t matter.  Motorcycles became death traps with saddle seats and suicide clutches.  Which is why the next part of the story makes no sense…   

A friend of mine gave me a beat up Cyclops Mini-Bike sometime in the mid-70s.  It sat in the basement for years, and Daddy finally restored it.  It was beautiful.  It looked brand new.  It had a new seat, a new blue paint job, new foot pegs, grips and a brand spanking new 3.5 HP Briggs & Stratton engine.  I made the comment I’d like to take it over to my house and ride my 3 year old daughter up and down the street on it.  He sold it the next day.  Which is why the next part of the story makes no sense…  

My father loved airplanes.  I mean REALLY loved airplanes.  He built model planes from childhood through the rest of his life.  He raced control line model planes in the 50’s and early 60s, winning quite a number of trophies and titles along the way.  He began flying lessons in the spring of 1963 at the old Gunn Air Field on Panola Road in Lithonia.  One of the firemen Daddy worked with flew out of Gunn as well.  His name was “Meathouse”.  Don’t laugh.  That’s all I ever heard him called, and all I ever knew him by.  One day my father picked me up after school and took me out to Gunn.  We were going to ride in Meathouse’s Cessna with him and, whatever I did, don’t tell your momma.  We actually went up twice.  The second time I got to sit up front and we flew over Stone Mountain.  Meathouse let me hold onto the steering wheel by myself for a few minutes.  Straight flying, of course, no banking.  It was one of the greatest thrills of my life.  Later that fall at the Southeastern Fair, my father and I went up in a Bell 47 Helicopter, like the one on the TV show “Whirlybirds”.  I got a pair of wings and a card certifying me as a “Whirlybird”.  Both stayed on the bulletin board in the kitchen for years.  Which is why the next part of the story makes no sense…

After I was grown, Daddy told me that at supper the day we went up in Meathouse’s Cessna, I held my fingers about a quarter-inch apart and asked my mother,  “Momma, did you know from way up in the air a man on a tractor only looks this big?”  It didn’t happen at the table or in front of me but apparently she stomped a conniption on his head.  He said she let him know in no uncertain terms it was perfectly okay for him to kill himself, but not me.  When he told me that, it all fell into place.  In the years following, when we would go to the airport either at Gunn or Stone Mountain Airport, where other friends of Daddy’s had planes, we never went for a ride.  I would ask him when we were going to go up again, and never got much of an answer.  So, as far as my mother was concerned, it was perfectly okay for me to fly in a helicopter with my father and later, certainly okay to fly in an airliner to visit family in Dallas.  But absolutely under no circumstances was I ever again to go up with him in Meathouse’s Cessna.  Which is why the next part of the story makes no sense… 

As far as my father was concerned, it was perfectly okay to go flying in an airplane or whirlybird, but I had better not even smell the exhaust fumes of a motorcycle.  And all that did was make me want a bike even more.  When I finally got my hands on a Honda 550 Four when I was twenty one, my father informed me very loudly that I didn’t have have the sense God gave a jackass.  Then he about tore the door to the basement off the hinges before storming downstairs to smoke half a pack of cigarettes at once.  My mother jumped in with both feet, too.  She called me a day later and told me there was no way our insurance agent would insure me on a motorcycle.  Fine, I told her, I’ll go to Allstate.  My father got on the phone then.  Again I was informed that I didn’t have the intellectual capacity of a burro, but not in those exact words.  Which is why the next part of the story makes perfect sense, at least to me…

In 2013, I sold my house.  For Jackie’s birthday, we bought a Kia Sorento and went up in a 1941 Waco Biplane the very same day.  Jackie is a special woman, but it takes a VERY special woman to climb into a biplane, strap on a leather helmet and take off with you into The Wild Blue Yonder!  We took the hour long sunset flight over the north Georgia foothills.  It was worth every penny and more.  We flew out of McCollum Field, side by side in a dual cockpit.  The pilot’s name is Lee Kluger, and the web address is www.biplaneride.com.  I would highly recommend placing a ride on your bucket list and moving it to the top.  My father brought back a leather Navy flight jacket with him from The Pacific, and I wanted to wear it during the flight.  It was June, however, and hotter than blue blazes.  Lee pointed out the jacket would be really uncomfortable up in the air.  So, I held it in my lap, tightly.  I looked for a man on a tractor, but never saw one.  

So, the next thing on my bucket list is to put on the flight jacket.  I may look like Elvis in The Fat Years, but I won’t care.  I’m going to beg, borrow, rent or hell, maybe even buy a motorcycle.  And I’m going to take Daddy and myself for a long ride in the country, blissfully lacking the intellectual capacity of a burro… Still Cruisin’!  –J.             

Santa settled into his La-Z-Boy recliner after a fine dinner of Rare Who Roast Beast and potatoes specially prepared by Mrs. Claus.  Santa’s brother in law always said he didn’t know how Santa didn’t weigh five hundred pounds because Mrs. Claus could, beyond any stretch of the imagination, cook.  Meat, veggies, breads, cakes, pies, you name it.  She needed no recipes and always worked from scratch.  Her dressing and gravy which was served on the Black Friday Christmas Kick Off Dinner was the hit of the North Pole.  Santa always liked to make a dressing and gravy sandwich and watch his favorite football team, the Klondike Cowboys, play their arch-rivals, the Nanook Walruses, that night.  Mrs. Claus had a flawless complexion, large brown eyes and silver hair that was cut short and framed her beautiful face.  When Santa was visiting the old Rich’s store in Atlanta, he and Mrs. Claus would always stop by the Varsity Restaurant for chili dogs and onion rings.  The little children loved Mrs. Claus and they would point out to their Mommies there was Mrs. Claus.  Then they would stare at her, smiling and mesmerized.  She loved the little children too, and always reminded them to leave Santa Oreo cookies and milk.

Tonight was the night before Christmas Eve.  Santa sipped on his cup of cheer and turned on the Smart TV Sheldon the Science Elf had built for him to monitor the Santa Cams and get the Elf On The Shelf reports.  He flipped on The Weather Channel and immediately let out a loud groan.  “What’s the matter, Babe?” asked Mrs. Claus.  “Dagmar just reported that there’s a huge cold front and deep freeze blowing up from Missoula, Montana.  This is not good.  I’d better go check on the Little Saint Nick.”  

The Little Saint Nick was a custom ’32 Ford Deuce Coupe 375 Horse Chop Top Sleigh donated to Santa by the Still Cruisin’ Car Club.  It was Candy Apple Red with a black leather diamond tufted upholstered interior.  It sported Cragar Mag runners, chrome trim and an ample trunk for Santa’s Magic Bag.  She was ported and relieved and she was stroked and bored.  She’d do a hundred and forty with the top end floored.  And if that wasn’t enough to make you flip your lid, there’s one more thing… Santa had the Pink Slip, daddy!  She was powered by nine large block V-8 reindeer; Hemi, Cobra, Cleveland, Windsor, Six Pack, Holley, Hurst, Goodyear and Mopar, whose parking lights shined bright amber all the time.  These noble steeds were more than enough to get Santa quickly through his appointed rounds, although they did consume large amounts of Reindeer fuel.

Santa bundled up and went down to the Sleigh Barn.  There, under her cover, was the Little Saint Nick, polished and spit shined with Meguiar’s, ready for tomorrow night’s trip.  Santa checked her harnesses, runners and the propane heater under the seat.  Santa liked propane.  He actually preferred the taste of meat cooked over propane, but that’s another story altogether.  He checked on the reindeer.  They were all tuned up and under their blankets, ready to roll.

Santa closed up the barn and headed back up the hill to the toy factory.  He was tired and ready for bed.  He settled in for a long winter’s nap, and was snoozing away when he was woke with a start.  “Santa!  Santa!  Hate ta wake ya, but, ahhh, we got a problem!  We got us a full blown disaster!”  It was Elvis the Elf, Chief Elf.  All the other elves called him The King.  As Santa pulled on his long handles, snowsuit and boots, Elvis briefed him the news of The Disaster.  “Ah, Ah, Ah tell ya, Santa, things ain’t goin’ too well at all, man… th’ elves in th’ paint department put all th’ Peak Antifreeze in th’ paint to keep it from freezin’ ‘fore they put th’ last coat o’ paint on th’ toys t’morrah mornin’.  We ain’t got no more antifreeze, and the V-8 reindeer are all froze up.”  “Oh, boy,” sighed Santa.  “Well, thank you, Elvis… you always do a great job.”  “Wal, thankyasir,” said Elvis, “Thankyaverymuch…”  

Elvis trudged off to have himself a plate of fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches, and Santa sat down in the snow to contemplate Plan B.  He knew throwing in the towel was not an option.  Christmas Eve could not be cancelled.  This was his job, his responsibility.  The buck stopped here.  The problem was, he didn’t have a Plan B.  He’d never had to have a Plan B before.  Now he needed one, but Plan B’s need to be planned in advance.  That’s how they became Plan B’s.  Suddenly a small elf with a thick moustache and a gruff accent approached him.  “Guten evening, Santa,” said the elf.  “My name ist Verner von Wolfsburg.  I vurk in ze motor pool.  I could not help but overhear your malady, and I zink I may haft der solution.”  Santa looked at the little elf.  He seemed sincere, and at this point Santa was fresh out of answers and open to suggestions.  “All right, Verner, ” said Santa, “I’m all ears…”

“Zere is a garage not far from ze workshop here vhere a Panda Bus lives.  He und his brothers used to deliver kindergarten kinders from school to home und vice versa.  He’s long zince retired, but more zan capable.  Und ze best part is, he is air cooled. He cannot freeze up.”  “The air is freezing,” said Santa, “The Panda Bus will freeze up, regardless.”  “Nein, Nein!” protested Verner, “Ze engine vill heat ze air.  He vill run like ze scalded dog, jah!”  Santa realized he had little choice but to consider the option.  “All right, Verner.  Let’s go take a look at him.”  “Jah, Jah,” exclaimed Verner, and off they went.  

Not far away from The North Pole, they happened upon a small little garage and went inside.  There inside was a 1963 Panda Bear Transporter Microbus.  He had a Panda face painted on the front and  black and gray trim on the sides and back.  Inside, the back was open behind the two seats, with plenty of room for Santa’s Magic Bag.  He was not as shiny and flashy as the Little Saint Nick, but dapper and handsome just the same.  “Verner, I think this may just work out after all, ” exclaimed Santa.  “But tell me, how did a Panda Bus wind up here in The Arctic?”  “I zink zat zey followed ze Klondike Bars und Eskimo Pies, jah,” said Verner.  “Let’s get him back over to the Sleigh Barn and ready to ride,” said Santa, “but tell me, what will we use to pull him?  He doesn’t have enough power to get airborne by himself.”  “Ah, zir, I zought you vould never ask,” said Verner, and pulled open a door revealing eight tiny Volkswagen Beetles.  There was Ferdinand, Karmann, Split Window and Ferry; Sun Roof, Super Beetle, Cabrio and Ghia.  And lastly there was Schultz, a little red Cabriolet whose headlights lit up all the time.  Santa let out a long, loud and hearty laugh!  Christmas was going to be saved after all!!!

The Panda Bus was taken back to the Sleigh Barn and outfitted for the Christmas Eve Run.  A coat of unfrozen candy apple red paint was quickly applied to him and buffed out to a glistening shine.  Verner hooked the Reindeer Beetles together via tow bars, with Schultz and his headlights shining bright at the front.  He then secured the team to the lower torsion bar of the bus under the front bumper.  The propane heater was placed under the seat of the Panda Bus because being a Transporter Bus, it’s heater was of course only academic.  Finally, a beautiful wreath made by Mrs. Claus was hung on the front of the Panda Bus.  Santa’s Magic Bag, filled to the brim, was placed in the back.  Santa climbed in, gave a loud and hearty “HO, HO, HO!!!”  Schultz gave a “Beep! Beep” on his horn.  All nine of the Reindeer Beetle’s 40 horse engines sputtered to life and were soon humming like sewing machines!  It took them a while to build up the speed to get airborne.  But eventually they did and off they flew, to deliver Christmas toys to all the boys and girls of the world!  The Panda Bus had saved Christmas, and only consumed a portion of the fuel the V-8 Reindeer required… Still Cruisin’!  –J.    

 

If you were a Boomer and grew up in Atlanta, at Christmas you rode the Pink Pig Flyer at Rich’s Downtown.  I’m not sure what salmon colored swine have to do with Christmas, but it was a tradition just like decorating the tree, school plays and the Sears Wish Book.

Rich’s Downtown on Broad Street was the epicenter of shopping in Atlanta.  Not just during the Christmas season, but year round.  There was a bus stop at the end of our driveway in Gresham Park.  I remember getting on the bus with my mother, riding downtown to Rich’s for shopping and lunch at The Magnolia Room, and the bus dropping us off right in front of our house.  This was in the days before Wal-Mart, online shopping, gang warfare and muggings.  My friend Terri Johnson lived around the corner.  She and Sherry Thompson once told me that in high school, they would get on the bus, ride down to Rich’s to shop and their parents never thought twice about it.  As I said, these were different times.

We had our Senior pictures taken at Rich’s downtown.  You were mailed a card telling you a date and time to be at the photo department.  I’m not sure about the girls, but the only thing they specified for the boys was to wear a white shirt.  They had a rack full of different size black jackets. They put one on you that fit, stuck on a bow tie and Presto!  You’re wearing a tux in your picture.  I had a little bit of fuzz on my upper lip I was quite proud of, and the photographer told me it would show up in the picture.  He told me to take the elevator down to the men’s department and ask to borrow an electric razor.  So here I am walking through Rich’s wearing a bow tie, tux jacket, white shirt and blue jeans.  People kept coming up to me and asking me for information and I would have to inform them I did not work in the store.  I explained the situation to the gentleman at the men’s counter.  He gave me an electric razor, and I plugged it into an outlet on a support pole.  I groomed myself, with people walking by gawking and snickering, then went back upstairs and got my picture snapped.  

The lighting of The Great Tree on Thanksgiving Night kicked off the beginning of The Christmas Season in Atlanta.  A huge fir was brought in and mounted atop the four-story “Crystal Bridge” which connected the two Rich’s stores across Forsyth Street.  The video to the right shows the lighting of the tree in 1989.  Thousands would brave the elements to experience the spectacle.  The video obviously does not do it justice.

As a kid, you would go to Rich’s with your parents, visit Santa Claus and ride the Pink Pig Flyer.  The Pink Pig Flyer was introduced in 1953.  It was a train that ran on monorail that left from the building, went out atop the Crystal Bridge and around The Great Tree, back inside and and over the “Wonderland Of Toys” toy department.  You would get a cloth sticker to place on your overcoat confirming you had ridden The Pink Pig,  and that sticker would stay on your coat for the remainder of the winter.  

I read somewhere once that the Yuletide Porkers were purchased from a carnival.  There were two trains, one named Priscilla and the other Percival.  Priscilla had eyelashes and Percival did not, although today that would not mean anything.  They weren’t anatomically correct from the bottom, either.  I still remember being in the store and them rumbling by overhead.  Even then, it was novel to see a train with the smiling countenance of a pig running on the ceiling.  On the back of the Flyer was a big curly-cue tail.  Oink, Oink.  

It was also not unusual to run into someone you knew in The Wonderland of Toys.  When I was ten or eleven, I was there with my parents and as Priscilla passed overhead I heard someone call, “Jimmy!”  I looked up and it was my friend Richard from school, waving at me from the window seat.

I actually rode the Pink Pig Flyer again as an adult.  At some point in the eighties, The Flyers were moved out of the building altogether and onto the roof.  They went around the Great Tree, and I took my daughter to ride it.  I squeezed in with her, as did the dad with his daughter in front of us.  The train lumbered across the roof and around the tree.  About halfway through the ride, I tapped Dad in front of me on the shoulder and said, “Is it me, or was this thing was a lot bigger when I was a kid?”  He couldn’t even turn around because his head was wedged against the window, but he said “Yes, it was a lot bigger then.  Much bigger, actually.”  My daughter wasn’t disappointed, but I have to say I was.  We rode it during the day.  It just wasn’t the same as going out onto the Crystal Bridge at night, back inside and over The Wonderland of Toys.

Rich’s Downtown closed in 1991.  The Flyers were moved to the Festival of Trees at the Atlanta World Congress Center, another wonderful Christmas experience gone by the wayside.  The monorail was installed on the ceiling, and Priscilla and Percival made a grand loop above the trees of the world.  My daughter and her friend got to ride the Flyers there several times, so I am happy that she got to enjoy a similar experience we knew as children. 

After the Festival of Trees was discontinued, the original Pink Pig Flyers were donated to the Atlanta History Center.  A new ride featuring a little train that runs on tracks on the ground was opened up under a tent in the parking lot of Macy’s at Lenox Square.  The train is shaped and painted like a pink pig.  I have never seen it, nor do I care to.  It is not The Pink Pig.  It never will be.  I’m sorry, but that’s how I feel… Still Cruisin’!  –J. 

…except me.  I cannot roller skate.  I never have been able to roller skate.  I was always able to pretty much play any sport I wanted and do reasonably well at it, but roller skating was the one thing that was like liver.  Try as I might, I could never get it down.  

Like a lot of kids, I got a pair of roller skates like the ones pictured here for Christmas one year.  I lived on a big hill, so going down the street was a breeze.  It was coming back up that was the problem.  I would push and push and never get rolling.  So, I would sit down on the curb and take the stupid things off, run back up the hill, strap them back on and fly back down again.

Then, in the mid-sixties skateboards came along.  Like everything else, skateboards were different then than they are now.  They weren’t fancy fiberglas jobs with custom wheels and ball bearings.  You cut out a piece of board, took the wheels off of your roller skates and screwed them to the bottom of the board.  Then, you painted the board up with a Racing Stripe, Surfer’s Cross and/or Rat Fink and boom!  Down the hill, pick up the board, run back to the top.  Or, one foot on the board, motor back up the hill using the other foot… Surf City!

Then, the teenage years came along.  As everyone knows, the skating rink is a favorite gathering spot for adolescents.  The Rainbow Roller Rink was the one that was in the closest proximity for Walker, Southwest DeKalb and Lithonia High Schools.  A friend and I went to Rainbow one Saturday night, and I had forgotten the fact that when I attempted to roller skate, I looked like a mule going up a ladder.  Besides, I was a kid then.  Now, I was sixteen, invincible and played football, for Pete’s sake!  Surely I could handle something as simple as roller skating…

The guy in the video to the right looks like me on a pair of skates, but he’s better.  I have to give him credit, he tries to do a spin and falls.  I would fall for no apparent reason, and never once attempted a spin.  I was doing my best to try and stay upright.  The only time I did a spin was when some kid hit me and I did a 360 before landing on my butt.  

Girls from Walker were laughing and pointing at me.  Girls I didn’t even know from Southwest DeKalb and Lithonia were laughing and pointing at me.  When you are sixteen years old and girls are laughing and pointing at you, it is traumatic.  At least the girls from Southwest DeKalb and Lithonia wouldn’t laugh and point at me on Monday morning at school, like the Walker girls.  

A few times a group of us went skating at the old Igloo Ice Skating Rink on Roswell Road in North Atlanta.  I liked that better because nobody could ice skate, so nobody laughed and pointed at me.

Fast forward twenty years, and we had gone to visit family in Mississippi for Thanksgiving.  On the day after, we all went roller skating.  Again, time had blurred the fact that I could not skate.  I had learned to water ski my Senior year in high school, for Pete’s sake!  Surely I could handle roller skating…

Out on the floor there he was again, old Francis The Talking Mule trying to go up a ladder.  Only this time little kids were laughing and pointing at me, even my own eight year old daughter who was skating circles around me.  Literally.  My ten year old nephew flew between my legs on one skate, causing me to lose my balance.  Flailing like an octopus falling out of a tree, I went down on my backside.  Even my wife was laughing at me.  She could, because she was skating like Tonya Harding without a tire iron.  My daughter told me she was going to “teach me to skate” and tried to help me.  But after I body checked the wall, I figured I’d better pack it in before I broke something.  And I didn’t mean skating rink property, although that was a distinct possibility.  I limped over to the People Who Don’t Know How To Skate Safe Place and watched college football on TV.

Fast forward to the present time.  My eight year old nephew has a skating party on his birthday every year, and it’s coming up soon.  The rink is right around the corner from the house, and there is a hospital nearby.  I’ve hit a hole in one from 125 yards with a 56º sand wedge, for Pete’s sake!  Surely I can handle roller skating… Still Cruisin’!  –J. 

 

Happy Thanksgiving, Everyone!!!  I am thankful for each and every one of you, and for the ability and opportunity to share my artwork and my thoughts with you all.  

And, since today is Turkey Day, I’d like to celebrate The Turkey.  I have compiled a list of The Top Ten Turkeys Of All Time.  These ten are strictly my opinion, with very little or no scientific research.  Here goes: 

10.  The Ford Edsel:  The Edsel was hyped by Ford as “The Car Of The Future”.  But, it was ill received by the public and only produced for three model years.  Its name has become synonymous with corporate failure. 

9.  The Pontiac Astre/Chevrolet Vega:  I actually like the original Vega design.  Chevrolet re-designed it in ’74, which was a mistake.  Pontiac cloned it as The Astre.  It even featured the Vega’s all aluminum engine.  Gobble, Gobble. 

8.  The Ford Pinto:  I drove a Pinto for about a year before the shifter and the transmission fell out.   Literally.  The guy that bought it replaced the shifter with a motorcycle foot peg.  Much has been written about the Combustion Capabilities of these cars.  Deep Fried Turkey. 

7.  The Volkswagen Thing:  Being a VW Guy, I actually like the Thing and really wouldn’t mind having one.  But, facts are facts, and the fact is the Thing rolled off the line in Wolfsburg and hit the ground like a bag of wet cement.  This Turkey was only available in the States for three years before going the way of the Dodo. 

6.  The Dodge Aspen:  Mopar has built some incredible cars over the decades.  This wasn’t one of them.  The Aspen and its sister car, the Plymouth Volare, were introduced to replace the Dart and failed miserably.  It only lasted four model years, from ’76 to ’80 and then, thankfully, went away.  At one point Dodge tried to market it with an R/T package, which was like putting lipstick on a pig.  Or, in this case, a Turkey.

5.  The Ford Mustang II:  Ford might have Had A Better Idea, but that certainly wasn’t the case here.  I really don’t know what they were thinking.  I personally refuse to even count it in the proud history of The Mustang.  I realize we were running out of gas in 1974, but surely they could have come up with a better design than this.  They took the Mustang and turned it into a gelding.  Actually, a Turkey.

4.  The AMC Pacer:  Ah, the Pacer.  I remember looking through a magazine when I was 16 and seeing an article featuring drawings of the car designs of the future.  The Pacer was one of them.  I realize they actually made limos out of them and one was in Wayne’s World, but this poor car resembled a rolling Easter Egg.  Gobble Till You Wobble! 

3.  The Ford Granada:  Ford is on a roll here.  My parents traded a 1972 Caprice, a land yacht with some sense of style and elegance, for one of these things which had all the style and elegance of a cardboard box.  I think the one they owned may have possibly been the worst car ever built.  It was beige with a burgundy vinyl top, a burgundy interior and a six-cylinder engine I think Ford had built in Outer Slobovia.  It would cough and wheeze like a three pack a day man getting out of bed in the morning before it finally got up to speed.  If you consider 45 mph up to speed. 

2.  The Yugo:  To quote a saying I once heard by Atlanta radio legend Gary McKee, “Do you know the difference in a Yugo and a Jehovah’s Witness?  You can shut the door on a Jehovah’s Witness.” 

1.  The Triumph TR-7:  There have been some real brain farts in the automotive industry throughout the ages, but this is The Triple Flutterblast.  For some reason known only to Lord knows who, the geniuses at British Leyland decided in 1974 to replace the TR-6, direct descendent of the TR-250, two of the greatest roadsters ever built, with this thing.  The ads billed it as “The Shape Of Things To Come.”  Apparently the Shape Of Things To Come was a door stopper.  I refuse to even call it a turkey.  It’s an insult to The Turkey.

So there are my Top Ten Turkeys.  This list is only partial, as there are many more Toms and Hens out there that did not make the cut.  Honorable mentions go to the Geo Metro, the Cadillac Cimarron and the Chevy Chevette.  If I have stepped on any toes, I am sorry.  Rebuttals, harrumphs and hear hears are welcome!  

I sincerely hope everyone has a safe and happy holiday filled with family, friends, warmth and cheer.  Bless you all, each and every one!  Still Cruisin’!  –J.

In the 1950’s, as the suburbs of Atlanta moved east, several family playgrounds sprang up.  There was Misty Waters in Decatur, Glenwood Hills across from East Lake Golf Club, and Clifton Springs in Gresham Park.  Mr. Frank Weaver owned and operated Clifton Springs.  It was built in the early 1950’s, and flourished into the early 70’s.  It featured a 1 acre swimming lake, complete with a large white sand beach, a dock in the middle with a 3/4 diving board, and a 20 foot platform with two levels and a diving board at the top.  Trust me, the diving board at the top was not for the faint of heart.  There was also an 18 hole Par 3 golf course, a driving range, a bowling alley, and a miniature golf course.  There was a children’s area featuring a small carousel, a Briggs and Stratton powered ferris wheel and a miniature train that ran through the woods.  My father and uncle laid the tracks for the miniature train.  In later years the bowling alley became a slot car track. 

Clifton Springs was Gresham Park Beach.  There was sand, there was water, and we played in both.  There were transistor radios and teenage girls in bikinis.  As far as my 7 year old mind knew, it was the beach.   My parents and I would go there Saturday mornings or Sunday afternoons, have lunch at one of the picnic tables in the shade, and lounge on a blanket on the sand.  I would play in the water with all the other kids that were there, with my father standing guard near the rope that separated the shallow end from the deep end.  

I remember the first time I ever saw the ocean for real.  I was 8 years old, and we were on our way to Fort Pierce, Florida to visit my cousins.  This was before I-75 and The Sunshine Parkway, and we were traveling down US 1.  We stopped at Daytona Beach.  I remember vividly running out, diving in the water, and the shock of the salt hitting my eyes, nose and mouth.  I thought I was diving into the water back up at Clifton Springs.  I had no idea the ocean was salt water.  Imagine how I felt when I found out that the moon wasn’t really made out of green cheese.

As we grew older, we would ride our bikes to Clifton Springs, or our parents would drop us off.  I think it cost 50¢ to swim all day, and we didn’t have to sign any waivers or releases.  Remember, this was a different place and time.  Mr. Weaver would put your belongings in an individual wire basket behind the counter, then give you a colored cloth tag to pin onto your swimsuit.  A different color for each day.  You would walk past the jukebox room where all the hoods hung out, smoking cigarettes in their teardrops.  At the gate one of the lifeguards, John or Tommy Morrison or Pat Sammons, checked your cloth tag.  Then you were in, off to the docks and the diving boards.

Growing up in Gresham Park, in the summer you were one of two places, the ball park or Clifton Springs.  Either place was jam packed every day.  For many of us, our first exposure to golf was at Clifton.  The tee boxes were concrete with black rubber mats.  It was also lighted so you could play at night.  The first time I ever played golf was at Clifton at night with Andy Shook, my friend who lived across the street.  We were twelve, and shared his brother Ronnie’s clubs.  Miraculously, we didn’t break any of them.

And then, of course, there were the cars.  You drove down the hill to the lake, and there was a driveway across the dam, atop the wall behind the beach, into the parking lot behind the clubhouse, and back up the hill.  There was always a steady stream of cars around the driveway.  The thing to do was to cruise the Dairy Queen on Gresham Road, pull into McDonald’s two doors down, check things out there, then head down to Clifton to cruise the beach. The picture here is circa 1968 and the driveway is clearly visible.  Also visible are the two docks, the carousel, the miniature golf course, the bowling alley and of course, the clubhouse.  Look closely and you can also see the diving boards on the two docks.  

Time marches on, and things change.  Misty Waters became an apartment complex.  Glenwood Hills became a subdivision.  Clifton Springs survived, at least the golf course, into the late 80’s.  The swimming lake was shut down and drained by 1978.  They built a big, new swimming pool behind the gym in Gresham Park.  It was a nice pool, but it wasn’t Clifton Springs.  It never could be.  Clifton Springs was a time and place gone forever.  

Bobby Willis, a local sports hero who played for the Atlanta Crackers, bought the golf course in the mid 80’s.  He cleared out the lake, re-filled it and built an island green on it.  It was about a 135 yard shot from the tees which were located in the middle of where the parking lot used to be.  And no, the green was not easy to hit.  I played in a couple of leagues there, and won my first golf trophy for 3rd place in the 1986 “B” division.  It is the one golf trophy I could never part with.  Not because it was my first, but because it is from Clifton Springs.

A megachurch bought the property in the early 90’s, but you can still see some of the tees and greens.  And the lake is still on the property, at the back behind the church.  It makes me happy to know it is still there, but I wish I could make one more lap in my convertible down the hill, across the dam, around the wall and through the parking lot… Still Cruisin’! –J.

   

We visited our friend Mary last weekend at her mountain home in Linville, North Carolina.  It was a wonderful trip, relaxing and invigorating at the same time.  I love the mountains.  There is a peace there you will not find anywhere else.  The reds, yellows, purple and oranges are an impressionist’s dream.  I think we hit the leaves at just about the perfect time.  A local gentleman selling firewood told us that due to the unseasonably warm temperatures, the leaves were peaking a little later than usual.

Mary took us into Blowing Rock, a wonderfully funky little art community which I definitely would like to spend some more time exploring.  She also took us into Boone, Valle Crucis and Banner Elk.  For me, however, the pièce de résistance was a ride on the Blue Ridge Parkway.  

I love driving in the mountains.  The curves, hills and views are unlike anything else.  Of course, a lot of it depends on the vehicle you are driving.  You do not want to take a 2000 Lincoln Continental into the mountains.  Trust me on that one.  Something small and quick, now you’re talking.  A mile down the parkway and I was longing for my ’99 Cabrio.  We saw plenty of Mini Coopers, Miatas and Porsches, and Mary’s Mercedes Crossover handled the hills and curves beautifully.  There were also motorcycles… LOTS of motorcycles.  And, all of the bikes appeared to be operated by riders with common sense and courtesy.  Not like the Knuckleheads on I-20 and I-285.

I had heard about the Blue Ridge Parkway, but really did not know anything about it.  Believe it or not, I have led somewhat of a sheltered life.  Now, as soon as the laughter subsides, I will elaborate.  In my lifetime, I have not traveled very much.  I have lived in Georgia my whole life, and up until I met Jackie I had never been to Savannah.  We went to the Indy 500 a few years ago.  That was the first time I had been further north than Tennessee.  I have been to the U.K. three times, the Bahamas twice.  I went to Mexico once, and that was enough.  I spent a lot of time in Dallas, Texas growing up, and that is pretty much it.  I have never been to our Nation’s Capitol.  I have never seen Maine, Alaska or Rock City.  These are all things on my Bucket List.

And now added to The List is driving the Blue Ridge Parkway.  It runs for over 450 miles across 29 counties in North Carolina and Virginia.  The picture here, borrowed from good old Wikipedia, is of Grandfather Mountain and is part of the Parkway we traveled.

There are some parts of the world you simply have to see from the ground level.  Route 66 comes to mind, although a lot of it is vanishing.  Mt. Rushmore,  The Grand Canyon and The Hoover Dam seem to me to be things that you simply cannot fully grasp their majesty unless you are standing right in front of them.  Another of my Bucket List items is to take the train to Washington. D.C.  I think it has something to do with missing out on the School Patrol Trip when I was twelve.  Jackie once asked me, “Were you a Patrol?”  I busted out laughing.  “Me??  No, I was one of the kids the Patrols were always yelling at,” I replied.

My dream vacation, however, is fairly simple.  I would like for us to fly into Boston and catch a Red Sox game at Fenway.  Then, rent a car and drive up through New England to Maine.  Stay in the B&B’s along the way.  Talk with the locals and take in the fare.  Really experience the beauty of the country.  Take a couple of weeks so nothing is rushed.  Follow one route up and another  one back.  A Southern Boy and Belle in The Green Mountains… Still Cruisin’!  –J.     

 

 

 

There is an old saying, “To Be Old and Wise, You Must First Be Young and Stupid.”  I’ve got half of the first part down, but I absolutely nailed the second part.  Google “Young and Stupid” and you’ll get a picture of a fresh faced me, complete with a Wikipedia article.  And nothing proves the depths of my youthful stupidity more than Thrill Hill.

Thrill Hill was a hill that we used to fly over back during our Secondary Education days.  And when I say fly over, I literally mean fly.  I had a 1971 Pinto that would get airborne going over the hill.  I’m not going to divulge the name of the street because I don’t want to encourage such behavior, but those that were there back in that place and time know exactly where it is.  And yes, it’s still there.  

The hill is at the end of a street in East Atlanta about a half a mile long.  If any street in the world ever needed speed breakers, it’s this one.  You would start on the end off of the main road and give it the gas.  There were a few small hills and right before the big hill, a stop sign at a three-way intersection.  The stop sign was pretty much ignored, especially on a full speed run.  You would hit the crest of the hill at about 45 mph, and your stomach would leap into your throat.  You then immediately had to hit the brakes hard, because the street dead ended into another street about 100 yards from the crest of the hill.  

We would go over this thing all the time, sometimes circling around and making about 10 or 15 passes.  I don’t think there were ever any wrecks there, but it’s a miracle no one was killed.  Especially me.  And anyone who happened to be in my car, laughing hysterically and/or shrieking with glee, I apologize for putting your lives in danger.  Heaven help us if a car was coming the other way, but that was never taken into consideration.  

As I said, I had a ’71 Pinto that would get airborne.  Pintos may have blown up when they were rear ended, but they were perfectly designed for Thrill Hill.  Hit the hill at 45, the car would fly over the crest and come down on a smooth two-point landing, the back tires chirping as they hit the ground.  A.C. Kile lived in the house at the very end of Thrill Hill.  It is a miracle I never ended up in A.C.’s driveway, garage or back yard, for that matter.  Another friend lived at the very top of the hill.  I spent the night at his house a few times, and we could hear other Scholarly Youngsters going over the hill all night long, hooting and hollering. 

On one of our first dates, Jackie and I went to shoot pictures at Oakland Cemetery.  Afterwards, we went across the street to Tin Lizzies.  Several margaritas later we left, and on the way home my Cabrio, top down and all, took a detour down Thrill Hill Street.  I didn’t hit the hill full stride as I did back in my prime, but I did run the stop sign and go over at a pretty good clip.  We didn’t become airborne but definitely got the sensation.  Old and Wise, my foot.  It’s a wonder we didn’t toss our margaritas.

Maybe one day I’ll load up my grandsons in the Bug and take them over Thrill Hill.  I’ll be sure and take them to The Varsity afterwards and not beforehand, however… Still Cruisin’!  –J.

I have often waxed nostalgic in the space about the cars from the time and place in which we grew up.  With the exception of Jackie’s Bug, the cars I have pontificated about and fawned over up to this point have all been Boy’s Cars.  So today, Car Talk is going to cover a subject without which any automotive discussion would be incomplete.  I’m talking about The Girl’s Cars.  

A lot of young ladies back in The Wonder Years drove a lot of cool cars.  Some were hot rods, some were elegant, some were funky.  Here are a few…

I have to start with Jan Stowe.  Jan lived in the neighborhood, and drove a little blue Sunbeam Alpine.  She would blast past us with her long black hair flying in the wind, toot her horn and wave at us.  And we would sit there on our bicycles, prepubescent boys with our mouths hanging open, staring blankly and attempting weakly to wave back.

Debbie Moore had a beautiful white 1966 T-Bird.  It had all the controls you could want; air conditioning, power windows, power locks, power seats, and was from a time when such luxuries were not standard equipment.  Debbie came from a T-Bird family.  At one point her parents had His and Hers ’59 models, one white and one baby blue.  

Speaking of blue, the beauty shown above belonged to Cissy Blalock.  A Cobalt Blue 1969 Pontiac Firebird with a white vinyl top, the car exuded Beauty And Style.  But, you also could tell that if needed, she had the horses to get up and go.  Penny and Pam Carter had a blue 1969 Chevelle, and Angie Shook drove a metal flake blue ’68 GTO.

Melody Baer drove a 1955 Dodge Royal Lancer, a beautiful car that combined styling, luxury and power.  Gail Bryant had a 60’s model Chrysler New Yorker that was as big as a football field.  That was the first car I had ever seen with a push button transmission.

Jackie’s sister Wanda drove a VW as well, a ’67 with a non-functioning wiper motor.  Being a Stokes girl, she tied a shoestring to a wiper blade arm, ran it back through the passenger vent window and tied it to the Holy Shit bar.  When it rained, she would pull back and forth on the shoestring, thus making the wipers functional.  Sharon Dodd had a white ’66 VW she bought from Jackie’s dad.  Stacey Ennis drove a gold Bug similar to Jackie’s before graduating to a red MG Midget.  Debbie Boatenreiter had a Karmann Ghia, as did Pat McGee and Jeanne Beyer.

Debbie Holmes drove a 1969 Camaro that was a ground pounder.  Yellow with a white top, four speed transmission, Cragar mags and Goodyear tires, this car was built for Smoke City.  Deb drove it, too… She got three separate letters from the Georgia DMV warning her that she had accumulated a certain number of points from speeding tickets and her license was in danger of being revoked.  She was very proud of those letters.  They were framed and hung on the wall in her room.  Her mother was appalled, and I’m sure Deb is thrilled I’m sharing this with all of you now.  Peggy Frazier drove a yellow Comet GT, and used to burn rubber with the boys in the parking lot.  Tina Ward had a beautiful silver 1969 Dodge Charger with black panel stripes on the back.  Ellen Carlan had a ’69 Charger as well, blue with a white top and white panels.

And what Red Blooded American Walker boy could ever forget Joan Garrison in that red 1970 Datsun 240Z of hers?  One day I was at South DeKalb Mall visiting my cousin Peggy, who worked there.  Joan had stopped by to see Peggy as well.  I needed a ride home, and Joan offered to give me a lift.  It was a ride I will never forget.  She hit the entrance ramp to I-20 and floored it.  It was summertime and the windows were down.  She was talking away to me with that blonde hair flying.  I happened to look over at the speedometer and we were running 100 mph.  At 5pm on I-20 in between Candler and Flat Shoals.  I’m sitting there trying to look cool, but these were the days before seat belts.  In reality, my butt had grown fingers that were clamped to the bottom of the seat.  We made it home, and now I realize that it was like a thrill ride at Six Flags.  Scared the crap out of me, but I loved it!  Tearing down the expressway in a red sports car with a beautiful girl at the wheel?  That’s the stuff dreams and songs are made of… Still Cruisin’!  –J.

 

 

 

1955 Dodge Royal Lancer

I am writing this week’s Car Talk from Panama City Beach, Florida.  My stepson Lars and his wonderful fiancé Carrie are getting married today at 5 pm, on the beach.  I have been thinking a lot the last few days (weeks, months actually) about the beach and how I could not wait to get here. And, of course, now that I am here, I want to stay.  I watched the sunset from our balcony last night and started thinking about one of my all-time favorite bands, The Beach Boys. 

A true American success story, the Beach Boys started as a garage band at the dawn of the 1960’s.  Three brothers, Brian, Carl and Dennis Wilson, cousin Mike Love and their buddy Al Jardine became one of the most enduring and legendary American bands of all time. 

Early on, they hit on a musical formula focusing on surfing, cars and girls which the Baby Boomers, 70 million strong, took to like bees to honey.  Teenagers themselves, The Beach Boys became one of the core groups along with Jan and Dean, The Hondells and a host of others, to form what became known as The California Myth.  This embodied the wide eyed and unbridled optimism of youth, before Vietnam, LBJ, and civil upheaval turned the 60’s into The Sixties.  

Brian Wilson, bassist for the group, was the creative genius behind the band, creating the beautiful three and four part harmonies the band was famous for, as well as writing or co-writing and producing virtually all of the music.  He would quit touring in 1965, working solely in the studio while a young guitarist named Glen Campbell toured with the band in his place.  Brian would lay down and mix all of the instrumental tracks, and the band would then come in and record the vocal harmonies over the music.  

Brian collaborated with songwriter Gary Usher and L.A. disk jockey Roger Christian to write some of the Beach Boys most famous songs, the Car Songs.  These tracks included “409”, “Little Deuce Coupe”, “Shut Down” and “Don’t Worry, Baby”, to name a few.  Christian knew more about cars than Brian, so he wrote the lyrics and Brian wrote the music.  Murry Wilson, the brothers Dad and initial manager did not like Usher or Christian and clashed with them often.  According to the biographies I have read, Murry did not like much of anybody at all, including his own sons.

An interesting factoid; of all the Beach Boys, Dennis was the only one who actually knew how to surf.

It all changed in 1966 with the release of the album “Pet Sounds”.  The band, Brian in particular, was ready to explore new areas and stretch into the musical directions and movements of the times.  Though initial response to the album was lukewarm, it is now recognized as one of the most important works of the rock genre, influencing bands from The Beatles to Radiohead.

My daughter Dana loved The Beach Boys when she was little.  How could she not?  Dad played their music all the time, in the pool and in the car.  Her favorite song was the beautifully haunting “In My Room”.  We saw them in concert in 1989, at the old Atlanta Fulton County Stadium.  It was one of those concerts I still remember vividly.  Our seats were right down front, and the original band, except for Brian, was playing.  They did all of the old favorites, the surfing songs, “California Girls”, “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” and “Sloop John B” from the Pet Sounds album.  It was Dana’s first concert; she and I got on the matrix board.  They sounded great, the harmonies were still there.  And, of course, they did the Car Songs… Still Cruisin’!  –J.