Gene Carter, Cars I Have Loved, Part 1

Gene Carter, 1960

From childhood, I loved cars. The first one I remember was a pre-war 1941 Pontiac stick shift coupe called the Brown Bomb by my friend Gary Byrd. Next, we had a 1947 Chrysler Windsor, which was followed by a 1950 Pontiac Chieftain, featuring an illuminated hood ornament of a Native American in headdress. I learned to drive on a Ford tractor. At my urging, we acquired a 1957 Chrysler Saratoga. I wanted fins and urged spending the extra $25 for twin headlights on each side.  I was fascinated with a power antenna I’d seen on a Cadillac, which the dealer added for $35.

We drove the 1957 Chrysler (at left) to Oklahoma to visit relatives.  A young rider lost control of her horse inside the Oklahoma City limits on the US highway.  The horse reared, plunging through our windshield with hooves on both sides of the car.  The shredded safety glass fell on my jeans instead of my mother’s legs, as she happened to be in the rear seat. Range law prevailed, so it was our problem to fix the car that Jim Farrington called the Gray Ghost.  The power antenna was at a right angle.  I retrieved it and made an electric microphone stand powered by my train transformer.

 Our 1960 Chrysler Imperial Crown (at right) was named the Blue Bathtub by Andy Lambert.  My mom drove me to college in Chicago and would be alone on the return, so she wanted a large heavy car. Besides, I had lots of junk to take to college. Automobile designer Virgil Exner went wild with Chrysler Corporation styling in the early 60’s, and the Imperial arguably was the nuttiest – tail lights hanging from inside the fins, free- standing head lights, a squared off steering wheel, a built in higher back for the driver, and a weight of three tons.  An exec told me that a new Chrysler CEO was able to countermand two tail lights on the right side of the 1961 Plymouth design and three on the left.  Whatever. 

We were not allowed cars at college until senior year if we lived on campus, and I was cheap. But I saved summer and job earnings on campus, and my parents kicked in half, so I ordered and flew from Chicago to the Detroit factory in the fall of 1963 to get a 318 cu. cm. 1964 Plymouth Fury convertible, with dorky black wall tires. The $40 extra for whitewalls seemed wasteful after $2,820 for the car.  The Fury had a PLASTIC rear window, a mistake I should have avoided after cracking one in late 1959 hauling Kay Brinnon around the field for Homecoming.  (The event was my excuse to borrow five convertibles from local dealers. To be clear, her WEIGHT was not the issue, and, yes, I had several new friends volunteering to drive the Homecoming convertibles.)  I was too cheap to buy the 365-horsepower version of the Fury but enjoyed the car.  Drive fast enough in a convertible and you do not get wet in the rain. 

I traded for a 383 cu.cm. 1968 Plymouth Sport Fury at right) that my girl friend liked. She and the car were fabulous but are lost to history. The Sport Fury was stolen in Boston by joy riders.  A cop noted that retrieving the car was unusual as typically thieves tossed a match in the gas tank at the end.

After grad school in Pittsburg, I headed to Boston to start my career.   Looking back with an economics and business education, I realized what happened to us and cars as we were growing up. Alfred Sloan was famous for what he did at General Motors, smashing the Henry Ford “Any color as long as it is black” mentality of an engineer.  Better than colors, Sloan pioneered product differentiation and price discrimination, encouraging consumers to pay different prices for the same product.  Most famous was BOP (Buick, Oldsmobile and Pontiac) with similar engines, wheelbases, etc.  By the fall of 1968, I was living in a Boston apartment that was within walking distance of all three dealers.  I would carefully study how they differentiated bucket versus bench seats, console window controls versus door, etc.  As my wife noted, the sales reps learned to avoid me each fall when the new models came out.

I finally bought a 455 cu.cm. 1973 Buick Centurion 6-passenger convertible with an inward folding top, 224” on 124” wheelbase and picnic bench front bumpers that met collision regulations. I wanted a last convertible, as they were being doomed by air conditioning and Interstate driving. (GM in 1976 had only Cadillac convertibles, the last being 200 Bicentennial ones: white with red interior with maybe a blue top. I recall a Wall Street Journal story about a Kansas farmer who bought six, saying he’d put them in his barn to use the rest of his life, adding that there were damned few things worthwhile in life and he wanted this car. Today, they sell like any other used car of that year I think.) 

The Centurion’s magnificent inward folding top enabled an immense back seat that was big enough for more than a few passengers. My daughter Adi in the center and my two godchildren Andrew and Anna Sjogren loved it.

 I learned from a GM executive in one of the classes I taught that the 1973 BOP convertible body had the smallest passenger space as a percentage of the overall space, about 22% based on a horizontal plane passed through a drawing at waist level. The doors had a bulbous thick curvature to accommodate the curved side windows: rain hit a driver’s shoulder when windows were down.  The engine area was immense to accommodate the 455 HP, a/c, etc.  and the extended bumper.  And it was HEAVY.  During the OPEC energy crisis, people asked about my mileage.  I said 12-14 mpg.  They meant highway.  I said that WAS highway; in town it was about 8, but the tank held 25 gallons. 

I ran the Buick convertible until the frame rusted out and then gave it to my mechanic friend (vital in my life) – 224 inches on 124 inch wheelbase.  It was my first car with hidden windshield wipers.  Once, I picked up Lee Ayres, wife, and three kids at the Boston airport, put all their luggage in the trunk and drove home with the top down.  Later, Lee’s 10-year-old son Wes noted that this ride was second only to the highlight of walking in the Statue of Liberty torch during their visit to NYC.  The Buick convertible finished with 67,000 miles in 2010 after three transmissions. 

After my dad’s death, I took his 440 cu.cm. 1967 Chrysler New Yorker (left) when moving back to Chicago to teach in Fall 1977. NO emission controls to compromise mileage or handling!  I left the car in the school parking lot each winter as we had to pay for apartment parking.  Mounds of snow fell in Chicago winters and they plowed around my car. Yet, unfailingly, every spring with no battery re-charge, it started. Eventually I moved it to covered parking with a lock on the steering wheel. 

One day a secretary asked if it might have been stolen.  WHY???  But yes, it had been stolen. The towing yard on the far South Side called about lots of parking tickets after the joy riders abandoned it.  The towers reported a mangled front bumper, scratches and dents on the rear quarter panel, cracked side window, broken mirror, dented fender, rust, etc.  I noted that was prior to being stolen, asking what was new.  I gave it to the secretary whose friend wanted it, so the 1967 Chrysler was history after 13 years. 

Editor’s Note:  Next week, more cars, more Gene.  Look for Part 2.