The Grover Wheel

During the pandemic, I had the lofty idea of writing a book about all the cars my dad has owned over the years. Given that he mostly bought vehicles on their way to the metaphorical scrapyard in the sky, he ended up with a lot of them over the years.

Several years, and a new job later, I have yet to write the book. I finished almost an entire page, and a small chunk of the research. In an effort to publish something, I decided to place his stories here (in no particular order of ownership) on the blog. These are my dad’s own words, taken from recordings he made on his phone and transcribed by me during the nights and weekends of the pandemic. They are his stories. I’ve heard them many times over the years, often in the back of his latest cheap vehicle on a family road trip. My mother would roll her eyes, stifling a smile, while she pretended to be upset. We loved the stories and I am happy to share them with you here.

So, for your enjoyment, here’s my father’s story of his 1960 Peugeot 403 Wagon:

Back in the fall of 1968, I needed a car. My parents drove to our apartment in North Hadley to help hunt for one. Not sure, but I think we were looking in Springfield and found a used car lot where I spotted a cute little green 403 Peugeot wagon. For the average person, a Peugeot would not come to mind as a rational car choice for a car purchase.

My knowledge and willingness to own a Peugeot was Lefty’s idea. Lefty repaired Peugeots at his modest garage in Amherst where he was also kind to financially challenged college students with inexpensive used cars in need of repair. Do-it-yourself repairs were allowed in his garage using his tools and guidance and I probably was introduced to him with some mechanical difficulties on our previous car. 

In his defense, the 1960 403 was actually a pretty tough car. The metal was good, the shocks were like the double-piston door closures found in schools, and it actually had a crank and fuel pump primer to start the car if the battery went dead. Unlike the Saab bed kit, the front seats actually folded into a bed without needing to be removed, turned around, or leveled with plywood pieces. And it was cute.

Anyway, I bought it for $110. The first thing was a trip to Lefty’s. Turns out, to get a [inspection] sticker it needed an emergency brake cable. Lefty said if I got the part, I could install it in his garage with his tools and experience. Turns out, Lefty chewed tobacco. The cold concrete floor bore the evidence. Laying on my back in the mess with road slush dripping in my ear while trying to free a rusted brake cable added to my desire to someday own a new car.

Most days, Donna would drop me on campus and proceed to work at The Stables restaurant. After a fierce nighttime snow storm, it might actually have been a blizzard, our roles were reversed and I drove over slippery roads to bring her to work then headed to class. Except UMASS was closed; a rare occurrence due to the storm. Since main roads weren’t terrible, I headed back towards North Hadley. The wind was raging down the valley from the Northwest. Since the road that I was using was pretty clear, I might have been going about 30 or 40mph. Suddenly, after the bridge over 116, things changed radically. It must have been the town line ending Amhurst and beginning Hadley. Being unable to stop, I plowed through four or five car lengths of snow over a foot deep. I had to back up, but the car was very stuck. Fortunately, I had a shovel but had to dig under the car plus a car length’s full width to move it.

The wind was filling in snow almost as fast as I could remove it. Meanwhile, I noticed my glove was bloody as a sharp piece of rust must have cut my finger while I was shoveling under the car. I might even still have a rust fragment or two buried under the skin in my finger. I guess Amhurst plows stopped when Hadley plows were plowing somewhere else. I finally reversed back to Town road and to home.

Next we headed for the Cabot Trail in the fog. We stopped at an inexpensive cabin that evening with a small wood cookstove, and a hot water tank central to the cabins that was also wood-fired, at 6pm. Next morning we woke up fog-free to a spectacular hilltop ocean view and access to the shore.

On the same trip, we stopped at the Montreal Expo the day of the moon landing. Our memory of seeing the event on the huge screen is a bit fuzzy, having first stopped at an exhibit that had kettle drum music and large, exotic drinks served with umbrellas in empty coconuts with big straws. The 403, however, eventually got us safely home that night and to home in North Hadley. 

He smiled and led me to a small, one-car garage where one wall was covered with fan belts. And one kind of fit, but only after turning the engine over to seat the belt. 

Thanking God we were back on the road to Quebec City. It just happened to be July 20th, our second anniversary. Found a hotel with a marble winding staircase where Mom’s leather sandals slipped, hurting her back. But the day improved when the local paper revealed that Count Basie and his band were playing locally in a small nightclub. We made reservations. The maitre d’ said, “I don’t see the reservation.” I went to his list and confirmed our names. He said “oh, I see it now” and led us to a table next to the bandstand. We nursed a single drink all night. Best concert ever. Then back home to North Hadley safely with the 403.