Memories and
experiences
What’s
the difference between memories and experiences?
That’s easy—experiences are what you
are getting while they are happening and over when they are over. On the other
hand, memories can last as long as you want them to. Also, you can share many
memories with others and get multiple pleasures.
After last month’s sharing of our
“armored limo” memory, we have received many calls and comments, not only from our local Club members, but some other Regions
who get our newsletter.
Everybody seems to want more
stories. Even our newsletter editor seems to think all I do is sit around and
tell stories. He even published a picture to prove it. (Tim, you are wrong…I
don’t tell stories, but it is fun to share memories.) The older you get, the
more experiences you have, and therefore the more memories you have to share.
This is good because it is really
shocking to realize how many unfortunate people are out there that don’t have
any personal experiences with a LaSalle or the memory to cherish and share.
Therefore, I feel it is my moral
obligation to share at least one more of our LaSalle memories with the fine
people of the LaSalle-Cadillac Club.
Our first
LaSalle has many firsts. It was the first LaSalle I actually owned, and it was
the first car Phyllis and I bought after being married. It was the first car
that Phyllis had her name on the title (mine was on it, too). It was the first
car our firstborn son rode in, and that was on the way home from the hospital
at
It wasn’t, however, the first
LaSalle I wanted, because I wanted every LaSalle I
ever saw, starting when we moved across the street from the Cadillac-LaSalle
dealership in downtown
Whenever the new LaSalles came out,
it was all I could do to remember my toilet training. The man who owned the
dealership had a nice-looking daughter about five years older than me. They
always let her drive new LaSalle convertibles. Envy is not a strong enough word
to describe my feelings for that girl.
Back to the story
of our first LaSalle. It was a beautiful
We were in the Army at
After close inspection and marveling
at the condition and cleanliness, I knew it had to be a rebuilt total. I asked
the salesman the price and he said “$1,295 and no dickering.” This was about
$250 over blue book and we both knew it.
He started telling me a story of how
it was owned by a little old lady from Chicago, who only had her chauffeur
drive it on vacation here in Colorado. We have all heard “little old lady”
stories about cars.
My laughter kind of insulted the
salesman, so he told me the rest of the story. I agreed to buy the car if the
story was true, and he told me I could have the car for free if it wasn’t true.
I gave the man a $30 deposit to allow me to check out the story.
The story checked out. It had been
purchased new from the Marksheffel-Adams Cadillac dealership in Colorado
Springs by Bertha Fields, whose family owned a large department store in
Chicago.
It had been stored in the Broadmoor
garage for her use when she came to the Broadmoor Hotel, which was several
times a year. There was a service contract with the dealership to have a
serviceman pick the car up, drive it, check it out and service it once a month,
whether it had been driven or not.
She always had a local chauffeur do
the driving. Her death in late 1949 was unknown locally until the estate was
settled in mid-1950. I also found out that the dealer had bought it from the
estate for $750. The car had less than 200 miles since last being serviced. I
decided to buy the car, but the salesman would not budge from his price of
$1,295 because of my doubting his veracity.
Fortunately, I had a buyer waiting
for my cherry ’37 Buick and my Dad co-signed with me for the bank loan. The
beautiful car was now ours. Talk about good living! I had just married the most
beautiful, sweetest girl in the world and now I had the most beautiful,
sweetest running car in the world. Life was good.
Because I was in the Army, we could
only get financing for one year. I got a second job working nights at a gas
station pumping gas and repairing cars. Phyllis was now a full-fledged
registered nurse and got a job working nights in the OB ward at Memorial
Hospital so we could make the payments.
That car would lay rubber in all
three gears. Absolutely no one beat me in traffic light street drags. Being
young, I did abuse the car, but it would take it.
By this time, Phyllis was pregnant
and the Korean war was in full swing. Later in the year, Phyllis promoted me to
father and the next day the Army promoted me to staff sergeant.
1950 and ’51 were good years. Then,
within ten days, the war flared up and I got orders to Korea. I was able to get
a delay in reporting to Camp Stoneman, California, until we could move our
belongings to Phil’s home in Montrose. We then drove the LaSalle on a
circuitous trip to San Francisco, visiting family on both sides from L.A. to
Frisco.
Our “Sally” ran as well at sea level
as it did at the higher altitude that it was accustomed to. Phyllis stayed with
me until I shipped out to Korea. She then drove home to Colorado and went to
work at a doctor’s office there.
To this day, people in Montrose
remember that beautiful car she drove to and from work. The only pleasant
memories of Korea were the letters I got from Phil, which usually included
pictures of our son and our LaSalle. Eventually, I was able to transfer to
Yokohama, Japan, and now had enough rank to send for my wife, our son and our
LaSalle.
To this day Phyllis believes that
the only reason I sent for her was because that was the only way I could get
the car over there. You and I know that is not true, don’t we?
Phyllis got her Port Call and packed
up the LaSalle, bundled up our year-old son and drove to the port in Seattle,
where the LaSalle went on one ship and Phil and our son on another. Phyllis
beat the car to Japan by about two weeks. She assured me it was on the way. We
watched it being unloaded from the ship after being in a dusty hold for a
month. We washed it and gassed it and took it to our quarters to show it off to
our friends.
A LaSalle was the envy of all the
GIs in the area as well as the Japanese. We took several memorable trips while
there, including a long furlough with a Navy chief and his wife to Kyoto and
Nara. The only problems we ever had with that car was two flat tires and a
punctured gas tank.
Surprisingly (?) Phyllis again was
expecting and since we wanted the baby to be born in the States, we decided to
sell the LaSalle in Japan, rather than ship it back. We sold for nearly three
times what we paid for it to the mayor/governor of Kanagawa Prefecture. We flew
back and had a ’37 limo waiting for us (oops, that was last month’s story).
We never saw our beloved first
LaSalle again. However, about five years later, one of our Army buddies had
just finished another tour over in Japan and visited us on his way back home.
He told us he had seen the car about two months earlier. The same politicians
still had the car and were keeping it looking like new. At least “Sally” had a
good home and was appreciated.
One of the things about experiences
that become good memories is that some bring tears and make it hard to see and
write—so will close and see you next month.
— Walt