Every summer our little city, tucked away in the mountains of the Pacific Northwest, gets flooded with tourists. It kicks off on Father’s Day weekend with the Car d’Lane Classic Car show and doesn’t slow down until after Labor Day. On the Friday night of Father’s Day weekend, spectators line the streets to watch the classic cars rev their engines, use their lifts and send fire out their exhaust pipes while they cruise through town. Cars must be 1980 or older to participate.
My dad loves the old cars, particularly the ones from the 1940’s. He owned a gas station for several years and worked on many of these cars. That was back when gas stations pumped your gas, filled your oil and worked on your car for you. So, every year we make sure he gets downtown to watch the cars cruise by. I love the smile it puts on his face. I wrote this post about it last year.
Mr. U had a really nice 1969 Dodge Charger when he was in high school and through college. It was his pride and joy. But when we got married, he sold it to be able to buy my wedding ring. A pretty good tradeoff I would say. He still wishes he had the car. Then we bought an economic, very, very small 1976 Honda Civic. This year I was surprised to see a little Honda Civic car in the show. It was the same year and make as the one we had when we first got married. How could that be? It couldn’t possibly be “classic” or “vintage.” But if it is… what does that make me?
I am a big fan of muscle cars. They bring back memories of an era gone by when I was in high school, and the guys would drive their swooped-up cars with the fancy paint jobs and loud engines. Think purple GTO’s, bright yellow Chargers, orange Super Bees, shiny black Mustangs and green Cameros. Back when vintage was old, and we were cool. I had a 1967 vinyl top Mustang, that was the color of puke green. The starter went out on it, so I had to get under the hood and use a screwdriver to start it. But once it was running, we would jump in and cruise main street to see and be seen. Ahhh, those were the good ole days. But if those cars are now in the vintage car show, that means I am vintage. Yikes! Now that I look at the time worn pictures of our cars and compare it to the cars in the show… we are indeed vintage. Or maybe it is just classic. I prefer to think that classic/vintage is the new cool.
Items that are 50 years or older are considered true vintage. I guess that means that I do fall into the vintage category. The term vintage was originally used to describe an exceptionally fine wine from the crop of a good year. Maybe, like a vintage wine, we just get better each year. More flavorful and smooth. Maybe being vintage isn’t so bad after all.
Happy Father’s Day
Happy Father’s Day to all of the dad’s out there. Thank you for working hard, being there for your families when it isn’t always easy and there are so many other things pulling at your time. Thank you for loving and encouraging and being an example to your children of what it means to be a man of integrity. Thanks for making the world a better place. I now have two sons that are amazing fathers. It is a joy to watch them with their children.
If you have followed my blog for very long, you know that I come from a large family, most of which still live in the area. We gather together for holidays and have many “this is how it is always done” celebrations. For instance, my SIL #2 must always make her macaroni and shrimp salad for potlucks and SIL #1 always brings her Mississippi Mud Pie, with little American flags on it, to the 4th of July celebration. One year she decided not to because she thought everyone was getting tired of it. That did not go over well. Needless to say, she is back to making it. One of our other always is Father’s Day. We always gather at my brother and SILs lovely home. Early on Father’s Day morning my brother seasons up three large prime ribs and tucks them in his smoker to slowly cook throughout the day. The smell of them smoking is almost as good as the taste.
I hope you all had a great weekend! And remember… being vintage is good.
