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Telling Stories - Creating Community One Story at a Time

Old photos – old stories

by on Feb. 24, 2010, under Arts

Looking through a box of old family photos with a friend the other night opened a flood gate of stories about my younger years.

50 Chevy in 68 This picture of my ’50 Chevy invoked lots of memories!  The car was 17 years old in 1967 when I bought it for $300 from the original owner in Saugerties, N.Y.  It had 1700 miles on it  - that averaged 100 miles a year.  The only thing wrong with it was there was a hole in the muffler so my father fixed it with an orange juice can (the metal kind) and wire from a hanger.

I drove out of Woodstock, NY in 1969 in this car and headed West to the wide open spaces of Colorado.  With 4 “new” retread tires for seven dollars apiece, we were good to go.

We weren’t in a rush and it’s a good thing because top speed, going downhill was around 60 miles an hour. Most of the time we cruised along at 50, watching cars whizz by.  Gas averaged about 25 cents a gallon and Motel 6 actually cost six bucks a night. OK, the rooms weren’t first class but with all this economy we were able to travel the 1600+ miles on the $100 we had in our pockets and arrive at a friends house with enough to go out for dinner that night.

People of all ages enjoy hearing about the “old days” either because it stirs up their own memories or because they learn a bit of history.  I had lots more adventures with the ’50 Chevy including getting Canadian plates on it and finally selling it when the engine died.  But the clock still worked!

Next time you open a box of old photos, have someone handy so you have an audience for all the stories that will jump out with the pictures.



  • Albert Vetere Lannon

    One of the differences between city and country kids is cars.  Country kids grow up with them as a necessity and learn everything before adolescence, including how to fix them.  I grew up in New York City, with subways and busses and ferries, and was totally ignorant about cars, except that, of course, I wanted one.  I, and others on my Lower East Side block, actually learned how to drive on the Jewish holy days, when Orthodox Jews were prohibited from operating machinery.  New York had/has alternate side of the street parking for street cleaners, and so we kids were paid a quarter to move those cars from one side to another.

    When I was 17 I had quit school and was working and saving up for a chopped-down ’49 Ford that cost $200.  I saved the money and then went to find out about the mandatory insurance.  That would cost $600.  End of that car dream.

    When I was 18 my future brother-in-law, in the air force, was transferred from Texas to England, and he drove his ’49 Chevy with a ’53 engine and left it with his sister and me.  I did what we all did, learned on stick shift and then rented an automatic for my driving test to avoid any chance of screwing up. 

    I took my girlfriend and some friends out for a drive in the Texas Chevy (still had the Texas plates) the night I got my license, and made my way over to the elevated West Side Highway.  I stayed in the right lane, being so cautious I bumped the curb a few times.  Finally I got daring and pulled over into the left lane.  Almost immediately a police car came up behind me, lights flashing, siren wailing, but I was not sure enough of myself to pull into the right lane because of traffic.  I didn’t know how much room I’d need.  So I went faster and faster, until I was running at 90 mph with the cops on my tail.  Finally there was what I deemed sufficient space and I moved to the right lane, and the police kept going, off to whatever emergency was calling and glad that this punk in the Texas Chevy got out of their way.

    • Penelope Starr

      Great story, Albert.
      I borrowed Frank Worth’s 53 something (maybe a Dodge) for my drivers test in 1961 because my parents’ cars were all manual transmission and his was an automatic.  The only problem with that big boat is that it had no power steering!  I manage to pass on the first try, even the parallel parking.
      That’s the thing about telling a story – it triggers another and another.