42 years

Forty-Two long years ago, December 30, 1967, yrs trly and his wife-to-be clambored into my humble black 1961 Corvair coupe for the long journey from Rochester to her ancestral digs in far-out Thurston (“THIRST-in”), NY.
Thurston is a tiny rural hamlet up the road from Campbell (pronounced “kamp-BELL;” not “KAM-bull,” like the soup).
Campbell is up the road from Corning.
It has a large cheese factory where my wife’s father worked — now Kraft, but at that time “Polly-O.”
This was well before Interstate-390, so we took Route 15.
The intent of our trip was to get married in tiny Thurston church, where her family had been members for eons.
This was per the request of her maternal grandmother, a long-time Thurston resident.
The Corvair is perhaps the best car General Motors ever brought to market; an el-cheapo Porsche (“POOR-sha”).
But it was air-cooled, and its engine was in the rear — very unorthadox.
The first Corvairs had swing-axle rear suspension, like the Volkswagen Beetle, which they sort of mimiced.
For the 1965 model-year, Corvair switched to fully independent rear suspension (“IRS”), and a completely new body that looked great.
A really great car — too bad it didn’t sell well.
It was trumped by the Ford Mustang, which was much more orthodox.
Mine was rather moribund. Automatic transmission (“PowerGlide”). My father had bought it for me — although I was supposed to pay for it, but couldn’t.
We were going to get married on December 31, last day of the year.
But my wife’s mother would have none of it.
December 31 was a Sunday, and a wedding would mess up church functions.
Who knows if Thurston Church still exists; Thurston was dying.
My wife’s parents moved to FL, where her father later died; 1989.
What I remember most is coming back home terrified; afraid I’d made a mistake.
Within hours my wife was emptying her prior apartment, and hanging things in my closets.
A lot of things have happened over those 42 years; I suppose most significant being my stroke.
It changed me somewhat, but I guess I’m still pretty much what I was before.
A railfan. 42 years of chasing trains.
Hundreds of times to Horseshoe Curve, but never to Hawaii.
More importantly, a “mocker.” We both are.

• My wife of 42 years is “Linda.”
• “Polly-O” cheese, named after the Pollio family.
• “Interstate-390” is the main interstate into Rochester from the south. U.S. Route 15 (a two-lane) was before I-390.
• Chevrolet’s first automatic transmission was the “PowerGlide;” two speeds.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993. I pretty much recovered from it — no paralysis.
• “Horseshoe Curve,” west of Altoona, Pennsylvania, is by far the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to. Horseshoe Curve is now a national historic site. It was a trick used by the Pennsylvania Railroad to get over the Allegheny mountains without steep grades. Horseshoe Curve was opened in 1854, and is still in use. —I’ve been there hundreds of times, since it’s only about five hours away.