Cars you MUST own

“Imperial Crowns; rare ‘60s Chryslers you must own,” blared the cover (above) on my September 2011 issue of Hemmings Classic Car magazine.
On the cover was a golden ’68 Chrysler Imperial Crown — ho-hum — a car not that notable to me when it was new.
“If I owned every car that magazine says I ‘must own,’ I’d have at least 40 cars, maybe even 50,” I said to my wife.

1970 Dodge Dart.

Corvair.

1959 Lark convertible.

Rambler.

Step-down Hudson (1950).

1956 Caddy.

BeetleBomb. (The beginning of the end for Packard.)

A ‘70s Dodge Dart, a Corvair, a Studebaker Lark, various Ramblers, a Step-Down Hudson.
(“Step-Down” because the body-floor was between the frame rails, which were in the side-sills. You had to step down to get into the car.)
A mid-50s Cadillac, perhaps a ’56. And of course a Packard, the ugly BeetleBombs marketed in the ‘40s.
Personally, I don’t own a classic-car at all. Not even a classic ’55 Chevy, as dreamed about all through high-school and college.
Cars, to me, are always utilitarian. They’re not a statement.
And over the years I’ve owned a few, although not many.
I wasn’t going through cars at a prodigious rate.
I’d own and use a car 6-8 years. Now the average is 10 years or more.
Our ’89 Honda Civic stationwagon went 13 years before it was totaled. And damage wasn’t much; I was tempted to fix it.
My brother-in-Boston, the macho Harley-dude who loudly badmouths everything I do or say, owns a classic car, a 1971 454 SS Chevelle musclecar.
He feeds it hi-test gasoline that costs about $200 per fill-up. That’s about $10 per gallon — 20 gallons.
You can’t buy groceries with it. About all you can do is take it to shows.
He let me drive it once. All I could think was way too much motor in a flimsy old chassis.
This was after him driving me around in it, which I was leery of for fear he’d put the hammer down.
Show me what it could do — which is spin angrily into the boonies.
I watched warily from the passenger-seat as the giant hood quaked.

Photo by Bobbalew.

Not my brother’s car, but identical (same color).

Years ago I rode along in a ’55 Chevy hotrod, the car I always dreamed about through high-school and college.
It had a hot-rodded 400 cubic-inch SmallBlock from a ’70 Monte Carlo.
It was so noisy I was turned off.
And the chassis was as flexible as an aluminum ladder.
It also had the same cheap wire door-locks my parents’ ’57 wagon had.
Where the plastic lock-plungers unscrewed, got lost, leaving you with a flimsy threaded wire to lock the doors.

The car I rode in was similar — same paint (this is stock).

I got back into our humble Honda stationwagon and drove home.
The Honda was slower, but a much better car.
I could throw $35,000 at that ’55 Chevy, and I’d still have an antique.
About the only desirable collectible car I ever considered is the 1967 Corvette StingRay owned by my retired hairdresser.


My hairdresser’s Corvette.

It’s very well done, and has the vaunted four-speed SmallBlock.
He wanted to sell, but I passed.
What, pray tell, would I do with it?
It’s not practical, pillar-to-post.
Cars like that are only a statement; no function.