Text submitted by Harry Case.
A few weeks after selling the ‘72 Chevelle I had my first serious encounter with my soon to be wife, Barbara. We had known each other from church and some friends had been trying to set us up for almost a year, but both of us were busy people and neither of us were open to a relationship. We were also both recovering from prior dead-end relationships.
She was just graduating from business school and I was dabbling in MBA courses at my employer’s expense. She needed a car for her first real job and I allowed my arm to be twisted into parting with Oliver, my ’68 Opel Kadett. I let Barbara have the car with my tags on it until she could bring me the money we had agreed on.
Days later, my parents were hosting a church retreat at our family cabin in Schroon Lake over Memorial Day Weekend and Barbara decided to come after she walked for graduation.
Saturday afternoon at the camp we were wondering if she had changed her plans since it was getting late and she was seriously overdue. When the phone rang my uncle answered and turned to me: “I think it’s Gary (a friend’s son) messing with us, he says it’s a State Trooper. Do you know a Barbara?”
At that point, we learned that Oliver had caught fire and exploded on I-87 about 10 miles south of the exit for the camp. The Trooper assured us that Barbara had only minor burns and had been treated and released. We then drove down to headquarters to pick her up. She had managed to save her purse (with the cash for the car) and two cans of motor oil, but all her luggage had burned with the car.
Not a Kadett, but you get the idea…
We went back to the cabin and I decided it would be unethical and ungentlemanly to accept the money she offered. Barbara was torn between feeling cheated at purchasing a car that caught fire the first day she drove it and guilty about thinking she had done something to cause the fire.
The next day I went to the recovery yard to see what remained of Oliver and see if there was anything salvageable. The carcass was bare, since the fire had consumed every bit of upholstery, tires, hoses, and wires. A small patch of baby blue paint on the front fender was the only clue to the car’s original color.
The yard man had been on the volunteer fire crew that responded and elaborated on Barbara’s recollection of the event. She had pulled over when passing cars honked and waved to let her know that flames were streaming out from under the car. She had been motoring along for five hours at a steady 55 mph but couldn’t smell the fumes or feel the fire.
When she pulled to the side of the interstate the flames, no longer fanned by the wind, curled up around the sides. Barbara grabbed her purse and the cans of oil thinking they might feed the flames, but burned her fingers reaching for her luggage in the back seat. By then good samaritans with good sense had pulled her away from the car and down the embankment just in time to see the gas tank cook off in a mushroom cloud of smoke, as flames engulfed the car and the roadside vegetation.
The fire company was quick to respond and confine the blaze, but Oliver was gone. It was determined that five hours of traveling on the interstate had caused the driveshaft center bearing to overheat and caused the years of accumulated oil and grease on the car’s underside to ignite. Fortunately, my father’s insurance company auditor had insisted I carry full coverage even on this beater car, so I actually got book value for it.
On the way home Barbara and I decided that maybe we should go on an actual date and six months later we decided to get married. We were the only two people in our circle of friends who were surprised by this development.
My mother had never been happy about me owning a motorcycle, convinced that every time I rode it I was going to kill or maim myself. I listened to her counsel but kept my own and kept riding until autumn. However, I came to find out that Barbara felt the same way as Mom, and while I could ignore one or the other, I felt I couldn’t ignore them both and sold it to a friend.
Barbara’s father had passed away when she was 13 and her mother was unable and unwilling to pay for a wedding of any kind since I was neither Irish or Catholic. It fell to us, mostly me, to finance a wedding and reception if there was to be one. On faith, we made arrangements and used our savings to put down deposits on the venue, catering, band, and all the other vendors of wedding necessities.
“… in six months, the fleet of vehicles I had spent my life assembling…”
As the wedding day approached I was $2000 short of the cash needed to pay off all the vendors. I put a sign in my ’73 Chevy van and hoped to sell it to pay off the wedding and buy a beater to go back and forth to work. While many people admired the van and the work I had done to it, there were no takers.
When I picked up my tux the day before the wedding, the tailor shop’s owner asked me how much I wanted for the van; I told him $3000 and he offered $2000. I accepted it as a sign from God. He allowed me to drive it until the evening of the wedding and I arranged for my parents to loan us one of their cars for the honeymoon trip to Niagara Falls. In the space of six months, the fleet of vehicles I had spent my life assembling was gone and I was starting over.
Related CC reading:
Curbside Classic: 1966-1973 Opel Kadett (B) – It Dethroned The Volkswagen
I would imagine you might have a shot at first prize in a “How I met my spouse” story contest!
I have been fortunate to never experience a car fire. I hope to keep it that way.
I wasn’t getting the “elephants in the gas station” thing. Then I read “peanuts”. Aha, got it!