I believe it was about a year ago on an unusually warm March day like this one that I snapped a couple photos of our flooded back yard as evidence that another miserable winter had given up the ghost said C’est la vie and I started daring to dream of golf games, convertible rides and fresh corn on the cob for every meal. Ah..but then fate stepped in, as she usually does, throwing a lasso around Winter’s neck just as he was leaving ordering him to return for one final blustery blast in April ordering him to bring along plenty of ice for the party.
So, I’m not getting my hopes up just yet. In fact, fate already fired a warning shot over my bow this morning as I decided to start up the Camaro following her long frigid nap in the garage. The plan was to get her washed and take my bride for a convertible ride on this lovely spring-like day.
But from the moment I turned the key, it was clear I should have listed to Linda’s suggestions throughout the winter that it might be a good idea to go out and start the little car once in a while and warm her up. Because when I deposited my ample ass in the driver’s seat today, rather than hearing the usual mid-summer enthusiastic spin of the engine, the battery and starter had all they could do to muster up enough strength to crank over the motor enough to raise it from the dead. Ah, but once that Chevy Lt1 did catch fire she was rarin’ to go..at least as far as the car wash about six blocks away.
Now, I had forgotten over the long winter that the Camaro has, over the years, become sensitive to water. That is, water splashing up from beneath the car comes in contact with something that tends to short out that magnificent motor killing it dead as Lazarus which is precisely what happened when I entered the automatic vehicle wash bay at Food and Fuel right after depositing 7 dollars worth of quarters I fished out of the change jar at home which made my sweat pants so heavy I had to hold them up with one hand to keep them from falling to my ankles.
I knew the car would restart after a few minutes drying but the stupid automatic sprayer kept spraying. When it finally stopped I cranked and cranked on the engine but she refused; finally putting a period on her denial with the sound of a few clicks. So it was up to me to try push her back out of the bay by hand over the hump and get it parked someplace. I couldn’t very well leave it blocking the entrance on such a nice day when people were lining up to wash their cars. I managed to get it shoved clear and decided to call Linda, who was shopping, to bring the jumper cables, but discovered I’d left my phone at home on the charger. I had to borrow one in the convenience store because I didn’t have any quarters left. Went out to put the hood up so people wouldn’t wonder why I was parked so goofy. Gave the starter one more try and she roared to life. Damn..now what? No phone to call Linda off. She was nice about though when she came to my unnecessary rescue. I’m making it up to her by going to the casino..which will probably cost me the price of a few dozen car washes.
And people wonder why I don’t go out much.
I do hope we have nice weather next month, Linda and I are traveling with the Graves to Texas to a Nascar race and to visit family and friends in Dallas and Austin. Linda says I need clothes but it’s the same old deal about finding something decent in my size. I don’t care what anybody says about clothing in the seventies..and people who lived through that decade say a lot..most of it bad..but not me. Of course I was a 42 long and a 36 waist back then and didn’t mind the long collared shirts, sweater vests, flared pants, platform shoes..even some of the loud patterns and colors.
But there were more. Much more.
Okay, Okay..these folks are either models or athletes and maybe all the guys who wore polyester sports jackets weren’t necessarily “plaid stallions” like former mayor Rick Knobe.
Or…yours truly during his first TV gig at KSOO TV. An ill-fitting red and white plaid number that they must have let me wear on the air only a time or two because I have no memory of it other than this photo taken by friend and KSOO/KSFY colleague Pam Horn. That’s my cousin Grouse on the far left.
Okay, now that I think about it and see more personal evidence, maybe the perceived appeal of 70’s fashion has been somewhat distorted by years of excessive exposure to Winstons and Windsor.
Now let’s see, where did I hang those sweat pants. It’s time to reload with quarters and take my honey to the casino. I should probably run the car through the wash first though.