Couldn't Happen Again by Grandpa Jim

It was the summer of 1957 and we were on our way home from Lake Okoboji, Iowa. It was a beautiful, sunny Sunday morning. Jean, myself, Donna and Nancy, just cruising along in our 1952 Packard, bought used. (For some supply-demand reason, five-year-old, big cars were more affordable than same-aged Fords and Chevys.)

We came to a traffic light on the outskirts of Washington, Iowa, and stopped to wait for the green. A man strode up to my window and informed me that something was leaking from underneath our car. He added that there was a Packard dealer close by and gave directions. I thanked him and drove just a couple of blocks to the dealership. I parked, turned off the engine, and went looking for a pay phone. (A device from covered-wagon days before advent of cell phones, e-mail, faxes, and OnStar, etc.)

Using the number posted on the dealer’s door, I called. The dealer answered from home. I described the problem and he said they were just sitting down to dinner. (Noon-time meals used to be called that, a remnant from farm days when evening meal was supper and a snack was lunch.) He told me that there was a café just around the block from where we were and they served fine dinners there. We agreed to meet at one o’clock at his garage.

The dealer showed up, right on time (also an ancient custom hard to find anymore) and, together, we backed cars out and pushed ours into the garage. He put the sedan up on a lift, looked, and told us that a flying stone must have punched a hole in the oil pan and it would have to be fixed. We went into the waiting room and settled down to do just that. It wasn’t at all long before the man re-appeared and told us it was time to exchange the cars, again.

Now, all this time, I had little else on my mind than the cost I was about to learn. Sunday morning help, repair of oil pan, and replacement oil ought to be…hmmm…? How much in my billfold? Hmmm? (A 1957 small-town teacher was not likely to have a credit card back then.)

“What’s the damage,” I asked? “Let’s see,” he answered, “that’s six quarts of oil at 40 cents, comes to $2.40.” My face surely showed my amazement but all I could do was mumble a heart-felt thanks and shake his hand in gratitude. He wished us luck and hoped we would pass through again, some day.

Was it the place? The times, or the culture? Was it the individual, or maybe a mixture of these? Packard Motor Company’s motto was “Ask the man who owns one.” I think it should have been, “Ask the man who fixes one.”

Packard merged with the Studebaker Company shortly after 1952, and, in the same year as our story, they came out with “the Hawk,” a beautiful, combination, sports car/two door sedan that was way ahead of its time in design, I think. It wasn’t long before the merged company went out of business. (I don’t guarantee these recollections.)

I have a clearer recollection that a wealthy family in my hometown of Elgin, Illinois, had a fleet of Packards and I think they were all green in color. Whenever we kids would see a big, long, green Packard pass by, we knew it was probably one of theirs. I seem to recall, also, that maybe some cars were all the same color in some years. (Like green might have been Packard’s color for 1937 or so?)