Whetting Dad's Automotive Appetite.(personal narratives of George P. Blumberg)(Column)

Byline: George P. Blumberg

My little head snapped back and forth like those Hawaiian dolls on dashboards. It was 1953, and I was in the back of our faded blue '49 Chevy sedan, my mom at the wheel, my father beside her yelling, "More gas, more gas!'' By the end of the lesson, tempers smoked like the clutch housing.

My dad bought only six-cylinder, manual-shift strippers. This one had add-on turn signals, a radio, a heater and a red Bakelite necker's knob. Period. Dad was sour on V8s, chrome, whitewalls and automatics.

After the Chevy came a $1,700 1954 Ford Mainline-black, small hubcaps, black-wall tires and the sensible overdrive option. And rubberized undercoating. Even the fender gravel shield was black rubber. The car always smelled of rubber; I believed it was made of rubber. While we waited for the factory to gear up for his basic production order, he drove the dealer demo-a fully optioned Crestline. He laughed at the power windows, wheel covers, automatic transmission, all the luxo gear. I was in heaven.

I watched Dad's mastery of intricate driver ballet, feet moving from clutch to accelerator to brake, hands playing the shift lever. For me, the transition to driver's seat was eased with lessons ...