Hail To The Chief

Dad had a Grand Prix on order when he died, which meant that 1966 was, otherwise, a pretty good year. Bad years were Impalas, like the '61 white slashed red box I crumpled on my first "I'll pull over and you take the wheel," which, for dad reasons, took place down a rooted rut in the Lac du Flambeau woods. 1955 was a good year, going by the Strato Streak Star Chief in front of the garage, cream over purple, hunkered down behind the new for '55 massive hooded cowl mock air intake: The Dadmobile. For a good number of Milwaukeeans, Pontiac was a Chevy on what would come to be known as steroids, but Dad, a visionary, could stand in the gutter and see a poor man's Packard. Uncle Abe, who regularly flaunted Kosher auto law (drive nothing touched by the gnarly anti-Semitic claw of Henry Ford) had a string of Lincoln Continental Mark I's, II's and III's, and wasn't brand loyal like Dad, toying with a Zephyr only to dump it for a La Salle or an El Dorado, and that for the rich man's Packard, the Packard. By all appearances, Uncle Abe never had a bad year.

Our last Pontiac was a harbinger of things never to come: below the sheet metal horizon of the hood nestled a steamer trunk-sized box filled with relays, coils and photo-voltaic cells which dimmed the headlights automatically while opening the doors of the A &P on 60th Street. All stately curves--everything--glass, metal, trim, rubber--wrapped around everything else. Effortlessly pulling the power train, Pontiac's first V-8, the Strato Streak 287 V-8 with 4 more than a Chevy Turbo-Fire 283. It could go 0 to 60 never, while Dad was driving, although Howie claimed he got it up to 98 on the new freeway before it, or he, started to shake. Talk about junk in the trunk, the Star Chief had the biggest boot in its class-it was a selling point. A hunter could put a whole buck in the trunk of a Star Chief, if it was double jointed. It easily swallowed the legion of mom's Samsonite laid on for our semi-educational vacations (dad was a CPA: they may have been deductible) to the likes of the locks at Sioux Ste. Marie or Old Ironsides in Boston harbor. With the deluxe seating package (metallic flakes in the fabric you could focus on from here to Tomah) came a back bench arm rest that lowered between you and your brother Arthur, forcing him to rely on his right cross (not his best punch). Always thought the windows were tinted until the nicotine came off with Windex one time, even though dad had switched to filters. Whitewalls a foot wide, although time has probably enlarged them, like everything else. Straps to hang onto when carsick on I-94 while equidistant from Texacos. Flip down the glove compartment to rest your Coke on the beverage dimple of the lid until any forward motion whatsoever, even dad's, rests it in the dimple of your lap. No AC, except in the movies, but individual scimitar vents to die for. A unique feature on a Pontiac was the chrome bleacher for a rear bumper, ideal for McDonald's parking lot (in)action, back when they were 19 cents and they'd only sold a few hundred million. Now with the demise of Pontiac and AM radio on the ropes, never again will the conditions exist to enable a youth and his buddies to scoop the Wisconsin Avenue loop, windows cranked down, yelling "Get Off of My Cloud," in time, to pedestrians protected by the oxymoronic (yet striking) amber Chief Pontiac-headed silver jet talisman heading straight into the setting sun, all way to up to 58th Street.

Bios . FAQ . Schedule . Directory . Tickets . Reviews . Hotline

The Show . Features . Quiz . Poll . Shop . Speak Up . Search