I'm the youngest sibling in a blended family of six. My brother Don was the third oldest, putting him in the middle, upper half. He would not dispute being called the black sheep of the family. His was a rather colourful life, involving a few close scrapes with the law, a stint in the army, three wives and a long and successful career as a professional wrestler – just google his stage name, "Lumberjack Luke" or look for the book titled "I Ain't No Pig Farmer" by Dean Silverstone which features him on the cover. Sadly, we lost Don in 2009. At his memorial service I shared a story, from over forty years ago, that involved him, me and his 1960 Cadillac Convertible. Although this story is more about him and me, it does also include a few useful insights into the proper way to wash a car, so I've decided to share it again.
It was late April and I had turned sixteen the previous February. At the time, like many teenagers, I was partial to sleeping in on Saturdays. By the time I got up, around 11:00, the house was deserted, or so I thought. I was in the kitchen making myself breakfast when I heard a noise from the living room. To my surprise, there was Don stretched out in a sleeping bag on the sofa, his one open eye glaring at me for waking him up. He had driven back to Kelowna for a visit, arriving in the wee hours of the morning.
After breakfast he said, “Come outside and see my new car.” Filling our driveway, was a 1960 Cadillac convertible. A car from the era when chrome and tailfins ruled the day. “Wow,” I said, “that thing is huge!” Don just grinned; he could tell I was impressed.
It was early spring, the day was warm and the sun was shining. But Don had driven over the pass through brutal winter conditions and that giant car was grime from its seven foot wide multi-faceted chrome front bumper all the way back, nearly twenty feet, to the tips of its tail fins. “Want to help wash it?” he asked? “Sure!” I said perhaps a little too quickly. I’d helped Dad wash the family car, a little Morris 1100. I knew all about washing cars, or so I thought. I ran to get the hose and bucket, while Don opened the trunk, saying he had “All the other stuff I would need.”
First, it was fill the bucket with warm water, not hot, just warm. Don mixed in the special car soap, while I took up the hose, and was told, “thoroughly wet it down, from the top to the bottom.” I won’t go into all detailed the instructions I got, let's just say he had a specific way he wanted things done. Don found a comfortable spot to sit on the low concrete wall alongside the driveway – from there he could supervise and issue instructions. There was a special brush to scrub the convertible top, and a big sheepskin wash mitt for the paint. "Whatever you do, don't let that mitt touch the ground!" he barked. As I scrubbed the car with the mitt, he kept reminding me, "Rinse the mitt in the bucket, keep the car wet, always work from the top down!" There was steel wool for the whitewall tires, and a long-handle vegetable brush to scrub in between the pieces of the grilles. Cadillacs of that era had one on the front and another grille, nearly as large, on the back. Each filled with little nooks and crannies all needing detailed cleaning. Once the car was clean and rinsed all the way round, Don had me wet it down again and then as quickly as I could, dry it with a chamois to make sure there were no water spots.
Don started the engine, and lowered the top, then he said, “You’ll find it much easier to vacuum with the top down.” And I must admit, it IS much easier to vacuum the carpets and clean the seats and door panels in an open-top car. Even windexing the inside glass is easier when you can do it standing up!
We were done, and the car gleamed from stem to stern! Both teacher and student stood back and admired it. With its big whitewall tires, snow white paint, red leather interior and sparkling acres of chrome, this was 5,000 pounds of pure automotive excess.
“Let’s go for a drive,” said Don starting the car. “I gotta change my soggy shirt,” I said, running into the house. When I came back out, the driver’s door of the car was wide open, and there was Don, sitting in the front passenger seat, grinning ear to ear. I just stood there dumbfounded. “Jesus Christ!” he drawled, waving me into the driver’s seat, “You earned it!”
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