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J.C. Milliman
Kids ain't got no respect these days... Broken-hearted dad

 

    It was every self-respecting gearhead dad's worst nightmare.

     Sure, I had prepared for it. Or so I thought.

     When she first received her driving permit and then her license, our oldest daughter was carefully inculcated with the vehicular mores of the Milliman family - the highest on the list, of course, was "Neither shalt thou drive, own or be seen in a Ford product."

     I have not been that demanding of a father. I was never a Great Santini, overbearing or any of it. I never expected too much but I did draw the line there. We have standards you know. So imagine my pride when, for her first car (that I paid for, naturally) she picked a Plymouth. Good form!

     You may have guessed, but I don't like Fords. I have no good reason, I just don't. I'm a die-hard MOPAR guy with some Bowtie tendencies.

     That may be a foreign concept anymore, though, as the generations of us who grew up in brand-loyal households grow fewer and grayer. You may be one, as well.

     Remember a time when auto marquees commanded loyalties and rivalries dwarfing this whole Redskins vs. Cowboys nonsense? Dale Junior and Jeff Gordon? Forget it!

     When I was a kid, there were fights between the Ford guys and the Chevy guys. Okay, so we were in the 5th grade and didn't know anything except what our dads told us. But we were cool because we were loyal to a car. Cars were cool.

     But you could be that way then.

     Each manufacturer had its way of doing things and was known for particular trends that lent themselves well to customer loyalty. There were 351 Windsors, Muncie rock crushers, Fluid drives and other brand-specific components to fuel the rivalries.

     Back in the '20s, to break Henry Ford's stranglehold on the low-end market, Billy Durant's boys over at Chevrolet came out with the famous Stovebolt six. Wow, a six-banger for the common guy! Buyers responded in droves.

     And well they should have, it was a great engine. Still is, as many are still in use. Heck they made 'em well into the '60s. There are those who claim Chevy's recent introduction of an inline six is just the latest incarnation of this hardy mill.

     As you may recall, Ford responded a couple of years later with his famous, "If it's cylinders they want, it's cylinders they'll get." The result was Ford's famous 221 cubic inch flat head V-8.

     Ford's engineers weren't as good as the Bowtie guys and the engine suffered from bad lubrication - those flatheads had a tendency to seize if the driver took corners hard and fast, forcing the engine oil away from the main bearings and journals.

     They eventually got it right and the Ford flathead went on to enjoy a good life.

     The Stovebolt was right, even out of the box. It even had overhead valves. Ford didn't get that figured out until right before JFK moved into the White House.

     Not that I'm prejudiced or anything ....

     And then there was the mother of all motors - the Grand Pooh Bah of Power, the Chrysler Hemi.

     Oh yeah, long before the Chevy Rat (the 454), and while Ford was still messing around with the antiquated (but quaint) L-Head - remember, this was the same company that built the Model T for 20 years - Chrysler offered a factory fire-breathing monster.

     Remember the cross-ram "Max Wedge?" 425 horses out of 426 cubic inches. And Chrysler was slapping these babies into Polaras, Savoys, Belvederes and the new Charger! Richard Petty won the '64 Daytona 500 with one.

     Ford's lame answer was the original girl car - the Thunderbird, following by the equally lame Mustang. These cars inspired the phrase "Pony Car."

     Why? Because they were good for women and children, that's why.

     And Chevy? Shoot, the first few years the mighty Corvette was on the market, it had the "Blue Flame Six" hooked to a Powerglide. Yawn.

     About the time I was born, MOPAR ruled the drag strip and oval (Coincidence? I think not) with cars only barely different from their stock compadres out on Route 66.

     That's why it was called Stock Car racing. And with earth-shaking power generated by copious amounts of cubes ladled on by eager automotive engineers going all-out in a power race with their competitors available to even the little old lady from Pasadena (She was the terror of Colorado Boulevard, remember?) ... Well, it was (and still is!) easy to be a diehard MOPAR fan.

     And the fires of our imaginations were stoked by fathers and grandfathers who felt the same way.

     That's where we got it from, anyhow. Our gear-headed forebears passed on those kinds of brand loyalty. It was traditional and it was good.

     My own father and grandfather not only bought one brand of cars (from 1921 until 1998 when dad passed away), but they bought them from one dealer!

     Price? Who cared? As misguided as it may seem, Ford families bought Fords. Period. Likewise the Bowtie and MOPAR families. To break the tradition was met with about the same enthusiasm as, say, marrying outside the family religion or ethnic background.

     Traditions, like all good things, eventually come to the end of their roads. You don't have to like it, but it is inevitable - one of those death and taxes things.

     Cars (trucks, too) are such a mishmash of parts made in all parts of the world anymore, from Birmingham to Bangladesh, it's hard to even determine the brand let alone develop any loyalty to it. Shoot, my wife's Sebring (made mostly in Mexico, somewhat in Canada, and of parts from all over God's green acre) doesn't know whether to whistle Dixie, sing "Oh, Canada!" or dance to a mariachi band.

     Despite all this free-trade homogenization, though, there are still a few of us holdouts. The last of the Mohicans, we are the keepers of the faith, keeping the traditions of our fathers alive and trying to pass them down to our sons and daughters.

     But I have failed.

     After a careful and loving upbringing for which no expense was spared, I was repaid with ignominy!

     My own daughter, after buying her very first vehicle all on her own, came home in ... I can hardly now even say the word ... a Ford.

     Well, her grandfather and great grandfather would be proud. After all, I did the same to them when I bought my first car. Like father, like daughter. What goes around comes around (whatever THAT means...) Poetic justice on a galactic scale. Paybacks. Maybe I should be proud.

     But ... a Ford?

     I think not.