Photograph courtesy of Cookie Curci-Wright
Cadillac Man: Mr. Wright and Mrs. Curci and a new Caddy.
Remember When
When Buying a Car Was a Family Affair
Late September used to mean new models were in showrooms
By Cookie Curci-Wright
Sieur Antoine de la Mothe Cadillac (1656-1730) was a French soldier and state official who established a settlement along the Detroit River, later to become the city of Detroit and home of General Motors. The explorer, however, is perhaps better known for his other legacy: as the namesake for GM's most prestigious line of cars.
I doubt that any Cadillac owner of the 1950s cared how their streamlined "Caddy" got its name. Chances are, they were more interested in the looks: the size, shape and style of its tail fins; its flashy windshields, chrome and white walls; and just how many heads would turn when they rolled past.
Buying one of these glamorous cars in its heyday was a family affair. After all, the family car reflected the entire household, it made a statement about who we were, our style, taste and creditability; it spelled esteem to our peers, business associates and customers. It was, above all else, a hot commodity among the status-hungry Americans of those days. In a thriving postwar economy the American motorist could well afford the gargantuan car with swaths of chrome. They could satisfy their desires for bigger TV sets, automobiles, Hawaiian cruises and swimming pools.
Due to the postwar affluence, the '50s generation found it difficult to deny themselves anything.
Late September meant only one thing to the status hungry motorist: the new cars were in town.
If your dad was a Ford man, he went shopping for his dream car at Paul Swanson Ford, Chevy lovers went to the Bishop dealership, and, if your dad liked Lincolns, he took the whole family to the Cerrito's Lincoln-Mercury lot. But, if your dad, as mine, was a Cadillac man, there was only one place for him to go: St. Claire Cadillac, home to the most luxurious cars in San Jose.
When selecting a family car, today's driver looks for durability, performance and good gas mileage. Economy, rather than aesthetics, is the main consideration, and how efficiently it will take us from point A to point B.
Things were different for car shoppers during the '50s. Gas mileage and economy had little to do with our choice of car. It was a love affair between man and a magnificent, magical, machine.
Dad was a Cadillac man who refused to own anything else. One of his most luxurious, impractical, cars was a 1955 Cadillac Coupe de Ville.
I remember the night dad acquired his dream car. Dad had taken us for our usual drive to admire the brand new cars on display at St. Claire Cadillac. It didn't take us long to fall head over heals in love with a streamlined baby blue caddy. Bathed in a barrage of florescent lights, the glimmering car literally glowed.
The luxurious car was state of the art. A foot button, on the driver's side, made it easy to change stations without taking your eyes off the road. A light beam, on the dashboard, automatically adjusted the car's high and low beams. It also boasted power windows, air conditioning, tinted glass, huge wrap-around windshield, armrests and an interior covered in white leather upholstery. Everything a status-seeking family could wish for.
The St. Claire Cadillac salesman ushered dad into that tiny little, room were deals are made and broken. From our seats in the hall, we watched through the windowed office, as dad and the salesman bartered. Figures flew fast and hard, amounts were scribbled down and then erased, dad's head nodded then shook disapprovingly.
An hour later, dad and the salesman emerged. Dad was smoking one of his best cigars, a sure sign that he had cemented a deal. A handshake, a congratulatory pat on the back and the gorgeous caddy was ours.
"Just hand me the keys to your old car", the salesman told dad, "and you can drive your brand new car off the showroom floor".
But, I could see by the look on dad's face that he wasn't quite ready to say goodbye to our old 1947 Cadillac. Instead, he told the salesman he'd bring it 'round tomorrow, after he cleaned it up a bit.
The salesman assured dad that it wasn't necessary, but dad insisted.
That baby blue caddy was the most beautiful family car we ever owned. And it did, indeed, make heads turn. But, looking back now, I can understand dad's reluctance at parting with our old car. After all, it was more than just fading paint and metal, it was all the places we'd gone as a family; the things we'd done together, the drives to grandma's house every Friday night, kids in PJs at the El Rancho drive-in, hamburgers and fries at Mel's Palm Bowl, camping trips to Yosemite and those long cool, summer night drives around the Almaden hills.
Luxuries wouldn't come as easily to the next generation. The wave of affluence that permeated our postwar society would soon end. Middle class, as we knew it, would no longer exist. In the future, it seemed you were either rich or struggling to save a buck. Family life, as we knew it, was never the same.
But, for the time being, we were part of the fast and fabulous, fintailed car generation and we were darn well going to enjoy the ride.
Contact Cookie Curci-Wright via email at cookie-wright@mymailsation.com
Willow Glen, California Since 1992
