Pictured is a Studebaker similar to the one from McKee’s childhood. Submitted photo

My daddy wasn’t a community leader. He didn’t command attention or throw his weight around. He wasn’t a part of the political scene, nor did he want to be. He was a Studebaker man.

 

You remember the Studebaker, don’t you? A small two-door sedan that looked sort of like a spaceship, at least that’s what I thought. But ah, to my Daddy, a Studebaker was just a little less than a chariot wheeling toward the Sun. Those little cars became a part of my daddy’s life (Momma’s and mine, too) during the mid-1950s.

 

 

 

It was a yearlong event, every year. The new models were introduced in September, beginning with a top secret show date. Oh, the build up to the new model year was just a tap less showy than a king’s coronation. It was about the first of July when speculation began among the Studebaker groupies as to what changes or improvements would the “diva” of the auto world flaunt.

 

 

 

My daddy really got into it all. I can remember momma, daddy and I driving downtown on Saturday nights and peering into the showroom windows, just trying to get a glance of the new models. Of course, the new cars were all covered with sheets, for secrecy. Sometimes, we could make out a fender or taillight — very exciting.

 

 

 

And then the time would come when daddy made his car deal and drove home in the brand new Studebaker. The whole neighborhood would come out to see the bright, new, shiny automobile. Daddy would stand back so very happy and proud … and then come the next year, it would start all over again!

 

 

 

If there were ever a true meaning “one owner, just like new” then that would be my daddy’s trade-in vehicle. He built one of the first carports in our neighborhood for his special love, his Studebaker. Never did a spot of dirt, dust, or bird “you know what-ies” stay over two minutes on that car or any of his cars. He babied, petted and shined it round-the-clock, or so it seemed.

 

 

 

And when we drove to my grandmother’s house to show off our new ride, daddy positively beamed. There was no air-conditioning in those days, but we didn’t notice. The windows were rolled all the way down (no power windows, either) and the red dust from the country roads rolled into our faces. It was wonderful!

 

 

 

Upon arriving, daddy took out his polishing rags and buffed on the car almost our entire visit as relatives came by to see Howard’s new car. Word got out quickly that we had arrived. I felt like a celebrity.

 

 

 

And then the questions began – like an interview. “Howard, what do you call the color?” It seemed daddy always liked those offbeat colors, like an unusual green or sky blue.

 

 

 

Next question, “Howard, how fast will it go?”

 

 

 

Of course, the neighborhood shade tree mechanic always had a list of questions. “How do you change the oil or how about the brakes?” Finally everyone would pile in for a ride and that’s when daddy really grinned.

 

 

 

As we drove away to return to our home, everyone stood in the front yard to catch one more glance of the pretty new car, before we faded out of sight – a proud day for my daddy.

 

 

 

I was just a very little girl, but I sensed the gratitude and true appreciation that my daddy felt for the honor of owning such a prize. It was not until much later when I put the whole story together did I realize the Studebaker was his very first new car.

 

 

 

My daddy’s story is not different from thousands of young men and women reared during the American depression of the 1930s. The hardships made even harder, with his father dying at the young age of 32, leaving a 28-year-old widow and four small children. Daddy’s childhood centered around survival.

 

 

 

No, he didn’t hunt or fish, play golf or attend baseball games, and he only watched television occasionally. Daddy was a Studebaker man, a family man, a WWII Veteran, a survivor and I loved him.

 

Anne McKee is executive director at The Meridian Railroad Museum.